He left her there, on the bed, holding the empty envelope. The letter still in his hand. There, at that very last instant, he had lost his nerve and plucked it from her fingers (were they trembling?) before she could read a word.

He panicked, is what happened. And rightfully so. This was a matter of sanity, and thus survival. If he couldn't have her completely, it was best to not have her at all, and even better to lose her immediately.

It was as difficult as he feared, forgetting her. He imagined -- he hoped -- that it was hard for her too. Selfishly, he wanted to mean something. But somewhere in the recesses of his being, he knew she would move on, she would get over him. What's one less friend when one is rich with them?

And that's all he was, he reminded himself. A friend.

Which made the letter that he still kept a lie. Or a delusion. The letter that he could not bear to destroy. The letter he no longer read for he knew it's every word as he knew the distance to his bathroom or the sound of his keys.

Still, he thought of her everyday, at least a little. It was getting easier to dismiss, to not try to peek past the blinders. But she was there, at the corner of his mind's eye, always.

One fine Friday evening, whatever progress he had made crumbled away when he checked his mail.

He found himself holding his envelope again. She had filled it in, sealed it, mailed it. She had returned it to him, the home for the letter he carried always. His first instinct was to smile. She'd kept it all this time.

But then he thought of the day he'd left, and for the first time considered the scene he'd turned his back on in his haste.

He had left her there, on the bed, holding the empty envelope. Alone.

He saw her in the cold white room with its soft light and still air, with her at its center, so distant from any and every warmth he had always associated with her. He saw her loneliness as he felt his own. The image was seared forever more in his mind.

He sat down right there, at his door, thinking of her again, blinders off, fighting back tears. He gripped the envelope. She'd kept it all this time. And slowly he realized there was a letter inside.

And he, overcome, could not find the strength to open it.

Unknown "Mr. Smiles" - 16 years, 5 months, 23 days ago

"Barker" -- An excerpt from my oddly pathetic little blog:

By now, I could not deny I was curious. I spoke slowly, chose my words carefully.

"What sort of maze is it?"

At that, his mouth curled into a wide yellow-toothed grin. His head lowered in a deep bow, casting his gleaming little eyes into shadow. His took his top hat into a long, graceful swing out to the full extension of his arm, a flick of the wrist for flourish. "The wonder," he cooed, "is in the discovery."

He stood again, donned his hat. Even at his full extension, I was looking down at the top of his head. What a strange little man he was. Pointy, drooping features, skin a sickly hint of green. And those eyes, tiny pools of black water.

"And there's a prize? In the center, there's a prize?" I regarded him, eyes lidded with suspicion.

"A prize? Oh, my, yes. As fine and respectable a gent as you may be, I doubt it within your capacity to imagine." He smiled again. "A prize. Yes, there is a prize. But your question presupposes that there is a center."

"So there's no center."

"Pup pup! I've divulged far too much already."

I licked my lips, studied him for any signs of deceit. "How many people solve it?"

"I must confess...not a one."

"So you go and get them, then?"

"In time."

"Ah! So you know the way!"

"I do indeed. This maze and I...we are familiar." He looked about now, as if someone might be listening. He motioned for me to duck down to him, leaned in to me conspiratorially. He raised a bony hand and shielded his mouth with the back of it.

"But you'll be different," he rasped. "I can feel it. You're smarter than the rest."

He leaned back and so did I. I glanced behind him at the entrance to the maze, back to him. He winked at me, and I felt as though we had shared a secret, a great and genuine truth. Again, I licked my lips in thought. He licked his in anticipation.

"How much is it, again?"

"For you, my friend, no charge."

I hesitated a moment, but gave in. "Okay. I'll give it a try." I stepped to the door, but was stopped by his outstretched hand. The top hat was in it.

"One last thing." The smile had faded from his face, now, his already long features drawn. "When you realize your goal, leave this hat there to show you have succeeded. Then the prize shall be yours."

"Simple enough." I took the hat, then proceeded through the arch. I had not walked thirty feet, had not made more than two turns, when I realized I had not asked the time limit. I doubled back to ask him, but he was gone.

Or I think he was. I returned to what seemed to be the same arch, but I was still in the maze. I walked it for quite some time. I tried all variety of mnemonics to remember the way, I left markers, I drew maps in the pebbles that lined the walk. I could not find the proper path.

And then it hit me, like a bolt from the blue. The answer became so clear as to be embarrassing. To think of all the time I wasted! Ah, well, such is life. In a flash, I knew where my goal lay. I knew what the prize would be. And I hungered for it. That prize...it is magnificent.

You should try, as well. I'm sure you'll come by the answer in time.

The puzzle itself is quite diverting. It's right here behind me, actually, the maze. Few have solved it, many have tried. But you...you'll be different. I can feel it.

Care to have a go? Just take my hat, and head right through here...

Unknown "Mr. Smiles" - 16 years, 7 months, 14 days ago

With these
my last thoughts
before I slip away
before sleep claps its hands across my eyes
and I see only what I dream
With my last thoughts
I think of you
and I spend my last breath on your name
so when that darkness comes
I might enjoy your echo

...oh, and--uh-- ...something wickedly clever. Shit! Always when people are looking, Smiles, what is it with you! God damn it.
Unknown "Mr. Smiles" - 16 years, 7 months, 27 days ago

"Stolen Clothes" -- An excerpt from my oddly pathetic little blog:

All my clothes
are ones I stole
from the oversize drier
It's a surprise --
I never know what I'm gonna get
I suppose
that were my goal
to be a normal buyer,
they'd be my size
Still, it could be worse, they could be wet

Unknown "Mr. Smiles" - 16 years, 8 months, 6 days ago

"Dead Balconies" -- An excerpt from my oddly pathetic little blog:

Once, we had a mini-fridge.

It sat in the corner of our balcony, sable anchor to the complex arrangement of obsidian grill and black-leather couch. It was the lighthouse that guided us from the darkness of our apartment, to the good times of cold-beverage drinking and semi-outdoor couch lounging. Sometimes, if we were good, there were burgers.

The placement of the miniscule refrigerator had been a tale in itself, one fraught with injuries and expletives, one which left us with a small crack in the sliding glass barrier between our world and that of the balcony. In the end, the fissure was concealed from view by a thin piece of duct tape, interrupted only at the base to allow the passage of the power cable.

But soon, the fridge was summoned back into the clutches of its former owner, John of Salwin. His new abode was in need of chilled consumables, and he could wait no longer. With much effort and many tears, we released the mini-fridge from it's home on the veranda. If you love something...

And with its passing, inevitably, the balcony passed as well. Without the draw of the convenient chilled beverages, our presence past the sliding glass barrier grew less frequent. The grill grew encrusted with gristle and dust, and became more of a chore than a source of enjoyment. And while the couch was comfortable and the view pleasant, a lounge was not enough bait to lure us from the wonders of the television, which was of a strictly indoor size. Slowly, subconsciously, we abandoned the balcony to the elements. We had lost interest.

But in the skies, jealous eyes hovered.

O, how many days had the flights of the pigeons been redirected by the smell of melting cheese or grilling sausage? How much spilled beer had tempted them to land on our railing? And every time, they had been spurned, derided, mocked. Frightened off to pursue a less appetizing meal of street rubbish and insect larvae.

But here...here was their chance.

The pigeons came to roost upon the weak little patio light built into the wall. They rested upon the grill, the railing, soon even the couch itself. We looked up from our television and noticed once or twice. We would rise and shoo them off, but now the pigeons were determined. Soon there were nests. And though the nests would occasionally be sprayed by roach poison, though the eggs would sometimes be relocated and risk being frozen, the birds would not give up, and instead they hid their nest behind the couch itself. The birds showed their dissatisfaction with their treatment by marking everything on the balcony as theirs, every object covered with a pastiche of white, black, and green, none more coated than the beloved couch. We covered the affected areas with a sheet, a half-hearted attempt at reclamation, but no number of blankets or rags or tarpaulins could hide the knowledge of what lurked beneath. We stopped sitting on the couch altogether.

The one I call Russell saw in the situation a challenge. He researched for weeks in an effort to learn the pigeons' weakness. Recalling the stone owls of his childhood which stood sentry over the marketplaces he frequented while out engaging in barter, he hatched a plan, henceforth known as The Wiener Agenda. Knowing the pigeons to be a superstitious lot, he fashioned owls, gryphons, gargoyles, and other such beasts out of tin foil and clay. These he secured to the railing with twine, a warning to all those with wings that death ruled this place. Sadly for the resident, the pigeons were in the process of a social and cultural revolution inexplicable to the minds of men. The ruse worked for days at best.

Now the balcony is theirs. The scarepigeons stand in hollow disarray, some lost entirely, some toppled, a mute testament to the wars which came before. Every horizontal surface is claimed by a ragged nest, the only flag known to their nation. The floor, the grill, and, yes, the couch, are all blanketed by a layer of dung and dust and feathers. No human dares step foot into that wasteland. We press our faces up to the fine mesh fence that separates our world and that of the pigeons, that of the balcony we remember only in fable and legend. Once, we had a mini-fridge. Once there was singing and eating and lounging and merriment. But no more.

And so the pigeon's victory is pyrrhic at best -- for the scents that wafted on the air, the foods that drew them near oh those many days ago, before the war, before the smashed eggs and tinfoil gryphons... Those scents will never come again. And so every morning, the pigeons rise from their perch and fall from their dead gray kingdom of Balcony, in search of the smell of food and the hum of the tiny compressor on the back of a mini-fridge.

Unknown "Mr. Smiles" - 16 years, 9 months, 2 days ago