Stories

My brother John was always a bundle of troublesome energy in a hurry.  Born two months early and six years after I came along, I remember many of his milestones, such as his first steps across the living room.  Or years later, at fifteen, sneaking out our mom’s little red Renault and demolishing it.  Between

Our Boeing 997 is a slim white arrow shooting over the top of the world, destination, Spitzbergen International.  Behind us trails a long hydrogen flame, freezing into a rainbow of sparkly ice crystals arcing back to Whitehorse, the pot of gold I call home. Aboard the thirty-minute flight, everyone is chattering with each other— all

The question “Ow eez your late Americain?”  popped in a thick French accent by my shoulder like a champagne cork on New Year’s Eve. Being up to my skull in regressive correlates, the interruption startled me, and I dropped my AirMouse from pointing at a graph shimmering on the rear wall screen. Of course, the