The Book of Bill

Boris Black made a living in the halls of academe, but burned out at a relatively young age. The insipid realm of higher education was far too bleak, and so Black retreated, withdrew, and became a recluse. Now Black lives alone, deep in the woods of Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands, where he contemplates the nether reaches of human misery and depravity. Quickly running out the clock on the latter part of his existence in this plane, the ex-professor writes dark and twisted stories for self-amusement and to lend flavor to the night sounds of the forest about his isolated cabin. Sometimes, during violent storms, or in the quiet desolation of the night, he thinks he hears voices on the heights or in the depths of steep-sided ravines.