I pinned him down for what must have been minutes. He slowly drowned, his legs jerking frantically. His movements slowed, then he grew still. I dried myself off, got dressed, and left.

Whether it was a trauma response, or just distraction, I forgot all about him until the next day. Stepping back into the bathroom, I was jolted by his slightly shrivelled form still lying where he’d died.

I disposed of his body quickly, not wanting to think about it anymore.

Now, I always check the shower for spiders before I get in.

Micro-fiction is an extremely concise form of storytelling, typically defined as a complete narrative told in 300 words or fewer, often focusing on a single moment, character, or image to imply a deeper story.

I lie here wrapped up like a mummy in the sheets. 
But some tomb raider came and snatched away my sleep
And I’m basking in the glow of my phone, deep
In my latest spiral; pillow between my knees. 

But a mummy wouldn’t wrestle with the bedclothes. 
Browser tabs at 4 a.m.: Visit Moscow,
Bicycle repair tips, mummies, pharaohs.  
I heard they took their brains out through their nose. 

I’d love to take mine out and set it on a stand
Beside the bed to get some sleep, as planned,
Instead of staring at this pane of glass in my hand.

Spring is growing in mother nature’s womb;
Snowdrops try to gain a tentative hold
Along the path in the woods where I stroll —
The changing season’s early, timid blooms.

The feast of the returning of the light,
The age-old signal for the start of spring.
As the day resists the fall of the night
A little longer now, we note the swing.

We’ll light the fires as our forebears once did
And drink to our ancient goddess, Brigid.

When the ennui of a dull weekend
expands within me like hot,
burning gas and I feel like the
craving might burst out of my chest,
I close my eyes and think about
all the times I wished for less.

Sometimes, when I think I will never
be satisfied at all, I just close my eyes
and search for equilibrium in the dark.

A train rumbles across the bridge
above my head, shaking my bones.
I pretend not to notice and turn the page of my book.

The yellow tented canvas roof flaps
from rusted beams and makes me shiver
in this little kiosk, where I like to take my time.

Time that I don’t have right now but spend
here among the concrete and wildflowers anyway.

Refusing to be put asunder, the eastern bank of much import
Is sutured back with iron stitches; two queens and a consort.
Rising from the chalice of the Squire, the Farset’s course
Wends wistfully beneath our feet, forgotten life-blood source.

And where these veins converge to flow as one into the sea,
Your harbour opens up its lungs to breathe in life from dock and quay.

It’s not the aching heart that beats like techno in my chest.
It isn’t how chance brought us close then sent us off on our own quests.
It isn’t the songs I’ve taken off my playlist for a while.
Nor the thousand little things that echo you and make me smile.

It isn’t clubbing until dawn and walking home at nine.
Nor is it when we stayed up all night talking, drinking wine.
It’s not the singing karaoke on a weeknight in Berlin.
It isn’t even all the times we made big plans and then stayed in.

It is the mark you left on me and how you changed my point of view.
It is, my friend, I hope you know, how parts of me are shaped by you.
It is the way I’m different now because of what you’ve done.
It’s even who I’m going to be, if I ever finally find “the one”.

It’s never ever wasted time, there’s not one second I regret.
It’s worth every painful broken heart, every goodbye, every fret.
Because if it made us smile, in just one tiny little way,
I’ll take a path that crossed yours for just a moment any day.

Today I am made of vegetable skins,
Of potato peel and orange rind.
I’m made of the clippings of my neighbour’s hedges,
Of rotted teabags and coffee grinds.

Last year I was probably made of water,
From the river, the sea and the pool.
I was probably made of dishwater, and bathwater,
Very likely in my case, toilet water too.

It’s possible that I am made of things
That previously made up you.
In all probability we’re all made up of
Things that were once beautiful or repulsive too.

Every part of me is new, carbon atoms
That were once elsewhere employed.
Today every cell in my body is made
From something someone else once enjoyed.

Today I am made of vegetable skins,
I hope it’s impossible for you to tell.
Some days I feel I’m made of more disgusting things
And on those days I feel very, very unwell.

You appeared on the dance floor in front of me as if I had conjured you, atom by atom from the fantasy of a love I described to a stranger not minutes before.

You caught my eye and returned my gaze and smiled at me in a way I’ll never forget, in a way that lit me up as I moved awkwardly, soberly on that rainbow stage.

Before I knew it you were dancing next to me as we swam there in the sea of glorious, sweaty bodies and the heady scent of pride in this town just weeks old to your gaze and my adoptive home.

Both of us were sober, but in minutes we were drunk on each other, it was physical for sure but there was chemistry at work here too and very soon we left the din behind eager to explore each other, alone.

I think I remember the exact moment I fell in love as we walked beneath the inky black sky beside the rippling River Lagan and you sang to me a question “do you know where I can see the starry, starry night?”

On fashion; you could stand to pay some more attention. You could pick out your clothes with just a little more intention.

On finance; you could losen up the purse strings. You could sometimes choose the better, not the cheaper when you buy things.

On entertaining; here I think you need some work. You could be just a tiny bit more hospitable to guests, it’s just a quirk.

On friendships; it wouldn’t hurt to have a little more. Some people you can turn to when you’re in a bind, alone, or just a little bored.

On hobbies; well this isn’t really you. I think sometimes a little more interest, some distraction would improve your mood.

On love; no notes.

Today I fell in love with a boy.
I’ve known him a long time but today
I finally saw him in a way I’d never noticed.

Today I fell in love with a boy.
He’s kind to everyone and sometimes
That gets him hurt, but he’s even kinder then.

Today I fell in love with a boy.
I see his flaws, in fact they used to be
All that I would see when I saw the boy.

Today I fell in love with a boy.
He put me through hell, and he was mean
To me the whole time I have known him but;

Today I fell in love with a boy,
Because that boy has grown and changed
And become what he always should have been.

Today I fell in love with a boy,
And he lives inside of me. This man that
I’ve become today is just a boy who is finally me.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
Valentine’s Day is a farce. 
Ask anyone single, they’ll tell you the same,
It’s nothing but a pain in the arse. 

For anyone coupled, it’s not much better,
The pressure is on you my friend. 
Be romantic, on command, on schedule,
Buy gifts, and, dammit make sure they’re on trend!

Heaven forbid, you’re not in the mood,
Or it’s not a good time of the month. 
Today is the day, you must go out for food,
And go home afterward and make love. 

So if you’re single on Valentine’s Day,
And you feel like you’re not quite enough. 
Spare a thought for your friends who have to 
Pretend to the world that they’re madly in love. 

Roses are red, violets are blue,
And today I want you to hear
That love is available, and romance is there,
On all the other days of the year. 

But it’s not what you think, 
It’s not chocolates and cards,
It’s not plushies and steak and bad sex. 
Love is your warmth, your presence and care,
Your weakness and courage and strength. 

Roses are red, violets are blue,
This day of the year is a bore. 
So don’t get upset, don’t go breaking your heart,
You’ve got at least another 364.