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 ›
Creative Nonfiction
The song of myself is a crude souvenir
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
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
Time moves with the same erratic force of those bleating jazz horns like locusts devouring anything in its path.
We should kill time
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 ›
A touching display
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 ›
The cosmic distance ladder
Morning time in the old German village where we once lived. The narrow stone roads that feel like a labyrinth, more for pedestrians than cars. The sound of tire tread when cars pass slow. Everyone smoking. Past the Italian bakery… Read More ›
This bag is not a toy
It is the best day of my life when I get a call from the editor asking me to report on a town meeting and submit a thousand words. Even though it’s just a weekly it’s my first time published, my name in print.
Letters from former selves
Looking back on your life is like looking out of a plane taking off or touching down. Trying to make out familiar places below, or leave it behind.
November’s treasures
I yo-yo around the yard occupying myself, for the soul needs a reminder that there’s more beyond itself. And if the soul is elastic, will the stretch marks show when all of this is over?
Bill Pearse 