• Polar Route by Kael Moffat

      Beneath silvered scraps of cloud, the sprinkled towns of north Quebec and Newfoundland huddle like embers of a banked fire whose clicks and pops are swallowed by distance and the whine of brawny engines.   I press my fingers against the inner pane and feel the ghost of sub-zero air just inches away and wonder about prayers rising into the night, evaporating from shards of glass and eviction notices or springing like flowers from permafrost. I close my eyes as if I could hear them all.     Vladimír, who sits to my right, told me as we cruised above the Arctic that he speaks Czech, Hungarian, English, German,…