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Hey everyone. I just wrote this this morning to remind a friend of a time we once had. The Rose, Disrobed by Rael X Bischoff Do you remember her? The subtle flux of her petals the white rose smoldering like a standing tongue? She was excited and we were transfixed by her soft undulation, we knew we could watch her for hours, the white rose exhibitionist seething for us. Remember the ecstasy of her slow burn, her last performance for an audience, this white rose enjoying existence and whispering a secret to us that there is so much behind the veil, a vast pulsation of being, a pervasive, potent, incredible creature beaming out through fragile gateways like flowers. Do you remember her? That white rose child looking us in the eyes displaying her exquisite expertise at dying.

http://flag.blackened.net/daver/anarchism/tolstoy/confession.html I think this work affected me more than any other that I have ever read.

*Let them be…* Have you ever felt sad? All alone in this big world Forced to face your fears? I bet you have. But have you had the heart to tell anyone this?Have you ever actually given suicide a series thought? Well, many people have And believe it or not, their lives are most likely worst than yours Cutting and drinking, it’s all a way to escape the pain they tried to hide Most of the time, it’s unsuccessful, and fatal. You don’t hear them complain If you really cared, you would let them vent how they wish Not tell them it’s wrong Especially if you only say that so you won’t be left behind in the dust they leave They want the pain, or they would listen and stop If it’s the only way for them to be happy, let it be Happiness is hard to come by So let them be….it’s their life Not yours

letters fall when the wind calls draping branch and flakes that dance hot sun blankets the skin with heat steep hills and cold mountains repeat freezing breeze pouring plentifully moving brooks swimming so gently the ground springs wile the mind sings waving good bye as rotating rings

I haven't had the chance to read a lot of contemporary poets lately, but last I did: No serious poets were using AA, BB, CC, etc rhyme schemes. To me that pattern sounds a bit like greeting cards or something you'd write for a 6th grade English class. I know I fall into the ABAB, CDCD far too often, but it suits the style when I write in parody...a scheme used by the great Henry Gibson on 'Laugh-In' On the other hand, the best poems I've read have little or no rhyme at all. A couplet at the end of a sonnett, or the soft interior rhymes of alliteration are quite nice. Poems with no rhyme whatsoever can be fantastic (when they are not all about rending hearts and woe-is-me and beat-my-breast-my-girl-doesn't-love-me and "look at me, how dark and brooding my words are...I must be deep so sleep with me"). Look atSimic, Angelou, Frost, Sandberg, and cummings. Great poets, subtle rhymes, not a lot of tortured-soul meter that comes off like a verbal expression of 1920's silent film over-acting. It's like end-zone dancing: the very best know they're good and don't have to make a fuss. You want to make cool shapes with your stanzas because you saw somebody do it and thought. "Now THERE"S a poet!" Shape has to do with rhythm, there should be no form without a need for function. Making crazy shapes that have no bearing on the piece only make it unpleasant to read and, quite frankly, pretentious and silly. I beseech you all (there's a dramatic word), challenge yourselves to write simply, honestly, cleanly. Use a clear voice and speak lyrically, let the music inside you define your rhythym. You can be a writer or you can be a wordsmith. You can be a poet or a rhyme-monster. Always your choice.

Wavelets slap gently against the bow as the boat tugs and shifts at her berth, out at the end of the dockin the soft darkness far from shore- the lights of the city muted in the hiss of drizzle on water We lived on boats because we were poor the kittens born because lifegot in the last word But you, not realizing your divinity continue the conversation, speaking softly of drowning them, all but one.As you reach for them, they stir uneasily even though they are asleep. Feathers fall and I swear I hear wings of life and death snap and flutter overhead in quiet combatattacking each other and the version that will play out. Each kitten you touch digs it's claws inmewing, holding onto the blanket at the bottom of the world. You pet them and grow drowsy- all is quiet save for the dying of the ticking fire in the woodstovewith the box in front, full of kittens, sleeping peacefully.

MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD Black and white were programmes on our money slot T.V Kids were playing kiss chase not playing their P.C Real ice cream and chocolate and a penny for the guy Remember Georgie porgy when he kissed the girls goodbye Policemen in their uniform no sign of riot gear And naughty little children got a clip around the ear Pubs were loud with singing, pianos in most bars Fire engines had a bell and green men lived on mars Baked jam roll and custard, six pennyworth of chips A football game at playtime or gentle pickup sticks Playing British bull dog, run outs, dare, and hee Detention was at 4 o’clock, then home in time for tea! Gene Pitney singing Tulsa, girls would swoon and sing along Lazy hazy summers, Michael miles with his gong The moon was very far away and Lassie made you cry And good old doctor Finley wiped the tear drops from your eye. A pint down at the Rovers, Ena Sharples hair in nets And great big Sunday papers, Senior Service Cigarettes Corporal Jones the butcher and Mainwaring from the bank Being told by Esso put a tiger in your tank. Nannys smelt of Lifebuoy, Northern men all wore a hat And wagon wheels were really huge, I do remember that! Z cars catching villains, so much better than the bill And My Brother thought it funny, setting light to Tiger hill. The Queen we saw at Christmas to her anthem we would stand And four young men from Liverpool, had started up a band Our Henry was a champion, only snow and ice were cool And asked by Norman Wisdom not to laugh co’s he’s a fool A night out at the wimpy bar a burger made with meat And a knickerbocker glory or rum baba was a treat, Bunking in the pictures when an X or A was showing And people went to Putney watching sixteen fella’s rowing. Holidays, spent by the sea, arcades and jellied eels Competitions for young girls, in swim wear and high heels Slot machines and candy floss a fairground on the pier And Watneys made red barrel, pretending its a beer Ink and blotting paper, Mary Quant and mini skirts When mummy kissed it better, could not tell her it still hurts Roller skates to send your legs in opposite directions And Germoline was put upon all manner of infections Tea was made in teapots and a cosy kept it warm And fires roared in winter, and trees hid you from a storm On burns we put some butter, and dripping on our bread Ronnie Krays a nutter, and Elvis wasn’t dead In films the hero got the girl, Pam’s people made you stare Recordings made on vinyl and Elton had some hair, Roger Moore was called the saint and Ironside was hired Rolf Harris and his didgeridoo and Bernie’s bolt was fired Threepence got you on a bus conductors gave a ticket Twin towers were at Wembley and we were good at cricket Georgie best was famous for football birds and booze And skinheads wore Ben Sherman shirts and Blakeys on their shoes Comedians told funny jokes but none of them were crude And page threes Jilly Johnson was the first one in the nude Playing knock down ginger! On the people you don’t like The onion selling Frenchman on his travels with his bike Remember world cup Willy raspberry jam and Golly Wogs And Battersea was famous for the fun fair and its dogs Gay trip won the national, Ovett and Coe ran well Acting’s not essential at the new crossroads motel. Scrumping for some apples, and hop pickers flocked to Kent Carol singing children and a giant circus tent Abba had a hit song, they called it waterloo And loving little Skippy was a talking Kangaroo. Boots known as a chemist and Sainsbury was a shop And Kojaks head was just as bald, as his lolly pop Ted Heath was a sailor, Leo Sayer had big hair I wanna be like you hoo hoo, sang Baloo the Bear Holidays were taken as a day out here and there And the Spanish Costa I saw was the man that cut my hair! J F K was murdered, as he passed the grassy knoll And stuck upon my pencil was a long haired ugly troll We watched the four Marx Brothers, Eric Morcombe Ernie wise The Watergate conspiracy Richard Nixon and his lies Hoolah Hoops and Yoyos Swingball, and Pogo Sticks Pink shrimps, black jacks, and spangles, beats your pik n mix Television adverts telling housewives what to wear And young men buying Brylcream to rub it in their hair A white tornado cleaner and a pad to brighten pans With Mild green fairy liquid you could soften up your hands Homepride men had bowler hats, Kipling had his cakes Instant smash had aliens and girls were eating flakes women loved St Bruno Typhoo and Brookbond too But most of all we loved the man from Shhh you know who Try the ring of confidence and sparkle with MacLean’s Splash some Brut all over and only eat Heinz beans Joan Collins and old Rigsby, the Cinzarno ads were nice And some young man called Curry taught the world to skate on ice Lena Zavaroni Hughie Greens star of the day Sung “Ma he’s making eyes at me”, then God took her away Weather maps had cardboard clouds and cardboard weathermen And good old Reggie Bosenquet would slur the news at ten! Pot black, for the snooker, though the balls all looked the same Although their was no colour we watched it frame by frame The whispering commentator, the noiseless sitting crowd You could hear a pin drop, till someone coughed out loud Then wack, the balls were moving finding pockets to drop in Then came the hush and once again you listened for that pin. Dick Emery, and Benny Hill, Stan Ogden in his vest And Ernie the milkman was the fastest in the west Ronald Biggs in Rio more famous than his crime Seat belts made compulsory, so clunk click every time Tiptoe through the tulips was advice by Tiny Tim And ex M.P John Stonehouse thought I’ll pop out for a swim Hendrix, T-Rex, Elvis, and my Mum, said their goodbyes And Robert “pensions” Maxwell falls overboard and dies My Parents were the artists that molded life for me The care, our love, and friendship, were there for all to see This window on my childhood, is just a picture frame My past applied the colour, I just applied my name! Bill Currie.

With the recent plagiarism scandal here, the notes are filling up with concerns about copyright protection. While I am not a lawyer, I am a working writer who has had to deal with this issue for many years; I thought it might be helpful to make a few points. Copyright protection in the US is automatic when the work is created in "fixed" form. No filings are required. It is not necessary to publish a work in order to obtain copyright protection. If a manuscript sits in your desk drawer, the copyright is still yours. Works published in the US are automatically afforded US copyright protections. I suspect, though I haven't researched this, that a posting on a US-based website (such as Chess.com) counts for this purpose. A copyright notice (incorporating the (c) symbol and a date) is unnecessary. However, this is a relatively new development (from the early 1990s) and it hasn't settled into writers' collective consciousness yet. That said, having a (c) copyright notice on your work can help you in court, since a plagiarist can't claim that he had no knowledge there was a copyright in place. Copyright protection currently endures for the author's life plus 70 years. A copyright, which legally is a form of property, can be transferred (for example, if you sell an article to a magazine); but in general, this requires an agreement in writing. There is a great page at http://www.copyright.gov/circs/circ1.html which I urge all writers to read. And also be sure to keep your ear to the ground, because some issues are still somewhat fluid. For example, there was a major (from my perspective) Supreme Court case (New York Times Company v. Tasini, 2001) where a group of freelancers won a judgment against the NY Times for posting their works online without compensation. The Times argued that the original copyright transfer entitled them to republish the works however they wanted; the Court held that the original authors had not given up certain aspects of their copyrights. For me, this resulted in a lot of clients contacting me and giving me more money for work I'd done long ago. It was like freakin' Christmas. Anyway, don't freak out about copyrights too much...but then again, it can never hurt to protect the things that are important to you.

Something interesting: did you know that you can post your writing here and then delete WITH any critiques and threads that follow if you don't like what people say about your work? Pretty cool, huh? I can write Schlock, Drek, Absolute Crud and post with impunity! I can write a beautiful piece of well-crafted prose and if ONE person writes something I don't like about it in response: Never Fear! I can delete it and re-post it like nothing ever happened. Here's how I know that this works: I wrote a poem in response to someone else's poem instead of writing a normal response like, "Yeah, man, those rhymes are aawesome". I didn't write anything in the poem that could have been construed (even by the most sensitive poet) as being mean spirited. Yet, when I went back to see if anyone responded to my response, Golly! It was gone. So I re-wrote it. Again...it vanished! What magic is this!? I saw another poem here, and yikes! I really wanted to comment on the entire thing from content to sentiment. So, once again, I thought I'd try a bit of humorous rhyme to reflect on that piece of sh..ort poemetry. Lo! And Behold! Again it flashed into the Neitherworld faster than Dante' on a shit sled. Take care then what you read here. If someone doesn't like a comment on their precious piece, they can disappear it. Honesty is not protected. If you as a writer can't stomache a valid critique, do not ask for one. If you do not like critique, then you do not wish to be a better writer and your poems are just a kind of verbal masterbation...something the rest of us might not want to see and do not belong in a public forum. Aside from the fact of all the above, this particular word worker took my poems completely. They exist only in my memory (and the few who got to read them and send nice notes about them...cuz they wuz funny). So if you see a poem called "Falling Balls" or "My Lover lives in a Cave", they are my babies lost in the wood. If you see raves about some half-handed poetry, be suspicious. Poetic License and free speech are not the same. Only one is protected here. I will NOT engage in censorship so feel free to loose your critical cannons on anything I write. You can even be mean about it. If you can back up your words, if they are true, then I could care less the language you use. If you write your criticism in a poemic form, I'll dig it. Cap

Okay guys, I figure a "Favorite poem" thread would be good for this group, as it will give us a great way to introduce ourselves to the group through our taste.  Here's the format for posting a favorite poem: _________________________________________________________________________ Author:Name of poem: Poem goes here_________________________________________________________________________ Although it is best to respect the author's wishes by preserving original indentation, there are no available tools to justify one's text/post.  Please include the horizontal rule (the multiple underscores) with your post, for it will reduce the clutter of your thoughts; I hope everyone enjoys this thread! _________________________________________________________________________ Author: William BlakeName of poem: Poison Tree I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fearsNight and morning with my tears,And I sunned it with smilesAnd with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night,Till it bore an apple bright,And my foe beheld it shine,And he knew that it was mine,-- And into my garden stoleWhen the night had veiled the pole;In the morning, glad, I seeMy foe outstretched beneath the three. _________________________________________________________________________    

thoughts that scream for mercy with aspiration i see the bodies that proceed without prepared anticipation learn from the norm, wile the wise stay in contemplation raise so we can apply the force of meditation stand quietly alone in a crowded situation swing the sound of free speech thinking there no defense in site despite the collectively plots from behind the screen staring at might mind creativity from the consistent questioning and suspicion elevated sphere plugged in to experiencing awareness called intuition

Hiya folks... wanted to post a little poem I wrote a while ago for someone who's forum nickname was "Apple Queen"... twas an entirely different forum, and she wanted poetry for herself, so I deceided to indulge her. Anyway, this is how it goes: Apple Queen Wrought in name of the Heaven High,Godly fruit with its infernal lie,An apple fell from the tree.Carrying the seed of men's eternal strife,The end of time in paradise,As pure as Eve's hand.Never did the apple touch the sand.Bite it once or bite it twice,High shall be the price,"Knowledge is the abyss through which you pass"Sing the Angels in God's mass.Yet bite you shall and bite you must,The apple does not rot in the dust,Thus cast from God's backyard,Did Time, this time, start.The lawn is cold and the morning grey,Light flows differently in the lands you now stay,Gone but not forsaken is the dream,From God's knowledge only a gleam.Though lost in ages past,As nothing will ever last,Eve, Queen of Apple and Mother of all,Brought damnation and the fall.

On the way down after letting The caressing, gentle air brushes past me as I skip gleefully through the cemetery on my way home. It just seems much faster than walking and I pass the time singing Morrissey's "Cemetery Gates," coincidentally, to myself. Content and aware of the warmth of the sun and the birds racing between songs and trees; until I am pelted with rocks and branches! I drop to one knee whimpering on the way down after letting out a high pitched squeal. I hear the hiss of another branch slicing through the air like a sharp knife as it summersaults to my head! That one hurt as confirmed by another piercing squeal that sends the very birds I was admiring into a scatter like fireworks throughout the sky. The aching hum in my head is shadowed by a low, soft giggling; a contented distant roar echoes as the bullies cease fire and pleased with themselves, walk off into immediate reflection. Never mind that their clothing was not color coordinated and one of them had a half-tucked shirt with a stain. Like, helloooo... who taught them how to dress!? How can they not appreciate the efficiency of skipping along with song, nature and fresh air? What is it about peaceful behavior that brings out violence in others? I quickly resumed my skipping, more briskly and quite shaken as I retreated to the refuge of my room and half eaten quesadilla. It's really hard to get a good fast-food quesadilla these days.

The picture hangs on the wall. Pretty image Stark reminder Of personal remorse. Contradicting emotions Arise within, when At the picture I gaze pensively. The urge to visit The village portrayed Rushes over me It's too far. Not in miles but In time. Too far back. An impossible journey. You are still there In a handsome spot Hopefully at peace now. Finally. I must move onwards Learn from the past. Appreciate what is here. Whilst I can.

Hey Everyone I think the group needs some serious fun injected into it! No that our numbers are up I think its time we loooked into this Any ideas out there!? I think friendly poetry competitions with a different theme every 2 weeks might be an idea! Or short story competitions! And all the other kind of writing competitions Looking forward to reading some major enthusiasm Aoife (LOB)

I am so happy to be a part of this group. I have enjoyed everyone's work. Also I have a bunch of poems put up on my blog, so when you have time check them out. All forms of criticism is welcomed!

death upon the substance that consumes us with in lives therein to persuade our thoughts, relentless to win consuming our minds in every moment with sin the seconds slow down as moments ask questions do you see the right that wrongs it self preying on intentions providing the path paved with lies and stained ash atlas a worthy one stands steady allowing faith to crash a hard fall indeed, they meet on both sides of the lightning bolt opposites here now with mankind attending, pleading from up high to witness the inevitable halt

burning bodies, alive with devotion signs in the wind, asking with atrotion the sins of creation, pleading with sensation why do we fly with out guides for our eyes persisting to die with lies by our sides extremities pouring with relentlessness sighing with remorse, asking for forgiveness

Hi, I think this is ok, if there's anything wrong just tell me it very important I make it important. Gavin the Gazonapede Garden Olympics Today was looking to be perfect. The sun shone and everything was peaceful. Baby birds soared in the wonderful sky, darting in and out of the fluffy white clouds, and a colourful sunrise bloomed on the horizon. But down below, at the bottom of the garden, Bugsville was busily preparing for an important event: The Garden Olympics! “Hey, come back Billy!” Gavin the Gazonapede said scuttling after his mate. “Quick,” Billy called as he weaved in and out of some green leafy weeds in the back garden. “The garden Olympics are starting soon, we have to hurry,” he said stopping momentarily to breathe. “We better not be late,” Billy said. “Why?” Gavin said hurrying past Billy on his way to the magical wormhole. “Sara’s already there waiting for us!” Billy replied catching up to Gavin. A while later Gavin and Billy had reached the outskirts of the magical wormhole. It was the type of transport all the bugs of Bugsville used to get from the first half of the city also called the front garden to the second half of the city the back garden. Billy and Gavin walked into the hole and felt a swishing feeling of air as they were thrown out the other end of the wormhole. “Ahhh!” Garry said landing in a heap, his legs poking out in all directions. “Come on, we don’t have all day Billy, we need to get to the grandstand today not tomorrow,” Gavin said walking past Billy. Billy was exhausted. “Why is it so far away?” He groaned siting down for a while. Gavin hadn’t heard him; he had rushed on ahead eager to get there before it started. After a couple of minutes they reached the grandstand. It was loud there all you could hear were cheers of the other bugs supporting their favourite teams. “Hi Gavin and Billy, come up here we have great seats overlooking the stage,” Sara said taking them by the hand and leading them up the rose stem. The walk up the rose stem was slow some French bugs up the top were lost, but soon they were on there way again, they also had to watch out for sharp thorns. They hurt if you touched one. When they got there three fat bugs were sitting in their seats - they were aphids. Fat, lazy bugs that lived on the roses eating all day, they also smelt bad. “Hey!” Billy said angrily as three fat aphids occupied there seats. “Hey, guys can you please move, your in our seats!” he asked as nicely and politely as he could while also holding his nose, the fat aphids reeked of the smell of old, sweaty socks and unwashed clothes. “Why don’t you just buzz off and leave us alone fatty!” They replied lazily, finishing of their insect colas and burping in Billy’s face! “Move or I’ll call my friend the Eagle; He is a great friend of mine after we helped him a while back!” Billy threatened. “We’re not moving big boy!” The aphids said remaining seated. “Ok,” Billy said pulling out a golden whistle. Seeing that Billy wasn’t joking, they jumped up and raced out to the stadium. “Go and don’t come back!” Billy said slipping the golden whistle back in his pocket. Watching them go, Gavin and his friends started laughing. “That’s not the best way to make friends Billy!” Sara said still giggling, sitting down in her seat. “Well, he did ask nicely first.” Gavin explained sitting down himself down laughing. As the last slugs, snails and worms wiggled and slithered into the stadium an important bug stood up to speak. Dressed in a black suit he begun the ceremony. “Shh!” Sara said as silence came over the crowd in the rose grandstand. “They’re starting!” She said as a sales bug walked down the row selling refreshments. “Get your bug corn and your insect-cola only two rocks each!” it said passing Billy. “Cool, I love insect cola!” He said jumping up excitedly. “Hey mate three colas please!” He called trading six rocks for three cold colas. “Here you go,” Garry said pulling out six very shiny polished rocks out of his money pouch. The sales bug took the money and handed Garry three large-sized cups full of insect-cola, he passed one to Sara and Gavin before sitting back down and slurping down a large amount of the sweet tasting liquid. “Ladybugs and gentle ants, welcome to the third Garden Olympics, all the countries across the Bug World have sent their best bugs and insects to compete for Olympic glory and a garden medal!” “Now put your feelers and antennas together for the athletes. The commentator bug announced, as hundreds of bugs came out proudly. Instantly bugs from all over the world burst into an applause at the sight of them. “Now let’s start the events off with the insect soccer!” the commentator bug shouted loudly. “Brazil plays Australia!” “Cool, my favourite event straight away!” Gavin said drinking some insect-cola. “Australia kicks off, they take the lead with a neat cross and header, and it was a wonderful goal!” the bug in the suit said he was commentating, talking into his leaf microphone eagerly. “Australia leads only two minutes into the game. As Cahill the Soccer super bug scores a great goal!” Seconds later a large magpie swooped at the ground. “Yum, yum, time for dinner!” the hungry magpie said, soaring above the panicking bugs. “Watch out! Bird attack!” the commentator bug said as everyone ran in all directions scared, worms buried themselves into the ground, stick insects clung to leaves for camouflage and bees sped back to the safety of the hive. The bird however ignored all these bugs it went for only one - Cahill the Super soccer bug. It scooped him up and flew away. “We can’t let Cahill get eaten! Quick let’s follow.” Gavin said crawling quickly amongst the garden and the undergrowth. “Come on, Billy lets go.” Gavin said climbing up a fruit tree as the magpie neared. “Ready, set and jump!” Billy said as Gavin and Billy leapt onto the back of the passing magpie. “Hold on now!” Gavin said gripping to its white and black feathers. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” After what seemed to be hours of flying the bird landed in a brown nest up in an old gum tree. The bird dropped Cahill next to its eggs, and then it left to find more food for it’s young. “Now don’t leave or I’ll track you down!” “I don’t know about you Gavin, but I’m not going to be bird food!” Billy said letting go of the magpie as it flew off. “Let’s get Billy and go!” he said crawling toward the soccer bug. “Hi, we need to go before the bird comes back!” Billy told Cahill. “Ok, how?” Cahill asked, he had been very silent up until this point. A minute later all three started to climb down the tree and leave, they walked through the large forest, the sunlight filtering down through the trees made patterns on the leafy ground, leaves rustling as they made their way back through the forest the magpie had simply flown them over a while before. They were nearly back at the garden when they came out from the cover of the large gum trees, an angry magpie swooped quick and deadly. Its sharp beak narrowly missed Billy, instead its beak sunk into the ground. They crawled as fast as they could; they knew they would be safe as soon as they got into the rose bushes, the thorns preventing the dangerous bird from entering. They were nearly there. Furiously the bird launched at Billy again, this time hurting one of his legs. “Gotta ya!” the magpies said. “Ouch!” Billy had been wounded. “Gavin get you and Cahill to safety, don’t worry about me!” he said as the bird attacked again. Gavin got Cahill to safety but he wasn’t going to let his best friend get eaten by a stupid bird. “Hey bird!” Gavin said hitting the bird with a stone distracting the magpie away from Billy. The bird cornered Gavin and got ready for its dinner; it opened its black beak ready and attacked. Gavin’s life flashed before him. He never had told Cindy she was pretty or told Billy and Sara he loved them like a brother and sister. Was it the end of Gavin? Nearly, at the exact same moment the Eagle was flying overhead searching for food, it hadn’t been his lucky day, he hadn’t found anything yet. “My belly’s rumbling, got to find food soon!” he said flying overhead. It then noticed something – food and his friends were in trouble. “Yum, a tasty magpie,” He said. It came down from the sky lightning quick and ate the magpie hungrily, and then it launched back into the air and flew off. So relieved Gavin was safe, Billy rushed to his side. “I’m ok Billy! Your leg’s injured! Let’s get you home.” He said picking him up and walking home with Cahill by his side. “Hey Billy, you have got to cut down on how much you eat you weigh a ton! Garry and Gavin returned Cahill to the soccer game and watched as Australia back with its star striker beat Brazil 5:4. At the end of the game as Gavin, Billy and Sara were leaving for home when Cahill approached them. “Hi, just wanted to say thanks. Thank you for your bravery in saving me. I’m also sorry for your injured legs Billy. Anyway, I wanted to ask you why you saved me, why risk your life for a stranger?” Cahill asked. All of them answered together “It’s because nobody gets left behind!” Everything was well in Bugville that night apart from the eaten magpie, as night fell on the small little town and silvery white stars popped up into the sky. It was time to sleep; they knew a new exciting adventure awaited them when they woke up. By GoAdelaideUnited

in the middle of a hot and humid day , the sun is shinning on the burning ground that lay. it was usually scarce at this hour but not today. a man, an average man in height and build, was out for a run. with only a back pack and one bottle of water showing on the right side in a pouch. at first the people around him would point and stare at this man running with no regard for the heat in his way. all around him they started paying more and more attention to him. they where noticing the stamina that he possessed, he ran for about an hour now, circling the town over and over, the people where amazed,"he is brave, you think he is training for something?" still the water was untouched after all that time and he seemed full of energy, he would not slow down. the man kept it up for hours more and would not let up. the towns people grew worried, "he is pushing himself to much, we should help." now six hours and twenty three minutes went by and every one was gathering around the area to witness his bravery shown in his unshakable persistence. the sun now was at it's peak and the people too. still not reaching for his water he kept on " we should do something he will get dehydrated." " no can't you see, he has water prepared for that." no one in the town would speak to him and he did not speak with them. "oh my god, he has fallen." they all rushed towards him in worry. "is he all rite." when they checked on him, they saw that he was dead. they all stood in silence, confused at his stupidity. he had water and did not sip. he ran for hours and did not rest. he withstood the heat until he was dead. no one knew the reason for his actions. but i did. he was mentally ill, and his way of escaping from that illness was to commit suicide while every one watched, he planed for his death and anticipated the peoples' reaction. he killed him self and let every one watch.