Kevin Mohr

Kevin Mohr is an aspiring writer and attended the creative writing program at the University of Victoria before leaving to work and travel. Upon returning to school, he changed his major and studied archaeology and Latin American studies at Simon Fraser University. He then earned a commercial pilot's license and pursued a career in aviation, which has shown him many obscure corners of the globe. After living in several communities on the west coast of British Columbia as well as in Canada's far north, he and his family have settled down in Victoria, BC.

The Ice Road

Of all the goddamned places to be stuck when World War III kicks off, I thought. The news on the old TV in the restaurant was Russian – Cyrillic script scrolling by beneath the newscaster reading the headlines – but Zhenya was translating for me, occasionally going silent for long moments, her fingers tapping her front teeth, her eyes fixed on the screen. This can’t be for real, my mind raced, cavitating. I tried texting Jason, the copilot, still back at the Malah, but there was no service showing on my phone. No texts. No email. No service. Jesus Christ. Jason had stayed back at the squalid hovel that passed for an airport hotel. It was isolated, connected to town only by the ice road that crossed the frozen bay between Anadyr and the boneyard of crumbling Soviet Bloc tenements and the abandoned rusting equipment and gutted concrete bunkers that fringed the airport.

Issue 12, August 2018

Kevin Mohr

Kevin Mohr is an aspiring writer and attended the creative writing program at the University of Victoria before leaving to work and travel. Upon returning to school, he changed his major and studied archaeology and Latin American studies at Simon Fraser University. He then earned a commercial pilot's license and pursued a career in aviation, which has shown him many obscure corners of the globe. After living in several communities on the west coast of British Columbia as well as in Canada's far north, he and his family have settled down in Victoria, BC.

The Ice Road

Of all the goddamned places to be stuck when World War III kicks off, I thought. The news on the old TV in the restaurant was Russian – Cyrillic script scrolling by beneath the newscaster reading the headlines – but Zhenya was translating for me, occasionally going silent for long moments, her fingers tapping her front teeth, her eyes fixed on the screen. This can’t be for real, my mind raced, cavitating. I tried texting Jason, the copilot, still back at the Malah, but there was no service showing on my phone. No texts. No email. No service. Jesus Christ. Jason had stayed back at the squalid hovel that passed for an airport hotel. It was isolated, connected to town only by the ice road that crossed the frozen bay between Anadyr and the boneyard of crumbling Soviet Bloc tenements and the abandoned rusting equipment and gutted concrete bunkers that fringed the airport.

Issue 12, August 2018

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