Tag: world building

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The Adventures of Henley Marcus-Walker

On the twelfth night,
When crimson lamplight
Burned quietly
Against the rain,
And Selwyn Lane
Remembered
What daylight always forgot,
A familiar figure
Came stumbling
Out of the mist.

Not quietly.
Never quietly.
His stained safari trench coat
Hung from narrow shoulders
Like a weather-beaten tent.

A battered pith helmet
Sat defiantly
Upon a head
That had spent
Far too many years
Arguing with jungles.

Whether trousers
Lay beneath the coat,
No soul
Could honestly say.

Only long beige socks,
Mud-caked gaiters,
And great brown hiking boots
Introduced themselves
To the cobblestones.

Across his chest
Hung a worn leather satchel,
Heavy with impossible things.

A feathered serpent
No larger than a sparrow.
A taxidermied rodent
Bearing six glass eyes.
A butterfly
With transparent wings
That refused
To collect dust.

His silver hip flask
Appeared
Every few minutes.
Its curious contents
Smelled faintly
Of formaldehyde,
Mentholated spirits,
And regrettable decisions.

He swallowed deeply.
Smiled.
Then announced
To nobody in particular,

“They’re close tonight.”
“WHAT?”

The shout echoed
Along Selwyn Lane,
Disturbing only rainwater.

Daniel Hargraves,
Watching from his velvet alcove,
Did not flinch.

He simply inclined his head.

“Good evening,
Mr Marcus-Walker.”

The old explorer
Studied him suspiciously.

“You’ve not seen
The Moustached Guenons,
Have you?”

A pause.

“They’ve become
Exceptionally organised.”

Another pause.

“They’ve formed committees.”

Hargraves merely opened
The heavy black door.

“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”

Marcus-Walker
Saluted gravely.
Then leaned close.

“There are alligators
Beneath your floorboards.”

“There are not.”
Hargraves dryly responded

“They’re extraordinarily patient.”
Henley snapped back,

“They are also imaginary.”
The bemused doorman responded

“So are taxes.”
“WHAT?”
He shouted as he wandered inside.

The library welcomed him
As it always had.
Books changed hands.
Secrets travelled softly.
Collectors gathered
Around velvet tables,
Examining impossible curiosities
By candlelight.

Marcus-Walker
Produced his latest treasure.

“A melancholy mongoose
Discovered
Near the upper Congo.
Notice
The expression.”

The assembled members
Examined it
With scholarly seriousness.

One offered
A first edition.

Another,
An ivory sextant.

A third,
A bottle
Containing rainwater
Collected
During an eclipse.

The bargain
Was concluded
With solemn nods.

“WHAT?”
Marcus-Walker shouted suddenly.

Nobody reacted.
Everyone had grown accustomed
To the interruption,
Like an old clock
Striking
At entirely the wrong hour.

From somewhere nearby
Came the unmistakable sound
Of an entirely deliberate
Explosion of flatulence.

Marcus-Walker
Turned furiously
Towards an empty chair.

“There!”
He cried.

“I warned you!
The Guenons
Have followed me again.”

Several members
Looked politely
At the vacant seat.

One even frowned,
As though
The invisible monkeys
Had committed
A genuine breach
Of etiquette.

Edgar Brillows
Placed a fresh glass
Before the old traveller.

“I trust
Your treehouse
Remains secure?”

Marcus-Walker nodded gravely.

“Twenty-six feet above ground.”

“The alligators?”
the barman offered

“Ah ha! powerless.”
Henley replied,

“And the Guenons?”
Brillows continued,

“They’ve mastered the bloody ladders.”

Brillows
Considered this carefully.
“Disturbing.”

“Profoundly.”
Marcus-Walker laughed.

Not a chuckle.
Not a smile.
But a roaring,
Wild,
Untamed eruption
That rolled through Nocturna
Like jungle thunder,
Leaving every candle
Momentarily uncertain
Whether to continue burning.

Hours drifted by.
Stories were traded.
Impossible maps unfolded.
Curious specimens
Changed custodians.

The night,
As always,
Passed unnoticed.

Then,
Without warning,
Marcus-Walker
Spotted
An elegant figure
Crossing the foyer.

Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Impeccably dressed
In black.

“My dear lady!”
He declared,
Removing his pith helmet.

“Might I interest you
In supper
At my treehouse,
Followed by…breakfast?”

The room
Became
Exceptionally quiet.

Daniel Hargraves
Slowly turned.
Marcus-Walker
Peered more closely.

“WHAT?”
A silence.

Then another.
“My profound apologies.”

Hargraves sighed,
The sigh
Of a man
Repeating
A familiar ritual.

Once again,
He escorted
The distinguished explorer
Towards the entrance,
One enormous hand
Resting gently
Upon his shoulder.

Marcus-Walker
Accepted his fate
With surprising dignity.

“Those damn Guenons
Set me up.”

“I’ve no doubt.”
Hargraves smiled

“They’re awfully vindictive creatures.”
Marcus-Walker was
becoming disorientated,

“So I’ve heard sir.”
Hargrave replied politely.

Outside,
The rain
Had begun again.

The crimson lamp
Burned steadily,
Watching the old eccentric
Disappear
Into the sleeping city,
Laughing wildly,
Arguing
With invisible monkeys,
Pausing
Every hundred yards
To shout,
With absolute conviction,

“WHAT?”

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The Mystery of Draker and Ververs

The two older gentlemen sat together,
Clad in velvet smoking jackets,
Their pipes sketching wild flourishes
Through the candlelit air
As though conducting
An invisible orchestra.

No subject was ever considered too peculiar.
The phases of forgotten moons.
The etiquette of ghosts.
Perfumes bottled from thunderstorms.
The proper attire for melancholic ravens.
Dreams that refused to belong
To the dreamer who dreamt them.

Outside,
Moonlight silvered the garden.
Inside,
Candles painted warm gold
Across polished timber,
Crystal and brass.

A great, black-framed bay window,
Overlooking Nocturna’s private exotic garden,
Had long ago become
The exclusive preserve
Of Mr Draker and Mr Ververs.

Once each month,
Without fail,
They occupied these armchairs
For the entire evening.

They would speak for hours,
Their conversations wandering
Like old forest paths,
Interrupted only by bursts
Of irrepressible laughter.

Whenever their teacups emptied,
They summoned Mr Rook,
Who appeared with quiet precision,
Bearing fragrant teas,
Fine spirits,
Or whatever curious refreshment
The evening happened to require.

Seamus Draker wore colour
With unapologetic enthusiasm.

His dark hair was cropped short,
His blue velvet smoking jacket immaculate,
His slippers embroidered
With his own monogram,
His white shirt crowned
By a paisley blue cravat.

His eyes possessed
The rare gift
Of smiling before
His mouth ever did.

Dante Ververs
Was fashioned from darker cloth.

Black from collar to cuff,
Broken only by
A discreet grey polka-dot pattern
Upon his collar.

Brow rimmed spectacles sat,
Above his curled silver moustache
And neatly pointed chin beard
Which rarely remained still,
For laughter constantly persuaded it
Into motion.

Throughout the evening,
Mr Draker would occasionally
Drop a tiny morsel
Onto a small silver plate
Resting beside his chair.

Moments later,
A black nose
Would emerge cautiously
From beneath the heavy tablecloth.

A morsel vanished.

Then so too
Did its mysterious recipient.

No member of Nocturna
Could confidently say
What breed
The tiny brown dog belonged to.

Nor did anyone know
Its proper name.
Mr Draker addressed the little creature
Only with “bella dolce”.

As with many things
Within Nocturna,
No one thought it wise
To ask why.

This evening’s discussion
Concerned an exceedingly delicate matter.

Whether abandoned umbrellas,
Left to weather beneath cemetery trees,
Eventually forgot
The names of the people
Who had once carried them.

Mr Draker maintained
That every umbrella retained
The final conversation
It had overheard before being abandoned,
And that, during sufficiently heavy rain,
One might still hear whispers
Escaping between their ribs.

Mr Ververs disagreed entirely.
He insisted
That forgotten umbrellas
Did not remember voices at all,
But instead became
Custodians of misplaced coincidences.

Lose one beside a grave,
He argued,
And somewhere else in the world
A stranger would suddenly remember
A birthday
That had never truly happened.

The debate continued
With extraordinary seriousness.
Notes were taken.
Diagrams were sketched
in pocketbooks.

Three impossible theories
Were proposed,
One carefully withdrawn,
And another unanimously condemned
As being
“Entirely too sensible.”

At last,
The candles had shortened,
The pipes had cooled,
And the garden beyond the glass
Had surrendered itself
To the final hours before dawn.

The two old gentlemen rose together,
Smiled warmly,
And embraced
With the familiarity
Of cousins
Who had shared
A lifetime of impossible conversations.

Their hats were collected.
Their coats buttoned.

Outside,
Two polished black carriages
Waited patiently
At the kerb.

Mr Draker climbed into one.
Mr Ververs into the other.

With a final exchange
Of cheerful waves
And promises
To continue the argument
Next month,

The carriages departed,
Rolling into the sleeping city,
Each disappearing
In opposite directions,

Leaving only the fading sound
Of horses upon wet cobblestones,
And one unanswered question,

Had the umbrellas
Been listening all along?

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The Valley of Ashes Book

I’m delighted to share that The Valley of Ashes is finally complete.

I’m currently waiting on the production proof before announcing its official release, but I’m looking forward to making it available very soon for anyone who may be interested.

Working on two books throughout 2026 while continuing to explore other creative projects has been both exciting and incredibly rewarding, although it has certainly kept me busy. Completing The Valley of Ashes also brings closure to a creative journey that began back in 2020.

The project was born during the pandemic lockdowns, a time of deep introspection and reflection. What first emerged as a series of digital artworks, later inspired an ambient music album, and has now reached its final form as a book of long-form narrative poetry. Seeing the entire journey come full circle has been immensely satisfying.

I hope you’ll enjoy spending time in the Valley. Alongside the poetry, the book features a collection of antique-inspired illustrations that help bring its world to life, and I’m eagerly awaiting the chance to hold the finished copy in my hands.

As always, for those who regularly visit my website, much of the book’s content can already be explored on the Valley of Ashes world-building page.

Finally, thank you to everyone who has followed this journey over the years, whether through my former social media platforms or here on my website. This has been a deeply personal project, and your encouragement, kind words, and continued support have meant more to me than I can express.

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Debut of the Pike Sisters

“Your tea, sir.”

The waiter announced quietly,
Setting a polished silver tray
Upon the table
Between the two elderly patrons.

Black porcelain teacups
Rested neatly upon matching saucers,
Accompanied by an ornate teapot,
A delicate milk jug,
And a silver sugar bowl.

“Ah…
Good man.
Very good man.”
The elderly gentleman smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Mr Rook,”
His companion added.

Gideon Rook
Was one of Nocturna’s most beloved attendants.
His calm manner,
Impeccable memory,
And quiet professionalism
Had earned the affection
Of generations of members.

Nocturna was especially busy
This evening.
Every booth was occupied.
Soft whispers drifted
Between velvet curtains.

Ancient books changed hands.
Curious artefacts
Passed discreetly
From one collector to another.

Secrets were exchanged
As freely as tea and wine.

In Booth Three,
Silas Pembroke
And his younger sister Iris
Had become almost as permanent
As the wallpaper itself.

For countless years
They had occupied
The same secluded booth.
Always tea.
Occasionally wine.
Often guests.
Always conversation.

Silas possessed
A narrow scholarly face,
Wire spectacles,
And a once elegant black suit,
Now softened
By many decades of careful wear.

Iris resembled her brother,
As though time itself
Had carved them
From the same memory.
Her long dark gown,
Once the height
Of Victorian elegance,
Fell gracefully
Beneath a dark fur shawl.
Black lace gloves
Covered delicate hands,
While a matching headscarf
Framed her silvering hair.

Together,
They poured their tea,
Content simply to wait.

This evening’s entertainment
Had been eagerly anticipated.
For tonight,
Nocturna welcomed
The Pike Sisters.

Euphemia Pike,
Mistress of the cello.

And her younger sister,
Minerva Pike,
Virtuoso of the violin.

The sisters stepped quietly
Onto the small stage.
Neither spoke.
Instead,
They acknowledged the room
With a slow graceful nod
Of their heads.

Euphemia settled herself
Upon a simple wooden stool.
Between her knees rested
An ornate black cello,
Its polished body
Absorbing the lamplight.
Her bare feet disappeared
Beneath folds
Of a pale ivory gown,
While her untamed
White-blonde hair
Curled wildly
About her shoulders,
As though stirred
By unseen currents.

She drew the bow
Across the strings.
Slowly.

The first note
Rose from the instrument
Like the distant lament.
Long.
Low.
And haunting.

Minerva stood beside her,
Tall,
Motionless,
Her raven-black hair and gown
Flowing almost seamlessly
Into the darkness
Behind the stage.

Her violin entered
With quiet precision,
Its mournful melody
Threading itself
Around the cello’s smooth deep voice,

For thirty unbroken minutes,
The room scarcely breathed.
Tea cooled untouched.
Books remained closed.
Even whispered conversations
Fell respectfully silent.

When the final note
Slowly dissolved
Into the velvet darkness,
The sisters bowed together.
As the stage curtains
Were quietly drawn.

Only then
Did the applause begin.
Gentle.
Measured.
and sincere.

With the performance concluded,
The Pembrokes
Finished the last of their tea.
Silas carefully adjusted
His spectacles.
Iris gathered
Her shawl about her shoulders.

Then,
Arm in arm,
They made their way
Toward the entrance,
Where Hargraves already waited,
His immense frame
Holding the heavy black door open.

The siblings offered
A courteous nod.
Hargraves returned it.

Without a word.
Together,
They stepped into
The cool night air,
Disappearing slowly
Into the drifting mist
Of Selwyn Lane.

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Gripe and Shrew

Fido Shrew,
A curious little gentleman,
Hunched of back and bent with age,
Arrives at Nocturna
Promptly upon the twelfth night.

With a courteous tap
To the brim of his black felt hat,
He acknowledges Hargraves,
Who returns the greeting
With a single respectful nod.

In one hand,
Shrew carries an ebony cane,
Polished smooth
By many decades of faithful service.

In the other,
A small black wooden cage,
Within which sits
A glossy magpie.

Her name is Matilda.
As they pass through the foyer,
She greets the house
With a cheerful warbling song,
As though announcing
An old friend’s arrival.

Without hesitation,
Shrew makes his way
Through the smoke-softened main room,
Past whispered conversations,
Books exchanged in silence,
And glasses catching
The amber glow of lamplight.

He slips into a private booth
At the rear of the club,
Where a heavy curtain
Of black velvet
Trimmed with lace
Is quietly drawn.

There,
He waits.

Not long afterwards,
McKinley Gripe arrives.
A short, broad gentleman,
Impeccably dressed
In a well-tailored black suit.

His neatly combed grey beard,
Small round spectacles,
And weathered leather satchel
Have accompanied him
For as many years
As anyone can remember.

He offers Hargraves
A warm greeting,
Before being shown
To the same secluded booth.

“Ah…
Lovely to see you.”

He declares cheerfully,
Allowing his satchel,
Heavy with books and manuscripts,
To fall upon the vacant chair
With a satisfying thud.

Shrew peers over his spectacles.

“Lovely to see me?”
His dry, crackling voice replies.
“Since when?”

Gripe smiles.
“I was talking to Matilda.”

He gently taps
The magpie’s cage.
The bird answers
With an indignant warble.

Both old men
Burst into laughter.
The curtain closes.
No one hears another word.

Gripe and Shrew
Have kept this peculiar appointment
For longer than most members
Can remember.

Since they themselves
Were young gentlemen.

On the twelfth night
Of every second month,
They meet.
They exchange barbs.
They exchange books.
Manuscripts.
Letters.
The occasional impossible curiosity.

A glass of red wine
Is usually shared.
Sometimes a fine cigar.
Always conversation.

For precisely
One hour
And six minutes.

Never longer.
Never shorter.
When the hour concludes,
The curtain parts.

One gentleman departs.
Then, several minutes later,
The other.
Never together.

No one knows
What passes between them.
Nor where either man goes
Beyond the wallpapered sanctuary
Of Nocturna.

No one asks.
That,
After all,
Is one of the rules.

And this curious little ritual
Is but one of many
Hidden quietly
Behind the black iron door
Of Nocturna.

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The Doorman

On the twelfth night of every month,
The members arrive.

Not together,
But at measured intervals,
As though each has mastered
The art of arriving unnoticed.

Some remain only briefly,
Exchanging a book,
A letter,
A whispered confidence,

Before disappearing once more
Into the sleeping city.
Others stay until dawn.

Nocturna asks very little of its patrons,

Yet its two rules
Are absolute.

The first,

Within these walls,
No member shall ever speak
Another member’s true name.

Only the names
Chosen for Nocturna
May be used.

The second,

Nothing spoken
Within Nocturna

May ever pass beyond
Its walls.
Secrets belong
To those who entrust them.

The club door
Remains permanently locked.
Admission is granted
Only by invitation,
And by the judgement
Of its custodian.

His name is Hargraves.
Daniel Hargraves.

He occupies
A velvet-curtained alcove
Beside the entrance,
Where little escapes
His attention.

A man of imposing stature,
His broad shoulders
Nearly fill the doorway itself.

His head is clean shaven.
His beard,
Thick and black,
Frames a face
Marked by a single pale scar,

Beginning above the left eyebrow
And descending quietly
To the middle of his cheek.

His eyes are dark,
Alert,
And endlessly observant.
Few visitors
Forget meeting them.

His demeanour,
However,
Is one of quiet precision.
Measured.
Courteous.
Almost scholarly.

He greets every member
With the same calm respect,
Whether they are a first-time visitor

Or one who has crossed
Nocturna’s threshold
For decades.

Should a disagreement arise,
It seldom lasts long.
Hargraves possesses
The rare ability
To end unpleasantness
Without raising his voice.

Those few
Who have mistaken
His kindness for weakness
Rarely make
The same mistake twice.

He stands
As the silent boundary
Between the sanctuary within
And the disorder beyond.

Guardian.
Usher.
Custodian.
Protector.

When the heavy black door
Finally opens,
His deep, polished voice
Greets every arrival alike.

“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”

Only then
Does he step aside,
Allowing another keeper of secrets
To enter the night.

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Nocturna

A single crimson lamp
Glows through the midnight rain,
Illuminating a modest brass plaque
Bearing one word,
Nocturna.

Its light is no ordinary lantern,
But a beacon,
A quiet invitation
To an eclectic gathering
Hidden from the waking world.

This forgotten quarter of the city
Is seldom travelled.
Dark.
Cobblestoned.
Silent.
The old district rises around it,
Its weathered façades
Bathed in pale moonlight,
Watching patiently
As another night begins.

Of its many narrow laneways,
Selwyn Lane
Is the one most avoided.
Especially after dusk.

A narrow ribbon
Of black brick and old stone,
Untouched by modernity,
As though time itself
Forgot to reclaim it.

Halfway along the lane,
The façade of Nocturna waits.
An arched black iron door.
A small multipaned window,
Its glass too dark
To reveal what lies beyond.

Ornate Victorian stonework,
Blackened by soot,
Softened by rain,
Hints at a grandeur
Long surrendered to age.

By day,
The building is almost invisible,
Hemmed in
By the taller backs
Of forgotten buildings,
As though the city itself
Has turned away from it.

But night remembers.
And so does Nocturna.
Its patrons are never seen
In daylight.
Pale faces.
Black coats.
Quiet footsteps.
They move through darkness
Like shadows
Returning home.

Keepers of forgotten knowledge.
Collectors of curious things.
Librarians.
Storytellers.
Artists.
Magicians.
Dreamers.

People for whom
The ordinary world
Has never quite fit.

On the twelfth night
Of every month,
Without announcement,
Without invitation,
They gather.

Books change hands.
Stories are exchanged.
Strange artefacts
Pass quietly
From one custodian
To another.

Old friendships are renewed.
Ancient secrets are whispered.
No records are kept.
No names are spoken.
And before dawn,
The gathering dissolves once more,
Leaving Selwyn Lane
Exactly as it appeared before,
Silent.
Empty.
Waiting patiently

For Nocturna
To awaken again.

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Behind My Eyes

There are worlds behind my eyes,
Places wondrous and vast.

I seek them in my dreams,
And share them
With my waking mind.

They ask for nothing
But to be heard,
Whispered like secrets
Between family,
Between friends.

There are worlds behind my eyes,
Places beyond the Dream Sea.
Take my hand.
Come with me.

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Cartographer of Dreams

Do I dare delve too far into the worlds I create?
They occupy my mind during daylight,
And often manifest with each night,
Am I venturing too far beyond the shallows,
That skirt the edge of the Ocean of Dreaming.

Here, I have control of my emotions,
I don’t expect readers to understand,
In dreaming, although still sullen, I’m not as helpless,
Not weighed down by the real world outside my door.

I’m going to visit deeper inland,
I envision a vast dream continent,
Where everything I create exists,
I will need to populate this world more,
Document its inhabitants, flora and fauna.

I’m excited by the prospect of another world,
That connects all the pieces of my scattered puzzle.

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Grimvael: An Introduction

I am currently writing (and rewriting) a poem to introduce a creature I have conjured into being. As often happens when I am world-building, I find myself becoming consumed by detail, wandering too deeply into imagination. Grimvael will reveal himself in the coming days, though in truth, he has always been here. Within me, yes, but also woven throughout the imagery and symbolism of this website.

So, what is Grimvael?

Grimvael is a mythical serpent of the mind, an imagined creature that feeds upon anxiety and dwells within forgotten memory. A vast black-scaled serpent of immeasurable length, his underbelly is lined with a thousand feeding suckers that cling to fear, grief, sorrow, and memory itself. He is my visual representation of anxiety made flesh (or scale).

He is not born of darkness alone, but weaponised by innermost emotions and our most intimate fears. In moments of panic, dread, or overwhelming anxiety, it is as though Grimvael feeds, coiling tighter, constricting, drawing life and energy from the very suffering he consumes.

Dark? Yes, perhaps.

Yet there is something strangely empowering in giving form to what once remained hidden, something invisible, unnamed, and shapeless. By giving anxiety a face, a body, a myth, it ceases to be an unseen force lurking in the shadows. Now, it is Grimvael.

I realise this may sound a little mad to some. But perhaps that is the quiet beauty of creativity and imagination: they grant us language for our fears, shape to our struggles, and sometimes, strength we never knew we possessed.

Grimvael concept
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