Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Like a picture print by Currier and Ives
Dad retreats to the den while the chicken marinates, lights a stick of incense, and helps the dog get a bone out of the basket.
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It doesn’t go out like a lamb
They said everyone needs to work from home and the vibe on my floor was a kind of evacuation mode in slow-mo.
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Sunday roadside stands
The rain fell so hard I stood in the doorway watching it, letting in the cool, clean air.
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Spirit is time-reversed to your body
I remembered the smoked turkey we had in the meat locker from Easter and started fantasizing about eating a leg, just standing in the kitchen and taking it by hand.
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A question of degrees
Upstairs someone was either crying or laughing.
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“Transmission”
The butcher’s knife slipped off the edge of an onion and into my fingertip and somehow just the idea of my blood on the cutting board seemed to freak everyone out, for fear I was infected.
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The loop
Walking to the lake with Lily and how she seems to grow older with every step, as if it’s happening on this very walk, these new features in her face…and how time bends.
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“No one really about”
How the bell around the cat’s neck grates as she rubs her neck against the concrete. And we stopped caring so much about the cleanliness in our house. Which is counterintuitive because we were all home now all of the… Read More ›
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Beneath a vernal moon
Just like it always did, the spring came back.
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Ten years gone
I had a talk with Lily about the scenario where both mom and dad get sick and someone has to assume control of the house, which would fall to Lily.
Bill Pearse 