Corporate Londoner by day and a devourer of historic fiction by night, I channel my passion for the past into writing creative narratives from the unique perspectives of history's overlooked characters.
Corporate Londoner by day and a devourer of historic fiction by night, I channel my passion for the past into writing creative narratives from the unique perspectives of history's overlooked characters.
In shadowed halls, I hid unseen,
By a cracked door where fate convened.
A simple maid, yet ears betray
A whispered plot that breeds dismay.
Words of rebellion, bitter, stark,
Carve into night their dreadful mark.
Nobles conspire with cold intent,
On a throne’s future, cruelly bent.
Roses red and white, symbols of divide,
In their names, kinship set aside.
A land to be torn by ambition's thorn,
A...
In the attic's suffocating embrace, her presence was a phantom's caress – ethereal, yet achingly real. Her eyes, shrouded in twilight's sorrow, pierced the gloom.
"You shouldn't be here," she breathed, a melody of despair.
"I'm drawn to you, like a moth to a dying flame," I confessed, my voice a fragile thread in the oppressive silence. This attic, our secret refuge, now felt like a tomb of memo...
In the Glimmerwood's enchanted gloom, where ancient trees murmured of ageless mysteries, Amara, in her dress of softest blush, approached the spectral sentinel known in hushed tales as the Mourning Maiden. This wraith, swathed in mourning's eternal cloak, was the keeper of the veiled threshold between the here and there.
"Child of the mortal realm," the Maiden's voice enveloped Amara like the mor...
As I staggered through the rusted gate, the air was like a blade, slicing through the remnants of my composure. The path, a tortuous route through an overgrown nightmare, seemed to feed on my despair, each thorn a sharp reminder of my jagged thoughts.
The garden, once a haven, now mirrored the desolation in my soul, a place where hope had withered into sorrow. My heart pounded, not in rhythm, but...
Something within me is changing. My skin feels tight, stretched over an unfamiliar frame. I find scratches on my arms at dawn, but no blood flows. The pain is dull and distant as if my body has forgotten its human frailty.
I feel it most when the moon is high – a pull, a yearning in my veins, urging me to delve deeper into the labyrinth of ancient trees. I resist, yet each night, I wake closer to...
In the heart of a city gripped by chaos, there exists a figure known only as The Catalyst. They move through the streets like a shadow, their presence as molten and unpredictable as the lava from a restless volcano.
The Catalyst is not just a person; they are the embodiment of the city's fury, a living, breathing crisis that refuses to be quelled. With eyes that burn with a fire untamed and a mi...
The world snapped into focus with a jolt, and suddenly, I was not in my bed but standing on a stage, a sea of eager faces before me. A thunderous applause shook the hall, and I realised with a mix of horror and absurdity that I was the epicentre of this intellectual earthquake. I, who mistook Nietzsche for a type of cheese, was the revered German philosopher about to dispense wisdom on the meaning...
I had never seen love. I had lived it, breathed it in the very fabric of our secluded estate, hidden away in the French countryside. I had heard its whispers in my mother's lilt, a Southern drawl that could soften even my father's stiffest English reserve. But I had not seen it, not until the day I found the letters, nestled behind a loose brick in the garden wall, their edges nibbled by time.
Th...
In the fragile dawn, I wake,
To the call of looming thread,
A craft pursued to elevate,
My humble, lowly stead.
The loom stands tall, a daunting frame,
Its wooden bones, they mock,
Each thread a path to nobler name,
A door with gilded lock.
But as I weave the earnest strands,
My hopes they intertwine,
With fears of clumsy, fumbling hands,
That tangle, knot the line.
The weave is tight, a cruel ...
In Forbidden walls,
A princess weaves her dreams, lost,
Garden of silence.
Loyal servants stand by, still,
Her heart whispers to the moon.
Moon whispers return,
Tales of distant lands and love,
Her loyal heart yearns.
In the palace, she stays true,
Her spirit like the steadfast bamboo.
Bamboo in the wind,
Stands resilient and loyal,
So does her heart wait.
For love that is true and bold,
In the ...