Author Archives

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

• New moon for you

  By Bill Pearse on March 13, 2021 • ( 27 )

  

  Lily and I walked the trail to a frost-covered field the color of bone, of yellowing teeth. And she talked of her world view as it’s grown, now 16, of crystals and moon charts and social justice. And back home… Read More ›

• Weird scenes inside the gold mines

  By Bill Pearse on March 7, 2021 • ( 34 )

  

  There was a time life was so sweet we couldn’t afford to sleep or miss any of it. We stayed up all night for the drama of it. It was like that for our kids and I wanted to feel that again, if only for one night.

• It comes in like a lion

  By Bill Pearse on February 28, 2021 • ( 25 )

  

  I guess books remind us that one person’s experience could speak for thousands and we could share some intimacy with strangers, make the world a smaller place.

• The comfort in patterns

  By Bill Pearse on February 27, 2021 • ( 19 )

  

  We were getting near the end of it though the news warned of a fourth wave. And I’d been off work for a month now which seemed great from a distance but got strange the more I got inside of… Read More ›

• The song of myself is a crude souvenir

  By Bill Pearse on February 17, 2021 • ( 23 )

  

  The most precious things we keep hold meaning for only us, and it’s those things we surround ourselves with as time takes all the rest.

• The crawlspace

  By Bill Pearse on February 10, 2021 • ( 14 )

  

  The day was already ruined so he decided to check out the crawlspace. He hadn’t been to the crawlspace for years. There was no reason to unless there was a problem. He knew there’d be more to deal with if… Read More ›

• Space is the place

  By Bill Pearse on February 7, 2021 • ( 19 )

  

  Time moves with the same erratic force of those bleating jazz horns like locusts devouring anything in its path.

• We should kill time

  By Bill Pearse on February 6, 2021 • ( 16 )

  

  It rained like hell, like uncooked rice spit on the windows the sound. And the big tree branches lay in clumps around the yard. And the ground oozed like sores, like cartoon mouths. And I dozed and woke to the… Read More ›

• The view looking in

  By Bill Pearse on February 2, 2021 • ( 4 )

  

  Solemnly he moved across the floor and back to the sofa where he lay on his side looking out the window. There was hair everywhere in the cracks and crevices, dog hair. He imagined the hair adhering to him when… Read More ›

• A touching display

  By Bill Pearse on January 30, 2021 • ( 10 )

  

  I let myself off the hook with my writing routine and look where it’s gotten me. I’ve started playing video games, the first person shooter kind, and go to bed replaying scenes of me dying or killing other players. I’ve… Read More ›