Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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18th and Union
I was 25 and alone. I didn’t have a car or plans on the weekends. I got up and made coffee and went out for the day.
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Let’s move to the country
The night falls in pink tones. Streams of pink-gold through the trees, the sound of a newscaster in the other room, a ticking clock. My blanket and the bell from the cat’s collar. Cherry blossoms weighting down the boughs. Moments… Read More ›
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Back and forth, again
I remember it’s the end of April and think back four years ago, when we came back from Germany.
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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.
Bill Pearse 