Unfinished table by IKEA, manual typewriter, one-bedroom apartment, the stack of pages sitting there as evidence, the same place I eat and drink. The answering machine, pictures of heroes on the wall. Rapping the keys until the bell goes off,… Read More ›
Memoir
Sure
Seven years old, in the bathroom at the Jersey shore, I had to use the one in my grandparent’s room and there was my grand-dad’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, through a crack in the door. He was napping with… Read More ›
Chantez, chantez
Laurent told my mom he had to go to the car to get some things, and gestured for me to join. It was the kind of gesture that implied wrongdoing, a wink from across the table. We were in the… Read More ›
A lather of voices
Riding the charter bus uptown from SODO to the Starbucks shareholders meeting, I lost myself in the din of small talk and made myself disappear. I thought of a young guy who used to work for me in a store,… Read More ›
Chicken crap for the soul
Dawn’s been egging me on to embrace my dark side: no more chicken soup for the soul crap, she said. At some point, you’re going to have to decide if you’re Mitch Albom or David Foster Wallace. When we bought… Read More ›
Green, Orange
Moss is emerging in our yard like a new nation, making the trees look like a psychedelic Yes album or a Tolkien book. I relocated the remains of the fruit tree to the back, day-dreamed in the hot tub, thought… Read More ›
Mirrorball
Pat Dolan and his brother Damien lived up the street. Their dad Mr. Dolan was a cop, a huge cop: he filled the doorway when he stood. We sat on the front doorstep and spat. We had just learned how… Read More ›
Us
I was making my nest: a studio apartment at the base of Pill Hill in Seattle, basement floor. It looked onto a courtyard no one could access, and the top half of a parking lot. My bed was up on… Read More ›
The Crawl Space
We stood in the doorway of the kitchen watching Phyllis eat the mouse. Normally diminutive, she had a wild look now, jowls besmirched and wet. We listened as she chewed, and watched as she gagged-down nearly all of it, leaving… Read More ›
Little Stevey and the stolen goods
I discovered at a young age I was good at stealing. As a bright, normal-looking 10 year-old, I could walk into a store smiling, say hi, and walk out with a coat full of baseball cards, candy, cap guns, Playboys,… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 