A Bug’s Death

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Standing, staring into the cold, white interior of the bath.
A crane fly is caught in the trickle of the tap, helpless.
One wing lifeless, the other madly flapping to no avail.
For a split second I can see through the insects eyes.
With enough conviction in my own existence to fight.
It’s wing begins to flutter faster, ever faster, ever…
BANG! I bring my hand down, all struggle ends.
I shed tears for the life, no longer in pain.
All that is left is a bloody mess on the cold white surface.
I turn the taps on full watching the remains wash away. If I were not there, it would have died.
I would not have known, and through not knowing
would not have cared, would not have cried
after all It’s just a bug.
Bugs die all the time.



Photograph by Tanguy Sauvin



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Lucas Howard

When I was seven I started copying poems out of a book and telling people they were mine. When I ran out of good ones to copy, I had to start writing my own. I have been performing and organising nights on the UK spoken word scene now for over seven years and am most of the way through writing the first draft of my first novel 'Zedlist', which is serialised on here. As the story is in fetal form, any critiques or suggestions are most welcome.

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