For me, words, poems, letters and stories have always been ways to escape, to lose yourself in another world that somehow transports you to a fantasy life, away from whatever you’re facing. Whatever you’re going through and into a safe haven of bright, beautiful colour. An escape from reality if you will. A chance to have fun, read write and most importantly, live happy.


Golden Dreams – Shakespeare’s Queen Mab



I watched from my window last night, in the dead of night I saw her.  Queen Mab, the queen of dreams. She was riding a horse, As black as the night. Its reigns are silver threads of spider spun silk, like moonbeams, hung out to dry. The buckles are mother of pearl, taken from the sea shells of the Mariana trench. On her head sat a tightly woven crown of the daintiest pink and purple flowers.  In her hand, she holds a golden whip made from a thousand golden threads. I watched as she rode her black horse through the fog-covered city.  She cracked her whip and her dark steed sped forwards, it’s hooves burned bright trails in the cold night sky. It’s flaring nostrils breathed cold clouds into the London atmosphere. As she rode, she reached forward and cracked her whip once more, it arched into the air like a golden beacon. As it rose, it extended, upwards like a dove, spiralling up to the stars. I watched as the whip’s chains split and reared up like a snake. Each one shot forwards, speeding towards each of the windows where a child was sleeping. Suddenly each strand burst into life with a thousand streaming images. A separate consciousness alive in each one. A thousand intertwining connecting dreams. All tiny parts of a single, all-encompassing, soon to be erased  legend. The beautiful connections hung for a second, then tumbled away to the floor, where they vanished, into the dust.

~So I know this one is a bit weird and a tad childish in the manner of writing but it is meant to be. It’s a take on Shakespeare’s monologue by Mercutio about Queen Mab~ Please check out some of my other pieces and share on Facebook and Instagram~ 

-Thanks, W.B-

The Evils of Love


Have you ever seen a leopard run? Have you seen each muscle, every fibre work in conjunction perfectly? The ultimate combination of nature and power. That is what perfection is, the beauty of the aesthetic.

That’s how I was, smooth, efficient. Deadly, practised, almost like a wisp of smoke or a breath of air. I had many names, L’Ange de Mort, The Great Obsession and of course, Beautiful Torture. I was essentially a con-man, a schemer. But I wasn’t the brash, obvious broken-car salesman or even the “It’s a fool-proof scheme” kind of man. No, I was the con-man that didn’t go for money, I didn’t give a damn about gold and silver or the jewels of normal people. No, I made people’s hearts my objectives. You see, I was the furtive glance across the crowded room, the warm breath on the back of your neck, the feeling of someone else’s hand in yours.

And you know what? I was good at what I did, real good. I never lost a mark and I never, ever missed my target. You all know me of course, if you haven’t met me yet, you will soon and you will hate yourself for it. My con was the long con, and the short one too. It was belief at first sight and the burn that starts as an ember then builds to a fire.

Some people talk of me as if I am a torture, they speak loudly, to crowded, jeering rooms. Some talk of me as a deity, a drug or even a necessity, they talk in the hushed secrecy of a dark corner, or in their partner’s ear. But I am none of these things, I am the scars on each person’s heart, beautifully drawn by the softest of hands in the most gentle of ways. I dance at the centre of humanity’s very existence, I am the flame that has existed since the very beginning of time, but now I fade. I remember the old times, times of passion, of commitment, times when everyone had their own private story of love. Those were the days when man was in my thrall, I was worshipped as a God and condemned as the devil. Which am I? You will have to decide for yourself, maybe I am both, maybe neither. That must depend on  you. 

Tortured Minds

I woke up in a dark, mouldy walled room, above me the ceiling stretched into an inky black oblivion. A chink of light shone into the dingy room,  casting a beam of light on the wall. Then came the creek of a trap door and the click-clack of someone descending the stairs.

“Ah, you’re awake then Jonny, may I call you Jonny?” The voice was deep and harsh. Raspy, as if he smoked. Don’t you recognise me Jonny? Don’t you remember my name?” He growled, thrusting his face in front of mine. His breath smelled like rotting meat, putrid almost. But it was his face that truly petrified me, scarred and covered in lacerations with his skin hanging off of his face he looked like a thing of nightmares. “How about my face? Do you recognise me Jonny?” he whispered, almost in my ear.

“How? How are you alive? I saw you die. I watched you burn” I whispered back

“Ah, so you do recognise me.” He smiled, for a second his tongue shot across his mouth and he looked almost demon like in the flickering light. “Yes, you did watch me burn, but life clung to me, clung to my bones. I pulled myself out of the wreckage and I’ve been hunting, planning. Waiting, for you. You’re the last one left, apart from Tess,” For a second a shadow of doubt passed over his face, but in a second, it was gone. “But don’t worry, Ill get her too! So, now here we are!” He trilled ” My family can’t even look at me! I have nothing left, nothing to live for and you know who’s fault that is? Yours Jonny! Your fault. Maybe I should thank you, because now, I don’t give a damn.” He giggled to himself,his face half turned, the light casting an odd shadow on him. “You see Jonny when you have nothing to live for, nothing left in your life, it doesn’t matter if you die. So, I wonder how long you can last before you go crazy, huh?”

Beautiful Flames

I had a dream once, A dream I felt I already knew, like the old strains of a song heard years ago at the mother’s knee. I dreamt of a lit candle in the centre of a darkness, nothing else, just a tiny flickering light in the inky, all surrounding darkness. Now, watch. Watch as the fire flickers, and dances. Spinning and twirling in the all-consuming dark.  Watch how it shines throughout the darkness and lights it up.


Keep watching and don’t forget:


Watch as the fire begins to burn brighter, it begins to grow, slowly at first, then faster and faster until soon it becomes a burning fire, the size of a house. It grows larger still, till it is a fire storm, forming a whirlpool, its tendrils stretch out, flicking through the darkness. The fire is now a burning maelstrom, burning bright all around. It envelops the dark.  It roars all around swirling, round and round and round. Then in the middle it starts to clear. A circle appears in the centre of the flames, a few spirals of flame form in the middle and slowly build, gradually forming a bird, its whole body a single glowing flame. It flapped it’s powerful wings and shoots skywards, arching its back and soaring upwards, it screeches, as the last echoes of its screams echo die away, the ground shakes and transforms, as I watch, seas explode from nowhere, the sky changes colour, mountains rise, the earth racks and deserts form, vast forests and jungles form. All manner of trees and foliage sprout around me. The flaming bird rises, shooting skywards, faster and faster it rises until it is nothing but a speck above but its light still shines bright upon the earth. The fire itself withdraws, shooting backwards until it has returned to its original form, nought but a speck of light, a mere pinprick. And then even that fades, the only sign of the cleansing fire is the glowing orb resting in the sky, heating the earth, the last remnants of the fire bird.

Sleepy Town

It was nicknamed the Sleepy town, just another town in the middle of nowhere. A thin winding dirt track, one shop and in the centre of the town square, an old abandoned church. A couple of houses along the road, it’s not named, the road. It doesn’t need one there’s only one road after all. The sleepy town, the town that no-one leaves where nothing happens. Then it all changed. He came. He came driving down the road in his old, broken down, rusted Beetle, leaving a dust cloud that could be seen from a mile away. He didn’t realize he would never leave I guess. No-one ever leaves. The whole town came out to watch, lifeless faces surrounded the car, like vultures picking over a Serengeti carcass. The driver opened his door and tumbled out. His shirt was full of holes and covered in dust and blood, his gaunt faced looked up to the villagers. His eyes pleading with them, his arm half stretched out to one of them.

“Help me, please help me, I need help.”

The villagers just looked at him, a crowd of blank faces, they turned and drifted away, not one single person helped him to his feet. They left him, bleeding out. His life blood slowly draining into the desert sands, staining it red, the red of the desert sun. Slowly, he crawled, inch by inch up the church steps. There he lay until the life drained out of him, no one moved him, and he just lay there, the stairs coated in his blood. He lay there, as if sleeping.  For two weeks he lay there, till one day he vanished. In his place lay a revolver in a holster. In it, a single bullet and on that bullet were inscribed the words “Shoot me you did not, but kill me you did” I will never forget that church, or the body that lay there waiting. Waiting for a saviour.  I have heard of people going back, back down the desert road, they tell no tales of a village, no church, no shop and no houses. They talk of a single set of stairs and a pair of old, wooden doors and on those steps, a gun with the words, “I had my Revenge” on the grip. And all around it, the desert sands are stained red for miles around, the only red sand in the whole desert. They don’t know the story of course.  Sometimes, I think I dreamt that village, but I know I didn’t dream those steps and that church. After all, I died there and I am waiting. I had my Revenge.