Adelaide Literary Magazine


ADELAIDE Independent Bimonthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Bimensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  








By John Tavares






Miles was coming home to Beaverbrook. As he flew the crippled jumbo jet towards Flying Fortress Lake, he remembered Lisa with a sense of nostalgia tinged with sadness. Afterwards, Michael read in Macleans newsmagazine, Toronto Star, and Winnipeg Free Press that the bomb, made from plastic explosives, embedded in a cassette recorder, burst through the luxury suitcase. The blast blew a jagged hole through luggage compartment and cargo hold at the fuselage of the jumbo jet. Meanwhile, Middle Eastern Airlines Flight 642, which originated in Vancouver, en route to Tehran, Iran, via Toronto, flew at thirty thousand feet over the border of the province of Manitoba and Ontario. The only Canadian born pilot with Middle Eastern airlines, Miles feared the damaged jumbo jet would plummet into an uncontrollable dive if he veered and turned to fly in the opposite direction to the Winnipeg international airport to make an emergency landing.

Believing they needed a longer airstrip, Miles and his Saudi co-pilot scrambled through a list of nearby airports and ruled out the municipal airports at Kenora, Dryden, Sioux Lookout. The only Canadian pilot that captained aircraft for Middle Eastern Airlines, Miles suggested they fly over the territory around his hometown until they found a suitable frozen lake. An avid angler, Miles knew at this time of year, towards the end of winter, the ice was of maximum thickness and safety.

“You honestly think we can land this plane on a lake of ice?” his co-pilot asked.

“Yes,” Miles said. “They land smaller planes every day during winter.”

“I’ll feed you information, airspeed, altitude, wind speed, from the instruments, and you better focus on flying. Please keep talking; this is stressful, white knuckle flying for me.”

Later, envious of his acquaintance’s accomplishment, Michael read another article that suggested it wasn’t possible to land a fully loaded 747 jumbo jet on a frozen lake with ice less than two meters of thickness, but he remembered what he witnessed, as Miles brought the aircraft down on the lake. Apparently, the ice was slightly beneath two meters in thickness in most places on Flying Fortress Lake. 

“We haven’t been talking to each other. I shouldn’t say that precisely, that we’re incommunicado: It’s just she hardly speaks to me, except when drunk.”

Lisa said that wasn’t surprising: her friend losing her disinhibitions in regards to verbal communications except when she was intoxicated.  Lisa often spoke in a formal, stilted manner: something as simple as talking was “verbal communications,” but she was a registered nurse, and Michael respected and appreciated her precise, clinical manner and unconsciously emulated it around her.   

“That’s unfortunate,” Lisa replied. “I didn’t realize you two were having relationship trouble.”

“No trouble: We’re just not getting along; we’re not talking to each other except when she’s intoxicated. I mean, I don’t get drunk. I can’t afford to—psychologically or physically. We just don’t carry on the kind of conversation we should have except when she’s drunk. I go to the bar with her and try to negotiate. I drink cranberry juice, or lime-and-soda water, or diet Coke, while she has rye-and-ginger ales or rum-and-Cokes.”

Lisa placed a container of cranberry juice in her grocery cart. “If you’re not living with her in the house, where are you staying these days?”

“I’ve got a bachelor apartment in Flying Fortress Manor.”

“Across town?”

“Right across the street from where we rented the house.”

“I lived in a one bedroom there once with my ex-boyfriend, Miles,” Lisa said, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, Miles, the pilot—the young airline captain pilot who flies 747’s for Middle Eastern Airlines. Isn’t he a captain? Doesn’t he fly jumbo jets?”

“We haven’t been together for a year.”

“I just find it amusing. Mary still talks with me—when she’s drunk. There’s definitely that therapeutic value to alcohol? I guess alcohol loosens the inhibitions, so those pathologically shy people who normally wouldn’t speak or meet and greet are suddenly like chatterboxes after they’ve had several drinks.”

As a health-care professional, Lisa rolled her eyes upward, thinking she didn’t need any lectures or information on psychopharmacology of alcohol or aspects of health science from somebody in a supermarket, particularly an unsuccessful semi-professional hockey and low wage small town commercial radio broadcaster. “Uh-huh.” Lisa did think it was noteworthy he was now single and potentially available for a one-night stand, but he sounded as if far more pressing matters crowded his narcissistic mind. She thought at the very least he and Mary had an unusual relationship, but who was she to judge. Lisa tried to give him the impression she was no longer interested in discussing their difficulties and separation, but he said: “Yes, fiancé you’re separated from won’t talk to you—can’t talk to you—except when she’s drunk. Only after she’s binged on alcohol, do you get along perfectly.”

Lisa forced a laugh. “How can she be your fiancé if you’re separated?”

“I don’t know, but she does a pretty good job avoiding me when she’s sober.”

Lisa reflexively raised her shaved eyebrows and thought of her ex-boyfriend Miles who had gone from a bush pilot in his hometown to flying passenger jets for Middle Eastern Airlines out of Toronto.
“When she does see me, say, downtown, at the gym, or at the convenience store, or here at the supermarket, she pretends I’m not here or don’t exist.”

Lisa glanced down the counters of fruits and vegetables in the supermarket produce section, the sweet peas, baby carrots, apples, oranges, bananas, in their neat geometric and linear arrangements. Then she perused more carefully, the nutrition information on a label for a canned cranberry sauce.  

“I’ll say, hi, but she goes on about her business as if she’s deaf or as if I’m a complete stranger or homeless person she doesn’t know.” (Once Lisa told Mary she thought Michael looked like a homeless man with wild scraggly hair and untrimmed beard. If that was her impression, Mary retorted, why did she keep suspecting she had a crush on her boyfriend or wanted a one nightstand with him and that triggered one of their many arguments?) “I mean, it’s a small town—”

“Of course, it’s a small town—not that tiny, but small enough.”

“We can’t avoid bumping into each other.”

Grimacing, pursing her lips firmly, she said flatly, “I understand.”

“We have the same likes and dislikes and the same habits and practically the same schedules. Since the food co-op closed, so now there’s only this supermarket, we can’t help avoid bumping into each other in Comida when shopping for groceries or fresh produce. We’re both birds of a feather.”

Lisa raised her brow again, pushing back her tightly wound bundle of hair. Talk of birds made her think of her pilot ex-boyfriend Miles, particularly at a time when she desperately tried to forget. She put a carton of asparagus in the basket of her grocery cart. “I see what you mean.”

“Then, on a Saturday night, there’s all that action at The Flying Fortress, seeing how nobody wants to go to The Whiskyjack anymore.”

Having given up on the bars and other drinking establishments after she broke up with Miles, when he left Bearskin Airlines and took a job with Middle Eastern Airlines, she lost hope in the whole local after hours and singles scene in Beaverbrook. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“So, by the time I get there, she’s already smashed. She sees me, comes up to me, and starts talking, and she’s full of life and vivacious talk. She tells me everything that happened to her that week. She tells me things she’s never told me before, stuff she should have told me long ago, and I think she never would have told me except when she’s drunk. That’s sort of peculiar, but it only makes me love her more than I ever loved her before. Then we end up going to her house, our old place. We talk and we talk. We talk and we have sex, and we have sex and we have sex all night and it’s the best sex we’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the best either had because neither had sex all week, when we’re used to it at least once, if not, twice, a day. Anyway, for whatever reason, it feels like the best sex we’ve ever had. Then, early in the morning, before she wakes, I leave, and, it seems we’re both happy, content, temporarily. Then, next time I see her, usually on a weekday, and, for the whole week afterwards, she has her frigid, cold, I-don’t-know-you attitude. She does her I-don’t-know-who-the-hell-you-are-and-I-don’t-care act, as if she doesn’t know me at all, as if I’ve never been her boyfriend, her fiancé, as if she never intends to speak with me, unless I happen to go to the bar at Saturday night, and she’s half-cut, and the whole cycle repeats itself.”

“Wow. That almost sounds weird, almost, but it also sounds all too human.”

“I suppose. I’m beginning to think maybe sex was the only thing that held us together.”

“I’m certain you wouldn’t be the first couple that found lovemaking a glue bonding them together.”

Sex as glue: Michael never considered their relationship that way.

“But you do love each other.” Lisa blurted the words as if it was a question and she possessed an intensely personal interest in the consequences of the answer. She realized she was not playing her cards closely enough and she was already revealing more than she originally intended to say. Her inability to forget her wayward pilot boyfriend unhinged her romantically, she thought. 

“We still do, I think.”

Unused to having conversations of this nature in the supermarket, never mind the café or bar, she suddenly worried about shoppers or store employees overhearing. She wondered how she managed to spend and waste so much time talking to him, but it always seemed that way with him. She told Mary she thought he was an odd fellow, who wore his heart on his sleeve. She thought Michael was too open, that he opened his mind, revealed his emotions and psychological state, to anybody, including complete strangers, whereas her own ex-boyfriend hardly said anything, which, he claimed, served him well in his occupation as a pilot since he only spoke when necessary. When he started a conversation, she complained, he sometimes spoke for long, protracted periods. She theorized his loquaciousness originated when he was lonely, when he possessed no one towards whom he could express concerns and vent bothersome emotions. Touching on every personal topic, no matter how secretive a normal person might think such matters, no subject being taboo, he spoke unendingly. Since they shared the same outlook, philosophical viewpoints, and attitudes about many things, albeit she only admitted this to Mary, who, in turn, became jealous, oftentimes she didn’t mind.
“How do you get into town? I thought you didn’t have a driver’s license. 

“I do have a driver’s license, but I walk and I prefer to walk because the exercise keeps me fit and in shape.” Michael motioned to his backpack. “I just hike the snowmobile trail across the lake into town and throw my groceries and mail in my backpack.”

“The ice has melted, though—it looks scary. It could be dangerous. Is it safe walking across the ice this time of year?”

“Extremely safe. The ice is very strong, over a meter thick. They could land a jumbo jet on that lake ice, if needed. The ice will be safe enough to walk or snowmobile across for at least another month, and you can walk across the ice with your sneakers the trail and ice is so hard and packed.”


“I’m finally getting some exercise, too. I lost about twenty pounds over the past couple of months.”

She visually appraised him. “I noticed.”

“You know, I always loved walking, too, and I’ve really gotten out of shape. I lost ten pounds in the past few weeks alone. I always enjoyed hiking, but once I started living with Mary I found I was always riding in her car even when I wanted and needed to get some fresh air and exercise.”

As she glanced at her wristwatch, she realized they spoke for over forty minutes straight. She better get going; she was scheduled to have dinner with of all people later that evening Mary, who she needed on her side as an ally in a dispute about overtime pay she was having with her shift supervisor. For consolation and comfort, she thought she might even try telephoning Miles at his stopover in Toronto after he flew across Northwestern Ontario with Middle Eastern Airlines, even though he had warned her about calling her while he was flying.

“Listen, Michael, I don’t mean to be rude. But I really should be going. I have to cook a healthy supper for myself tonight.”

“Sure. Just—Lisa, I know you see Mary practically everyday, so please don’t speak to her about these things.”

“Of course not; we’re not even on the same shifts.”

Shifting her weight from one high heel shoe to another, Lisa felt pleased to see him eyeing the tight skirt around her waist and hips and her long legs below the hem of her short dress. Earlier she suspected he might have gay tendencies, but then she figured he was merely not aggressive enough in asserting his masculinity. Knowing the way he would answer, she asked, “You sure you don’t need a ride tonight? It is pretty chilly.”

“No. I’m fine. I could use the exercise, but thanks for the offer.”

That Saturday evening, he thought she should avoid the bar, if only to save money and not bump into Mary, to avoid any contact and communication with her. But what other activities did he have for entertainment and diversion, particularly on a Saturday night? Did he really want to watch reruns of the hockey game featured on television earlier that evening? Besides, he lost interest in watching ice hockey when The Detroit Red Wings eliminated his favorite team from playoff contention. From the squat brick building, where he resided in a bachelor’s apartment, he hiked along the snowmobile trail across Flying Fortress Lake. He cautiously tread  along the hard packed snowmobile trail, careful not to get caught in the grip of panic induced by the foreboding mental prospect of breaking through the ice on the surface of the lake. He envisioned himself falling into the frigid waters, swallowed by the dark undertow, suffocated, drowned under a huge mass of ice, but while he felt that fear he realized the prospect was unlikely. Within twenty minutes of brisk walking, he reached the local town beach. He strode quickly along the main traffic artery that ran along the beach and into town on the pedestrian walkway under the railroad bridge, and arrived at a hockey arena. He tugged at the frozen handle of the steel doors, frozen, frosty, solidly locked, so the fitness center, the weight room, the sauna, or the gymnasium he was forced to rule out, since the municipal recreation facilities were closed for the night early. Then he walked downtown to The Flying Fortress nightclub, but he was ambushed and didn’t stand a chance, since Mary waylaid him as soon as he stepped into the bar. Intent on carrying out full force a violent quarrel, she appeared drunk, definitely not amiable.

“What business have you discussing my personal life and private issues with Lisa? It’s none of her business what’s going on with my ex-boyfriend.”

She ranted and raved, gritting her teeth, hissing, clenching her jaw, so the muscles and tendons in her neck revealed themselves in a most unfeminine manner. On and on went her verbiage, digging into  him, criticizing his ragged clothes and scuffed shoes, berating him for growing his hair and beard long, and leaving it untrimmed, curly, and scraggly. She complained about the money he spent on books and compact discs and warned she donated his books and music collection to the women’s shelter, homeless shelter, thrift shop, and friends. She pushed, slapped, and backhanded him, and he worried about attracting attention, although most patrons were drinking and distracted by dancing, billiards, shuffleboard, music, and loud, boisterous conversation.

“What kind of future does a man who spends so much of his income on useless books and music? Huh?" She slapped him on his hairy arm. “Tell me!” She slapped him on the face and tugged on his beard. “Huh?” He pulled on his gloves and toque and ripped off his parka, but a pilot friend who remembered him from high school rescued him. He spent the last of his cash to buy a glass of orange juice and then a diet Coke and a few Molson Canadian beer for his friend. He played pool with his high school buddy in another part of the tavern far away from the bar, while Mary stayed at the bar, glowering, simmering.

A few hours later, towards last call for alcoholic beverages and closing time, Mary approached him. As if none of her disputatiousness transpired earlier, she asked him if he’d take her home. Did she want him to drive? No, she didn’t drive her motor vehicle downtown that night; her Honda Civic was getting serviced and she got a ride into town with Lisa, who dropped her off at the bar after they met over dinner. In the middle of a labor dispute with their supervisor and employer over overtime, undecided as to whether the nurses should call representatives from their union, what she called the heavy guns, the pair discussed strategy. He asked why didn’t she just take a cab?

“I don’t have the cash for a cab, and these guys don’t take credit cards.”

He didn’t want to admit he didn’t have cash for a cab that night. “All right,” he said, trying not to sound grudging, “I’ll walk you home.”

“Walk? It’ll take hours.”

“Not if we take the trail across the lake.”

“The trail across the lake? Are you crazy? Ice melts, especially in the middle of March.”

“We can still walk. The ice is safe, hasn’t melted enough. Trust me. The weather’s fine and it’s a beautiful night.”

“Then we’ll get run over by the snow machines.”

“The snowmobiles have headlights. It’s not as if snowmobilers are drunk and driving like they’re blind or mad.”

She said softly, as if to warn him, “Ice melts in the spring.”

After he bought her a hot dog from the vendor on Railyardside Street, they walked along the wide brick inlaid sidewalks on the south side of the main traffic artery. She checked the parking lot of the hostel for the train crews, freight conductors and locomotive engineers, and the train dispatch office to see if any of her male friends could drive their cars to lend her a ride home that night. They strode down Railyardside Street until it turned into Lakeshore Parkway at the train overpass, and then approached the snow-covered beach. 

“I’m afraid of the lake, walking on the ice,” Mary said.

“So am I, and that’s the reason you don’t have to be afraid or worry. I wouldn’t dare put you in danger.”

“What if we hit an air pocket?”

“We hit an air pocket.”

Their feet crunching, the couple walked along the packed snowmobile trail, as it swung out onto Flying Fortress Lake. To relieve the tension and break the monotony of their footsteps chomping the ice and snow, he spoke: “Do you know why they call this Flying Fortress Lake?”

“I think I may have heard a story or two about the lake name,” she said. “They once called it Pelican Lake, I believe.”

“Yes, maybe we heard the same story. Anyway,” he said, as he led her along the snowmobile trail across the packed lake ice, “they say that towards the end of the Second World War a formation of Superfortresses, fully armed with bombs, machineguns and cannon, was flying from an army airfield outside Chicago to Alaska and then forward to air bases in the Pacific to bomb Japan. One bomber in the formation started to experience mechanical troubles, lagged behind, and was forced to make a crash landing. There was an airport in Sioux Lookout nearby, still in use, busier than ever, but the pilot chose to those ditch the plane on the lake, which had a landing strip, because he didn’t think the airport landing runway was long enough, and he wasn’t sure if he could maneuver the big bomber in that direction. It was a smooth as far as crash landings go, except the wheel in front landing gear locked up and the bomber skidded along the frozen lake. The plane crash landed in the middle of the spring, as the lake ice began to melt. By the next morning, the big bomber started sinking through the lake ice and soon the Superfortress caved through the ice before they could launch a rescue. They didn’t even have time to evacuate the bombs and munitions. There was nothing the dumbfounded aircrew and locals could do to save or rescue the plane, and it sank several hundred feet to the bottom of the lake. It sank in water so deep the U.S. Air Force and Canadian army never made any effort to recover the plane, despite the live ammunition and bombs aboard the plane. Apparently, that Superfortress, fully loaded with bombs and ammo, sits at the bottom of the lake, around which the town was built, to this day.

“I think you’re full of bull,” she said, “but it’s certainly a beautiful night. Anyway, if it was a Superfortress plane why would they call it Flying Fortress Lake? If I understand my history correctly, the Flying Fortress was actually a different bomber, smaller, shorter range, but very effective.”

“I didn’t know you knew World War Two history.”

“I think I mentioned to you a few hundred times before my grandfather was a veteran of the RAF and before I decided to go into nursing I minored in history at university. I actually loved my World War One and World War Two courses. In hindsight I think partially because I was fascinated by the fact that humanity could deliberately commit so much carnage in modern times.”

“Well, maybe the plane was actually a Flying Fortress.”

“I guess that makes more sense, but it doesn’t sound as dramatic as Superfortress, does it?”

“Well, I think with your flair for the dramatic you’d know more about what grabs a person’s attention—”

“What are you talking about? Are you trying to start an argument?”

“Listen, I don’t want to fight,” he interjected, when he suddenly realized the direction in which the conversation headed, “I was just trying to tell you a story.”

“Anyway, what does it matter? Pelican Lake is named for pelicans, but when was the last you saw pelicans around the lake or town.”

“I think DDT killed them all back in the postwar boom days.”

The thought of insecticides silenced them. The skies were clear and crisp and the constellations were sharp in outline, sparkling like diamonds, with no contamination from artificial lighting to diminish the visibility of the sources of natural light. As they continued hiking, the northern lights, green glowing, snaking, swirling, soaring, twisting, twirling, danced across the broad expanse of the night sky above the frozen lake, fringed by the small buildings and roads of the town. Mary held Michael close and tight. By the time they reached halfway across the lake, a kilometer from the shoreline and the park trail that led to the cul de sac where he currently lived, she stopped walking, looked through the darkness about her, sighed deeply, got down on the hard ice of the frozen lake, and reclined, sitting on her bottom and then stretching out. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m resting, star gazing. It’s warm anyway.”

“I didn’t think it was that warm.”

“It is fair, the temperature hospitable.” She patted the crusty frozen snow on the lake with her damp mitten. “Lie down beside me.”

“You’re acting strange.”

“It’s nice out here. We’re finally having some spring weather, and it was your idea to walk across the ice originally.”

“My idea to walk you home, not to lie down on a frozen lake.”

“If we’re going to walk on the lake, why can’t we lie down on the ice and gaze at the stars, the constellations, and the northern lights?”

He conceded her point and sat down beside her.  She unbuttoned her ski jacket, tugged at the sleeves, slipped if off, put her arms above her head, and pulled off her sweater. “Make love to me.”

“Make love? Here?”

“Yes. I’ve never done it under the stars or northern lights before.”

She took his hand and placed his cold fingers on her warm bare breast, the nipples firm, erect.

“What if a snowmobile comes speeding across the lake?”

“There’s no snow machine driving around at this hour.”

“You should know them better. What if a bush plane with skis came along for a landing?”

“Who cares? I’m not worried.”

“I think we’re directly in their flight path. The landing strip is just over there.”

“I don’t think their aircraft are flying this late or early.” Lisa said the planes only flew during the daylight hours because they don’t have the navigational or flight instruments for nighttime flying. And it’s probably too late in the season for the ski planes to land on the ice.”

“I saw one land a few days ago.”

Peaceful, quiet, and relatively warm, he lay beside her. She muttered something about how she couldn’t believe how warm it was at this time of year for these parts and he allowed her to rest her head on his stomach.

“After I left the Ontario Hockey League and missed the National Hockey League draft, when I was nineteen or so, I walked along the railroad tracks west of town, to the rapids at the end of the Flying Fortress Lake, near the reservation, where I sometimes fish for pickerel. Now it was actually a very long walk and you could access these narrows at the end of the lake by road, but I didn’t have a car, just as I don’t have a car now. If I worked for the sawmill, I’d earn plenty and could afford a car, but instead I decided to play  hockey and made just enough money to survive. Now I’m not sure why I wanted to take this walk late at night along the railroad tracks, but I think I wanted to end my existence by getting crushed by a freight train. So I hiked and marched along the tracks to the narrows—if I didn’t get crushed to death by a train, I could drown myself in the rapids at night—it was a nice scenic spot to die. But no matter how long and far I walked for some strange reason there was still no train, no freight or passenger, came along to drive me over and squish me to juice. It was very dark, but clear, and there was no moon—at least not until later. The moon, at a crescent, didn’t rise until a much later in the morning. So there I was, after midnight, walking along the tracks, which ran beside the lakeshore, through this beautiful wilderness, with this incredible view of all the stars and constellations, with no artificial sources of light, just like tonight.  And you couldn’t really see into deeply the bush, because it was so dark, but you could look dimly across the lake, and you could see the gleaming railroad tracks a bit ahead of yourself, and the amount of noise, from the wildlife in the bush and on the lake, was incredible. Frogs, insects, nesting waterfowl—they were making a symphony of sound. It was almost deafening, and, on top of all those sound effects, there were all those stars and constellations in the black night sky.  So it was eerie, hair-raising. Then there was every now and again there was this solo sound, this lingering, lonely cry of the loon echoing across the lake.  And I thought, Wow, how could I want to miss this?  I need to hear   those lonesome loons calling, that haunting sound, again. The loon’s cry over the lake in the middle of the wilderness was amazing. But I certainly wouldn’t be able to hear it again if … and I think that was the last time I thought that way.”

Michael looked at Mary’s face and realized she had fallen asleep. He noticed her closed eyes as she nosily breathed through her mouth and made funny nasalizations, snoring in her own idiosyncratic way. “Mary?” He nudged her, realizing she was recovering from her drunkenness, her torpor, and sighed. He was ready to tell her that he was joking, that the actual truth was he was forced to walk home, after his friends left him without a ride at a bush party late on a Friday night miles from town, outside the gatehouse to the First Nations reservation and residential school. So he ended up taking the only shortcut he knew home, along the railroad tracks back to town. He had been in a sermonizing mood, but as usual many of his comments and words to her were lost on her.

After fifteen minutes or so he, as the late winter air grew chillier, he gently woke her. She stirred and stood up from where she passed out on the ice and, amnesic, wondered what had happened to herself. They continued to walk along the trail to the opposite shoreline and the roadway to their homes as the horizon started to lighten.

When they looked up, they saw a sight they would remember for the rest of their lives: The jumbo jet with rocking wings flying dozens of meters above the lake as fire spewed from a gaping hole in the forward cargo hold. The huge jet passenger plane landed smoothly on the lake and skidded several hundred meters across the flat smooth snow and ice before the doors flew open and passengers slid down the chutes and slides to escape from the aircraft. They both rushed towards the aircraft as a local ambulance and a fire truck sped down the lakeshore road and drove onto the ice road and broad snowmobile trail, speeding towards the sight of the immense passenger plane parked on the frozen lake at sunrise.




About the Author:

john tavares

Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from the Azores. He’s a graduate of General Arts and Science at Humber College in Etobicoke with concentration in psychology, journalism at Centennial College in East York, and the Specialized Honors BA in English literature from York University in North York. His hobbies include cycling and photography. His writings have been published in variety of North American magazines and literary journals.













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