Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Perhaps the expectation of perfect
Marie failed to meet my expectations. It wasn’t well planned or articulated but I announced it was time we split up. It was Christmas Eve and the guys were back from college, and I was probably depressed and not worth… Read More ›
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Wet metal drum
The sound of the rain came back last night, choking the corner gutter. The feeling when life pulls away in some irreversible moment, a large ship moving out from the dock and everyone running down to the end of it… Read More ›
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Guest post by poet Rick Subber
Today I’m pleased to feature a poem by Rick Subber, a writing mentor of mine, dear friend, and fellow blogger. I hope you’ll check out Rick’s blog for smart, light-hearted but deep insights and enjoy his piece here “Nova.” Nova… Read More ›
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Dystopic recovery home for the aged and injured, 2040
After the fall, he woke in the hospital surrounded by screens and computers with robot assistants monitoring them. There was a tablet connected to a retractable arm like the kind they had on planes and he wondered dimly if he… Read More ›
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Abusing cough syrup with New Age music and household pets
We didn’t own any thermometers in the house, didn’t want to. I went to the store for a sponge so I could use one in the bath to warm up, and then I answered some emails and got into bed,… Read More ›
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Sterling Hotel snapshot, 1992
I sat at the end of the bar with the bartender Robbie watching It’s A Wonderful Life, his favorite movie. It was snowing outside and the bar was basically closed. He wasn’t supposed to, but Robbie only charged me for… Read More ›
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Escher paradox diagram (on cold medication)
Monday at the Brewhouse, in Issaquah. “Mondays don’t matter,” that’s what mom said when we lived in Germany. We’d walk up to the butcher for the weiß wursts late morning, a soft pretzel and a beer, go back home, take… Read More ›
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A low-melting alloy used for joining less fusible metals
When Ginger gets up in the morning and first stands she looks like a newborn fawn touching down, the legs wobbly, on stilts. But I don’t stretch, it’s the discomforts of my past I remember in my joints, stumbling down… Read More ›
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The shoulder seasons
Friday, 9 Dec 16: mom looked out the front door and winced. Two hour snow delay but it all turned to rain, and now the lawn looks patchy and white like a grisly, old dog. Stayed up late watching it,… Read More ›
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After most humans were gone and it was just the robots
One day the robots started to romanticize the humans, what little they knew about them. They formed robot families, small social structures, gathered around screens. There was a film in black and white set around Christmas time with fake snow… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 