Rat Race (the last two lines are in homage to bukowski) I love the weekdays whilst you're all in work. I can take a light stroll through empty parks; I can sit by the sea unhindered by crowds and cries and empty faces But on the weekends I hide away, whilst you all jostle for a drink; for a seat on a train; for a place in traffic; in a hurry and so desperate to squeeze it all in On your deathbeds You'll remember Each day of drudgery You will curse The work and the worry The people you married The days in the sun Lost to your payslips And the money Left Behind There will be a small Obituary In the free papers Next to the ads For old wedding dresses, exercise bikes, desks, and the lonely hearts. You "worked hard" it will say. And at your funeral For a moment There will be The most beautiful Silence.

Plagiarising Sorry to have to tell you all this but the #2 ranked member, eatonlynch, is plagiarising other writers stories and taking credit for them on here.

WIP 2 In #life In everything I do I stumble through the muddier fields without plan or foresight I gamble not money but hope and stretch it out as far as it can reach into the distance until it snaps like a mousetrap sudden and painful and it breaks my heart it worries me to think of those who love me worrying wondering of the next relapse or a phone call or a note on the kitchen table my blue face staring back in cold blood

Last Flight Of The English Dragon Swooping low over dales Blue blood dripping from his teeth wounded and alone His only sanctuary now gone His species defeated He looks for a place to die and falls into the sea Whilst on the cliffs they cheer his demise

Work In Progress I wake up on the floor on my back. Something is digging into me so I fumble about and find an envelope, half hanging out my pocket. Billy is sat on his bed, rolly in hand, still half asleep, bleary eyed and looking at me as if for the first time, and starts rubbing his eyes and face. 'ugh my head.. Billy, what's this?' 'dunno man, open it, have a look. Can't remember any fuckin thing from last night me' I tear at the envelope clumsily but try not to damage the contents. It's... 'it's moolah, cash, full of fuckin money, bill!' 'eh?! Where the fuck has that come from?!' 'hmm.. where were we last night?' 'fuck knows mate... Eh, thats mad, did you have that with ya?' 'nah, why'd I carry a wedge around, would have spent it. Giz ya baccy , need a smoke to try and remember' I start counting out the notes. Billy is leaning over, relighting his rolly and we're exchanging puzzled glances. 'ere y'are, I'll make one for ya while ya count it' 'cheers man' I count it out on the floor, head hurting, hands shaking and starting to sweat. I have a flashback and check my pockets. There it is, a couple of bags of chester's finest brown. Buzzin. I can see Billy's eyes light up from their bleary state. 'got any foil, bill?' 'ye, hang on I'll go fetch it. Check me ma's not down there. Can I pinch a toot?' 'sound. Course man' I carry on counting whilst he half hobbles, half crawls out the room. A cloud of smoke follows him out into the hall, like that old tv show: stars in your eyes. I've a fair few stars in mine at the moment. I pile the notes into hundreds, becoming both excited and nervous at the sight of them. Where the fuck did all this come from?.. It's usual to wake up with a few lighters in your pocket, borrowed during the night, and occasionally someone's phone, but even for the messiest of nights, procuring a wad of notes in a sealed envelope is a tad puzzling. A spattering of memories usually start to flicker back into my head once the hangover starts to clear though, so for now I'll count the cash and wait.