It has a tart rhubarb base for the pucker
and a sweet, red kiss of strawberry that brings me back
for the next bite.
It’s more Oscar Wilde than Marcel Proust, though I confess to having read neither—
I just know it when I
taste it.
Mustn’t forget the milk!
Stephen Tilden is retired in Brooklyn and enjoys writing while something is in the oven.
It was a Las Vegas beginning for pen-pals! Strangers, taking a gamble, deciding to go for it, waking up. “Wait, did we just make some kind of a commitment? Now, back up, there’s no reason for alarm—it’s only a letter. You can tell that I’m not used to this.”
Stephen Tilden is retired in Brooklyn and always on the lookout for pen-pals.
Above, an azure layer so thin you can see the blackness of space behind. My eyes slide west across layers of green and yellow to a fire beyond the horizon, so deeply red that I could take comfort in its apparent warmth if the evening air wasn’t so bitingly cold.
Apricity is a favorite word of Stephen’s, especially during this time of year, meaning ‘warmth of the sun in winter.’
I write each piece as if making a knife. I grind it into shape, polish the surfaces, maybe cut some fancy scrollwork into the sides, and then hone the blade edge with a precise discernment, enabling its power to slice the topic so thin as to be transparent to all.
Stephen Tilden is retired in Brooklyn and carries this knife wherever he goes.
I remember running behind the Foggyman’s truck, billowing DDT out the back. We covered our noses and mouths with wet handkerchiefs as we chased through the fog, out of breath from running and excitedly shrieking to find each other. Or is this actually a foreboding dream that keeps haunting me?
Stephen Tilden keeps a photo of that truck to remind him that it is just a memory.
When I returned with my tools, I noticed the posting: “Caution. Any attempt by the user to modify or tamper with this world is a breach of the Terms and Conditions. Improper alterations can cause catastrophic destruction. Violators will pay deeply and forever; repeat offenders will be shown no mercy.”
Stephen Tilden tinkers responsibly in Brooklyn.
Editor: Stephen wrote this story as a follow-up to New Stars.
While young, all we have is untested energy and an urge to push this big rock up the hill. When the curve begins to flatten, it rolls in unexpected ways. As the curve continues its decline, we look over our shoulder and suddenly that rock is chasing us from behind.
Stephen Tilden is retired in Brooklyn and keeping one step ahead.
Each day’s first word, mumbled from habit, meant far more than its sleep-addled reply. Hearing each other’s voice was a welcome-back from our overnight travels, though our bodies had remained just inches apart.
She’s gone now, for eternity, but while making my side of the bed I still ask, “Howdjasleep?”
Stephen Tilden is retired and living in Brooklyn.
Your evaluation of our planet is a total fabrication—a hoax based on bad science. Our twilights are even more spectacular, and no one suffers anymore from the cold unless they crank up their A/C—and if you don’t submit a serious bid, we’re going to blow it all up!
Stephen Tilden is retired and strapped in for whatever happens next. This was written as a reply to S Govinjaraj’s Adieu Earth.
Our fever dreams have broken the quiet generosity of creation. Perhaps, if we listen very closely, we can hear the howl of the Eternal arching over the din of our modern lifestyle birthright, trying to awaken us to a vulnerability that we can no longer callously roll over and ignore.
Stephen Tilden is retired and living in Brooklyn with his door unlocked to the Eternal.
Editor: This story is a response to Michael Theroux’s Cats on the Back Deck.