It’s always something, some locust or beetle or “killer bees.”
William Pearse writer
Major character syndrome
On Sundays I take more time at the lake and get there early enough I have it all to myself. There’s a rock on the shore where I sit and a Corona beer bottle cap a few feet below the… Read More ›
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.
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 ›
Back and forth, again
I remember it’s the end of April and think back four years ago, when we came back from Germany.
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.
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.
Sunday roadside stands
The rain fell so hard I stood in the doorway watching it, letting in the cool, clean air.
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.
A question of degrees
Upstairs someone was either crying or laughing.
Bill Pearse 