My name is Bear Savo. I’m 41 years old and married to my high school sweetheart. We have a seven-year-old son. Our household includes a lettuce-eating dog, two psychotic cats, and an agoraphobic guinea pig.
I’m a disciple of literary minimalism; I write short fiction.
I will have been a cloud that by some chance was recognized by someone as resembling something, until by the same winds that formed me, I am dispersed.
I live in the Greater Scranton area of Northeast Pennsylvania. I wouldn’t mind retiring to New Mexico.
On the morning of my 40th birthday I was summoned to the bedside of a dying friend. He asked if I was still writing. “No, not really,” I answered. He shook his head and changed the subject. We reminisced until he was too tired to talk. I said goodbye. He departed soon after but his disappointment persists.