Author Archives

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

• The earnestness of the 70s

  By Bill Pearse on August 22, 2013 • ( 4 )

  Time Passages, Al Stewart. I grew up in the 70s, the 80s…the photos are embarrassing. Equally so for the 60s, I’m guessing. Songs like Time Passages, well: it’s good, it’s earnest, and yet it has a bit of cheese to… Read More ›

• The best place for an idea

  By Bill Pearse on August 21, 2013 • ( 2 )

  …isn’t your head. It starts there of course, but if it never leaves, that’s where it will end. We filter ideas for a variety of reasons, fear being the biggest, along with its brainy cousin, “discretion.” No, the best place… Read More ›

• The Apple ate the Blackberry

  By Bill Pearse on August 20, 2013 • ( 2 )

  I bought my first iPhone in 2007, as a gift to myself before our second daughter was born. I figured there was the threat we’d run out of cash now, with two kids, and so I could justify a $500… Read More ›

• The hum

  By Bill Pearse on August 18, 2013 • ( 0 )

  A hum started building near the Magic Place, down the dead end road that said No Turn Around. Benny was crouched down looking at the snake, and realized it was dead. That’s why it didn’t move when he saw it… Read More ›

• Benny Hopstock

  By Bill Pearse on August 17, 2013 • ( 0 )

  Benny Hopstock was a boy with curly blond hair and big, brown eyes, like a doe. His mom said he looked like Goldilocks, but he didn’t like that. He was pudgy and looked a bit like a pig, like the… Read More ›

• The Death Card

  By Bill Pearse on August 16, 2013 • ( 4 )

  My friend was a former Navy SEAL officer, and you would never know it. He was proud of his service, but humble, mild-mannered, polite. We worked together in the office. He drove across the country following a breakup with his… Read More ›

• The Magic Place

  By Bill Pearse on August 15, 2013 • ( 3 )

  It was a magic place, where we met. The sweet brine of birdsong, a tapestry in the trees, the mystery of light angled through the leaves. There, where the two made love on the ground, in the grass. How the… Read More ›

• Why the people don’t come out

  By Bill Pearse on August 13, 2013 • ( 0 )

  If I keep my eyes closed long enough the people come out. It’s an old village in the mountains, medieval times. A woman with gray hair pulled back and a robe peeks out the window. Broken-down peasant men with dirty… Read More ›

• Lot Number 12

  By Bill Pearse on August 12, 2013 • ( 1 )

  From today’s Daily Prompt The palm reader saw violence in me. Were it mine, done to me, or a horrible secret I carried like a gift left behind at the party, unnamed. It sits there waiting in the corner for… Read More ›

• Touched by Mr. Bingley

  By Bill Pearse on August 11, 2013 • ( 1 )

  

  The girls are at each other’s throats, so I get them outside for a walk, to the new development. The clouds are burning off, so we keep going down the dead end so I can show them a bog and… Read More ›