Deserts’ Speak

We walk, and we carry on walking across the lengths of this desolate world. Counting the stars and the steps taken, blistered feet and weathered minds. Something whispers in our ears during those cold, shivering nights; when the winds howl and the true wild sleeps. Bodies close, resting together, living as one like an ant colony. Needing the heat and needing to acknowledge those distinctive, most personal leads. There are days when the sun pours down, and days when the steaming rain beats silt and sand. Looking to the horizon and into the deep valleys – onwards towards an outpost, hope in hand of the life that might dutifully follow. For we live in desperate, yet revered hope.

Peach’s Almanac – Another Blog!

Hey you lovely people! ❤

Recently I have started a new blog. (don’t worry, I’ll still be posting here, and with as much frequency, this is just extra!)

It’s dedicated to Anime, Essays, Movies, Literature  – you know, pop-culture stuff, reviews and the like. You can do the clickety below and follow if any of that tickles your fancy. I look forward to seeing you there. And for those who aren’t sufficiently tickled. I look forward to seeing you here, as always! 😀

Peach’s Almanac


^ I like the clickety!!


Thanks, as always.

-Chris ❤


Diamond Triplet

Tell me those three words people dream of hearing. You know, those infamous ones. The ones that are the foundation of humanity; the ones that have created and shaped the society we live in. People think, and people do. Not speaking. Not eating – life in a cardboard box. Three words; three ephemeral beings floating through the thick sludge of consciousness. Aghast! Ghouls walking the streets we proclaim to call home. The very bricks we so pitifully reside within. Scrupulous, and entirely uncaring. Nature ravaged – bare! And yet throughout, the three remain…


-Chris ❤

To Dream of Hope

“There’s no light in the world, no salvation or remorse for our situation. We have carefully crafted this shit-filled biosphere we live in. We have built this stockade of mislead humanity through our evil and selfish actions. And now we are paying the price; or, at the very least, the people of Ashen are. And that is enough for me to see no hope. For hope to be a feeble concept, without a backbone, and without anything driving it forward.”

Why I Write…?

I ask myself this question more than once a day… why do I do it, why did I ever
start doing it?

It might seem like a relatively simple question to answer… surely I must have a clear reason behind doing one thing each and every day, habitually. But… no, I don’t. Of course, I love doing it, and any person who writes for themselves – for the love of doing it – will tell you that. I’m sure there is a deeper meaning in there somewhere, something intrinsic, woven into my being. But maybe it’s one of those things that are never meant to be found – they just exist, and we don’t question that existence, we needn’t, for it is a part of us.Read More »

After the Surface

Tunnels bored deep through the Earth,

With their scarred edges,

And their crumbling domes.

Remnants from a time long since passed;

From a war-torn, ravaged, blood-soaked land.

The Tunnels… where else could one stand?


Exiled from what was inherently known.

Adjudicated to those lengths of darkness,

Eternally winding, waning, wailing…

Bringing tears to the strongest,

Cries of forgiveness from those who sinned.

For the Tunnels make all men mortal again.


In the towns that were made,

Steel latched to the stone, girders afloat.

Women glance from the windows, down towards the pits.

Where the men work, sweat and steam – ingrained.

Bones aching – the simple desire to live.


All whilst the ground above remains unseen;

People tell stories of the sky and the sea,

Slipping over into sleep, dreaming of colour vividly.

Where once there was red and blue,

Replaced by replications of grey and brown.


Complex in the way the mind works,

Trapped down there, formicary in the making.

No names – why should one be named?

In such darkness, individuality is cast aside.

Little distinction between the living, the dying, and the dead.


People driven to insanity by what might have been.

Life in the Tunnels, an all-consuming conviction.

Freedom a pipe-dream – jumbled dreams, blinding reality.


Some believe in what the Tellers tell;

A kingdom beyond the tunnels, beyond the boundary.

Lands of colour, love, and elated living.

But they are fables only, preached and sold,

To the weakest, the riddled, and the old…


The damned know that this is their world now;

Life lived in sullen, contemptuous, foreboding darkness.

Bitterness rushing through every beating heart.

Skin translucent after countless ages.


Most, they lay in wait for their yearned after Saviour.

An image, a spectre – hallucinatory at best.

Inaction in the hands of all those that mindlessly wander.

The Tunnels – they boast only two clear directions.

Tiny Stories – Revelations From the Depths

*A little later than promised, but hey, it’s here….

Revelations From the Depths

Across the lake, the sun was beginning to set. Slowly, the sky changed from a pale yellow to a deepening orange. It glinted from the very points of the ripples, casting rays in all directions, illuminating the water in exotic colours.

Across, towards the other bank, the land rose sharply, covered in a thick layer of deep-green fir trees. As I bobbed up and down in the tiny rowing boat, the distance between there and here seemed immense, unfathomable. It was as though the water stretched outwards almost indefinitely, as if its end – the sandy banks, were nothing more than an illusion that one could never dream of reaching.

The resistance of the water pushed back against my palms, as my hands did well-practiced semi-circles, grasping the oars, pushing the tiny craft onwards. I cut my way through the orange water, headed towards the far Eastern point of the lake where it thinned and morphed into the outgoing river. There, the waters became shallow. Reeds and numerous other aquatic plants burst through the surface. Above the faint sound of running of water, the beating of dragonflies’ wings could be heard – darting gracefully from one perch to the next.

I stopped rowing, and brought the oars to rest on the damp bottom of the boat. I let my mind wander, from the farthest bank, to the nearest water lily, all the way to the sun, and back to the rippling water. The boat slowly drifted towards the mouth of the river, though, the motion was almost imperceptible – like a slow rocking, cradling me, ushering me into relaxing pastures. I let it happen, as my body forgave its rigidity, as my breaths slowed, as all my worries seemed to evaporate and become caught in the gentle Autumn breeze; carried away to distant lands, to be noticed by nobody.

Read More »