THREAD • by Tim Boiteau
I noticed a loose thread on the collar of her blouse — god, I can’t stand that — and I began to pull on it, couldn’t help myself, couldn’t not do it. “Leave it.” She slapped at my hand, but… Continue Reading
Tim Boiteau
WEEPING WIDOW • by Tim Boiteau
“Excuse me, sir. Is this your shoe?” The woman was dressed in a loose hibiscus-orange gown, sitting on a stone bench, beneath a matching orange umbrella. I hadn’t seen her at first when turning the corner in the path, but… Continue Reading
PINK UMBRELLA • by Tim Boiteau
Rain thrashes against the window of Kay’s office. Her phone vibrates, clattering on the polished wood of the desk. Text from Brett. “Survive the rain?” The corner of her mouth twitches. She looks out towards the window, trying to remember… Continue Reading
DEADNAME • by Tim Boiteau
Mike Westover is dead, but his name still has power. Michelle shuts her apartment door, locks it, and takes a deep breath in the quiet of the dark kitchen. She slips out of her heels and secures them in their… Continue Reading
BRAMBLEWOOD • by Tim Boiteau
Listen, children, and hear the tale of Bramblewood and how it came to change seasons by the hours of the day. There was in the 2nd Century Edgar IV, the King of Pennsylvania, a vain and childless ruler who claimed… Continue Reading
A TRIP TO THE PSEUDOPODIATRIST’S OFFICE • by Tim Boiteau
“Mr. Thompson, Dr. Wheeler will see you now.” I follow the nurse into the narrow hallway and through the rigmarole of bodily metrics. In the examination room, she asks me to remove my shirt. I comply, blushing, directing my vision… Continue Reading
LEMONS • by Tim Boiteau
Epiphany: I need lemons. A tumble of lemons, a volcano of fresh explosive citrus, the obese mamas with that extraterrestrial shine, not those dinky rough-hide goblins lurking at the bottom of produce boxes. Fifty will do, I think. No, seventy;… Continue Reading
TIMESHARE • by Tim Boiteau
We zig-zag along a crooked stone bridge towards the tavern. Mist blankets the water, which is riotous with koi, though it’s a clear day elsewhere — a hologrammic projection of the weather from hundreds of years ago. Our daughter, Ruyi,… Continue Reading
MARATHON GIRL • by Tim Boiteau
Mile 1: Cold morning in the mountains, the trail cushioned and redolent with decaying leaves. My heart’s racing with anticipation, hands jittery — but feeling good. I’m doing this, doing this. Wish I could squeeze Brad’s hand, drink encouragement from… Continue Reading
THE KNOWING SKY • by Tim Boiteau
The cotton absorbs the tea’s bitterness, the paroxysmal pain. It engulfs him, fills him. The last time Wind had known such pleasure, there’d been a needle hanging out of his seeping, abscessed arm. Then he’d received the Knowing Sky’s cryptic… Continue Reading