 A large public art installation adorns the concrete wall at Baxter Pharmacy, commanding attention with its striking grid of eighteen colorful and diverse artworks. Each segment of the grid offers something unique—abstract designs interplay with vivid portraits, tranquil landscapes, and evocative still lifes—together weaving a visual narrative that speaks to both individuality and unity within the community. The wall itself is textured and weathered, bearing the marks of time and the elements, while a row of parked cars rests quietly below. In the midst of this everyday scene, a lone figure stands, gazing up at the mural, perhaps contemplating the stories and shared histories embedded in the paint. After all’s been said and done, you take the words, lay them down like cards on a felt table, then tuck them away in a drawer nobody ever opens. That’s the business of memory—in a town with more stories than lamplights.
Peekskill was buzzing this morning, the kind of electricity you feel under your skin before the sun’s even had its first coffee. I was out early—couldn’t sleep, not after an unexpected guest crashed my solitude. A good person, really. The kind who leaves you wondering if you’ll ever see them again, or if they’ll just haunt your cigarettes and half-finished sentences. Valley Brook Games In Valley Brook, Leo was waiting in the shadows, nursing his own peculiar brand of mischief. He’s got a way of teasing that makes you feel lighter and heavier at the same time—a contradiction in motion. The other day, he froze up—icicles in his brain—couldn’t remember my name. “You haven’t been around in more than a month,” he said, like time was a crime I’d committed without knowing. He asked for clues, so I threw him one: a name shared with the King of England, once a handsome prince before the crown weighed him down. But Leo couldn’t catch it. I had to spell it out. When I did, he pressed a hand to my heart, gave me that crooked smile, and promised he’d never forget again. This morning, I decided to test the promise. I showed up, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, “Good morning, Leo.” He played coy, feigning forgetfulness, but then tipped his hand. “Charles,” he said, “how could I forget a beautiful name like yours?” That’s Leo—one foot in the truth, the other in the joke. He admits, with a sheepish grin, that while he sometimes blanks on names—his mind icing over at the most inconvenient moments—he never forgets an order. That much is always true. The choreography of coffee and pastries, the rhythm of regulars and their favorites: these live in his bones. Orders, he gets right every time, even if the names momentarily slip through the cracks. It’s a quirk everyone forgives, maybe even loves him for. And in the world of Valley Brook, it’s enough to make him unforgettable in his own way. But the morning didn’t end there. A new introduction cut through the haze—Dimitri, all shadows and angles, with a goatee as sharp as his gaze and a ponytail trailing behind like the tail of a comet. He didn’t just enter the story; he rewrote the beginning. The energy shifted, growing darker but somehow more alive. In this town, painted people show up when you least expect—carrying their own stories, their own colors—ready to be brushed onto the canvas of another day. Ready to Write So here I am, pen in hand, ready to dive into fiction—ready to paint people as they are and as they could be. Amazing, isn’t it? The journeys we take just to reach that precipice once more, teetering between reality and imagination, memory and myth. In the smoky dawn, every name is a story, and every story waits to be painted anew. Thanksgiving at the Farm: The Reefer Incident The weather today is the very definition of perfect fall—crisp air, no sunlight, and that gentle hush that settles over the countryside before winter arrives. It brings me back to those college days, when I’d return to my grandparents’ farm and everything felt just right—even the sky. My first car—a blue Volkswagen Bug, bought with the money I’d earned working summer camp jobs in Springfield, Massachusetts—was my ticket home. There’s one Thanksgiving that still stands out, forever tied to that little Bug. My mom, Aunt Lue, Uncle Gunter, and my grandparents, John and Queen, were all gathered around the car when Aunt Lue made a discovery that would become family legend. She spotted something she believed was a cigarette. Grandpa, with his usual dry wit, corrected her: “No, that’s a reefer.” Suddenly, Aunt Lue was convinced—a reefer, in Charles’s car! The scandal threatened to overshadow the holiday. Aunt Lue’s righteous outrage was immediate, launching into a lecture about the dangers of “reefers” and the nerve it took for me to leave one in my car. The possibility that I could be arrested seemed to hang in the air, feeding her indignation. To put an end to the drama and protect my supposedly spotless reputation, my mom claimed the reefer was hers. The pressure shifted away from me, and Aunt Lue’s tirade refocused on my mother with renewed vigor. It became an insufferable ordeal—Aunt Lue’s sense of right and wrong brooked no argument, and she carried herself as though she’d never stepped out of line in her life. I felt queasy from the weight of accusation and the overblown lecture. Later, though, we laughed about it. My mother reminded me how she had taken the fall for something that wasn’t hers—nor mine, for that matter. It had belonged to some guy I’d met and quickly regretted entertaining. Still, the memory lingers, wrapped up in the scent of autumn and family—a story that time has softened around the edges.
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 Charlie Boy stands behind the cocktail, cloaked in fog and memory. Behind every photograph is a story—some brief, some romantic, others too complex or personal to be explained or ever published. There are tales you overhear in the quiet corners of a bar, stories so intricate or unbelievable that you simply tuck them away; sometimes, their raw truth is too intimate to share. The chatter of a dimly lit pub could inspire an endless stream of words, enough to fuel any writer's imagination for hours on end.
Today is one of those dreary days that seem to stretch on, gray and heavy. I find myself still trimming the Christmas tree, an ongoing project that, at my current pace, may only be completed by Christmas Eve. The vision is playful—a gingerbread man motif, Ken dolls and GI Joes mingling among the branches, maybe a Barbie or two scaling the tree. Yet, the creative spirit isn't quite there. My mood lags behind, slowed by a heaviness I can’t seem to shake. The aftereffects of last night's drinking are settling in—not with the wild inspiration I once felt in my younger years, but with a dull ache of regret and a familiar descent into sadness. Once, a spirited night out left me electrified, ready to take on the world. Now, it only leaves me reflective and somber. Age changes how we experience even our most familiar indulgences. Lately, I’ve been rethinking many things, perhaps to the relief of someone dear to me who quietly wishes for my well-being. Yesterday, at the bar, my friend’s humor shone through the haze. He knows me well enough to see right through my moods and disguises. Bundled in layers—hat, gloves, scarf, and a long coat—I looked more suited for Chicago’s biting winds than our milder weather. He laughed, teasing, "Charlie Boy, I’m glad it’s not as cold as you’re dressed for!" Then, with a knowing grin, he asked, "Are you drinking these days? On the wagon or off?" It brought to mind January, when I joined the dry month movement that stretched into March because I genuinely enjoyed the change. “I’m on the wagon,” I replied, remembering how that period of sobriety had felt. We laughed together, the way old friends do, allowing a little light into our otherwise dreary day. "No, I'm off the wagon," I said as he crafted me an old-fashioned whiskey with a wisp of smoke curling above it. Then he switched the channel on the TV above and near the bar to please two men from Ireland who wanted to watch real football—or, as some of us here call it, soccer.Hearing the three of them talk at once, it’s incredible how many F-bombs they can drop, but that accent—man, I absolutely loved it. Still, happiness remains elusive today. I’m weighed down by the absence of a faraway friend on the flip side of the world, the kind of ache that dims even the festive glow of holiday lights. The emptiness dulls my enthusiasm for everything—even for finishing the tree, even for the day itself. Yet, I cling to the hope that the sight of the giant balloons floating through Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade might lift my spirits, if only for a moment. Sometimes, it’s those simple joys, broadcast across miles and memories, that help us find our way back to ourselves—one ornament, one laugh, one story at a time.  The silhouettes scratch the sky, and I walk beneath them, waiting for the next story. Music: Trio Mocotó – “Não Adianta” It’s that time of year when the trees become skeletal silhouettes, their bare limbs trembling against a silvery, overcast sky. The day hangs in the balance—neither here nor there—caught between autumn’s last sigh and winter’s hush. The light oozes in, soft and impartial, flattering no one yet revealing everything. It’s good for photographs, self-portraits, documentation of your own existence. On days like this, the world seems content to let you observe, rather than be observed. I woke before dawn, intent on shaping fiction with the tip of my pen. But the stories slipped away, and I found myself walking the riverbank instead. Across the Hudson, the mountains loomed—distant, indifferent giants. Morning commuters moved like shadows toward Peekskill Station, a procession of thought-lost figures masked by fog and half-light. The Amtrak train rumbled through—longer than it’s been in years—stretching across the tracks like a serpent from some other time. Ten cars, maybe more. Each one filled with silent travelers heading north to Albany, south into the beating heart of New York. The last car, probably the dining car, stood as a relic of promise: warm coffee, cold glances, a moment of respite in the journey. I wondered about the train’s length, the renewed crowds, the pulse of rail travel that faltered when the world shut down. It feels like a good thing—more faces behind more windows, more lives in motion. If only there were a ferry, I think to myself, sliding through the dark waters from Peekskill to Manhattan. Another way to lose yourself. Another route to escape what really is a dreary little place. It’s Friday—the word tastes different now. It used to mean something when I was a nine-to-five office kid, watching the clock, aching for release. The commuter’s refrain: freedom at five, even if you’d slipped out before the hour arrived. Back then, there was the Castro. Friday nights on the town, clubs and crowds, a routine of laughter and noise. So many pretty boys. San Francisco was full of them. Now, Friday is just another shadow passing by. This week’s been different. Anti-social, maybe. I’ve been slipping through the city like a ghost, uninterested in the crowds, evading faces. I haven’t cared to meet or know anyone, save for one familiar figure I didn’t manage to avoid. The rest—strangers, acquaintances, noise—I let drift by, nameless and faceless. I never answer the phone or check voicemail...because it's not him calling. I suppose I’ll emerge from this fog sooner or later. Shadows always break, and light creeps back in. But until then, I walk the edge, watching the world unfold in grayscale, waiting for the next story to find me.  In the parking lot of mercy, she learns the weight of giving. She was perhaps the youngest food pantry helper or so she was there with her father with his ginger beard and she with her flaming ginger hair up in two ponytails as she watched daddy unload the van of necessities like oil and such for the cooks to use in the pantry on what would more likely be another busy day for the workers at Peekskill Salvation Army Food Pantry in the parking lot on Nelson Avenue. For city of its size, Peekskill has a lot of food pantries. You would think there is no need for anyone to ever go hungry here with so many of them and, of course, Salvation Army provides a hot meal, lunch Monday through Friday. I heard they used to do breakfast as well, but they only have lunch now. Sometimes the meals are pretty good when they serve stuff like curry chicken over rice, while other times not much when they chop up weenies and serve it over rice with beans, which is probably everyone’s least favorite meal…but when you’re hungry and have nothing else, I supposed it acceptable. But there are other ways to get free meals in Peekskill when you’re in need of one. For example, going to C-Town in the last hour can get you free meals that they give out at the end of the day when there’s food like chicken plates, pork chop plates are leftover and still warm. I suppose that is better than wasting it and tossing it all in a bin. Yet, it was the little girl in the parking lot helping her father at the Food Pantry by just being there and watching him was what warmed my heart the most. As the last days of November approach Thanksgiving, the trees at the top of the hills take on a winter look. There is some color of Fall left in some of the trees, the most of them have now lost their leaves. They look stiffer in the cold air on top of the round shape of the hills that looks like every hill has an Afro. The best part is you can now see through the trees, with clearer views of the river and houses that were once hidden by lush green leaves. A new Halal food restaurant is opening on Main Street across from Peekskill Plaza where Blondery used to be. A fitting location for a town with a sizable Muslim community.   Fear behind the door is never the whole story—it is only the shadow of what we fail to see. Fear has a remarkable power over our actions, sometimes leading us into circumstances we never could have imagined. That thought comes to mind when I reflect on the tragedy in Indiana—the story of Curt Andersen, who fired through his door believing an intruder had come, only to discover that the people outside were not threats at all, but a cleaning woman and her husband who had arrived at the wrong house, misled by their GPS.
I can only imagine the anguish he must feel. To realize that the person you shot was not an intruder but someone simply doing their job—someone with a family, a partner, people who loved them—would be unbearable. If I were in his position—if I had shot the wrong person, or truly, if I had shot anyone at all, even in self-defense—the weight of that act would haunt me. It would linger in every quiet moment, making it nearly impossible to function normally again. It is unsettling to realize how quickly fear can cloud judgment, how swiftly panic can override reason. In a single moment, instincts may drive us to act without seeing the full picture—and sometimes those actions cannot be undone. This story is a reminder of the profound responsibility we carry in split-second decisions, especially when lives are at stake. Behind every door, behind every shadow, there may be more than fear—there may be human beings, vulnerable and unknowing, who deserve our pause, our restraint, our mercy.  Holiday lights above noir shadows—ornaments flicker where stories linger and strangers conspire. Where Shadows, Stories, and Old TV Villains Lurked Among UsWhiskey River’s sign flickered against the gathering dusk, but tonight it wasn’t just the white letters encircled in light—it was strung with Christmas lights and ornaments, a beacon of holiday cheer above the bar. A strange juxtaposition: noir shadows below, festive sparkle above. The thirsty, the curious, and, on this particular late afternoon, the nostalgic gathered under its glow.
It started innocently enough. Someone—maybe the tall guy in the trilby with a laugh like a saxophone riff or was it the bartender with Paul Newman good looks—who tossed the words Black Mirror into the smokeless air. It caught, and suddenly we were knee-deep in the golden age: The Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock, Rod Serling. Turns out, we all stashed the same favorite episodes in our mental vaults. The trivia mutated, shapeshifting as only a true noir night can. Without warning, Batman’s rogue gallery crashed the scene. Not the brooding knight of Nolan’s nightmares—this was the campy, technicolor caper of yesteryear. Vincent Price as Mr. Egghead, Joan Collins as The Siren, and, of course, the three Catwomen. Eartha Kitt purred into memory, but the other two required some jazz-infused brainstorming. Nobody reached for a smartphone—at least, not at first. The game was on, and the only search engine was our collective recall. We were strangers at the table, but by then, co-conspirators in a caper penned by fate. One new acquaintance, an Aquarius—a sign, they say, that spells intensity for a Scorpio like me—shared a laugh about the not-so-glorious days of being Black and loving horror films. There was a time, we mused, when the minute someone who looked like us wandered into a haunted mansion or foggy cemetery, you could practically cue the funeral dirge. Laughter spilled like whiskey over that old trope, especially as I recounted Night of the Living Dead, where, for once, the Black character outlasted all the others—until, in the cruelest twist, he was mistaken for a zombie and sent to the fire. A noir ending if there ever was one. The afternoon faded into evening, the bar lights casting long shadows as the chatter died down. These are the best kind of gatherings—the unadvertised ones that sneak up on you like a plot twist, leaving everyone lighter than when they arrived. No script, no cues—just good company, old stories, and the thrill of a mystery solved in the half-light of Whiskey River. The lights didn’t dim—they followed me out: Paul Newman’s glance, the long embrace with the Aquarian guy who resembled me, the Batman archivist’s grin, the hairdresser’s wave, and Nicole—always Nicole—like a final line before the credits roll.  She walks into light—not away, but toward. Her grace remains, carried in every life she’s touched. Some news arrives like a shock, a wow—incredulous because you’ve known someone in a role so perfectly suited to them that it’s hard to imagine them anywhere else. That’s how I feel about my dear friend Amy Freeman.
I met Amy at Hope Health in Florence, SC, where she became more than just an employee. She was a confidant, a steady presence, someone you could trust as if speaking to a priest—knowing your words would never leave the room. Her patients, past and present, will tell you the same: Amy carried light into every room she entered. Even after I left Florence, we stayed in touch. The last time I saw her was during my mother’s funeral last summer. Without my asking, she stepped in to help with expenses—because funerals are heavy burdens, both emotional and financial. That’s who Amy is: someone who shows up, even in the hardest moments, with grace and generosity. Hope Health will miss her deeply. But now McLeod Medical Center gains not just an employee, but a force of empathy, dedication, and compassion. In her new role as Medication Access Coordinator, I have no doubt she will touch even more lives, carrying forward the same light she gave us. There has only ever been one Amy. And she was that person. On my birthday, November 14, I celebrate not only another year of life, but the gift of having known someone like Amy—whose light carries forward.  Algae hush over autumn’s breath—faith stalled, reflection swallowed. “It’s a Wonderful Life”--Pope Leo’s favorite, alongside The Sound of Music, Ordinary People, and Life is Beautiful. Each a hymn to faith, family, resilience. Each a reel of light projected against the dark. I thought of them in the north woods, high above Hudson, between Cortlandt and Peekskill. The hills were bruised with autumn, the mountains fading into smoke. I lit a cigarette—knowing the sin of it, knowing the body keeps score—but in the middle of nature the taste changes. The drag sharpens, the burn deepens. A cigarette in fresh air is not the same cigarette in a city alley. It becomes ritual, almost holy, a high against the backdrop of dying leaves. Below, the pond had shrunk since summer. Not glassy, not clear—but cloaked in algae, a green hush that swallowed reflection. The water didn’t shimmer; it brooded. Psalm 23 whispered: He leadeth me beside still waters; He restoreth my soul. But these waters felt forsaken, thick with decay. Restoration seemed distant, like a prayer recited too many times to still mean anything. What is faith when it’s inherited, not chosen? At five, I prayed because I was taught to. My gods were toys, Brownie the dog, and my grandparents—nothing else mattered. God was a name, not a presence. But age rewrites the covenant. Religious school drills scripture into the bones until “chosen people” becomes less a blessing than a burden. To be chosen is to be light in a world that prefers shadows. To be chosen is to inspire when inspiration itself feels scarce. Looking at the world today, the phrase dissolves—hard to see, harder to believe. So where is my faith? I asked myself as I ground the cigarette into the earth. The leaves crunched underfoot, brittle echoes of summer’s green. The pond, shallow and algae-laden, mirrored the shrinking of belief—mine, the world’s, perhaps both. Noir truth: faith is a flickering reel, sometimes projected, sometimes lost in the dark.   First snow of the season—where even the benches wait, and the city hall clock forgets the hour. November Snow in New York It wasn’t the first snow I’ve seen this year—but the first November flurry in New York for the season. The city transformed in a breath. A chill swept through the streets, and suddenly, New York felt as cold as Peekskill. I wasn’t dressed for it. No layers. No armor. Just me, caught in the wind on yet a busy street in New York, grateful to return to warmth, to the quiet sanctuary of home in Peekskill. Dancing Flurries Outside my window, snow flurries danced across the balcony—light, swirling, almost joyful. But they never settled. Just twirled and vanished. Transient beauty. A reminder that not everything is meant to stay. Reflections on Time Last night left me unsettled. I’m no longer a spring chicken. The bounce-back days are behind me. There’s still so much I want to do—but time slips faster now, like snow melting on warm skin. The Inevitable Journey Aging brings clarity. We’re all headed to that final destination—the one with no return ticket, no reviews, no room service. It’s sobering. But it makes the small things sacred: the warmth of a blanket, the hush of snow, the flicker of memory. Looking Forward Despite the cold, despite the ache, I choose to find beauty in the passing moments. Whether the snow sticks or dances away, I’ll keep watching. Keep writing. Keep living. Because even the coldest days carry the possibility of grace.
  Coffee for a neighbor, lentils for the soul—generosity rising like steam in a cold November November 10, under an overcast sky
The shutdown came with silence—no paychecks, no certainty, SNAP benefits slashed like old film reels. But something unexpected bloomed: generosity. People began to notice each other again. Not just the ones in need, but the ones who could give. Even the trees atop Fort Hill seemed to lean closer, rust and yellow whispering in the Monday mist. Coffee, Crackers, and Kindness She lives in the garden apartments, quiet and proud. She said she was out of coffee. So I brewed a pot, packed two bowls of lentil stew, added fruit and crackers, and walked it over. She said I made her day. But truthfully, she made mine. Brotherhood in the Shutdown Saleh called me brother yesterday. The way he held my hand—no fist bump nonsense. He held it gently in his, and it was truly beautiful. It felt better than sex. He said, “If you ever need food, come to me.” No hesitation. No pity. Just grace. I may take him up on it one day. And when I do, I’ll remember the way he looked—olive skin, black curls, kindness in his eyes. Scorpio Season To my fellow Scorpios: Jacqueline in South Carolina, Leonard in California, Cousin Christopher in North Carolina, Greek musician Yanni, King Charles, and Ted in California—who shares my day of birth. We are the ones who feel too much and say too little. We are the ones who remember. I’ll be a year older soon. But I count my birth from the day I moved to San Francisco not the first birth in a place called Kingsburg. That makes me 42. And 42 is where we stop counting. Everything after that is myth. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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