Influences and Inspiration

Influences and Inspiration


 Reference – 3


 Reference – 8


 Reference – 9


 Reference – 12


 Reference – 13


 Reference – 18


Reference – 19

The Lost Generation
Jonathan Reed

I am part of a lost generation.
And I refuse to believe that
I can change the world.
I realize this may be a shock, but
“Happiness comes from within”
Is a lie, and
“Money will make me happy”
So in thirty years, I will tell my children
They are not the most important thing in my life.
My employer will know that
I have my priorities straight because
Is more important than
I tell you this:
Once upon a time
Families stayed together
But this will not be true in my era.
This is a quick fix society
Experts tell me
Thirty years from now, I will be celebrating the tenth anniversary of my divorce.
I do not concede that
I will live in a country of my own making.
In the future,
Environmental destruction will be the norm.
No longer can it be said that
My peers and I care about this Earth.
It will be evident that
My generation is apathetic and lethargic.
It is foolish to presume that
There is hope.

And all of this will come true unless we reverse it.

Reference – 21


Reference – 26

I don’t want you to be my well constructed paragraph
I rather you be my run on sentence


This love isn’t a synopsis
or dissertation
it’s a creative writing project that comes together
and full of errors
but we are still learning


I don’t need punctuation marks getting in between what we have


What we pour into one another should be fluid 
not frozen by societal expectations


Let’s avoid periods or colons
comas or ellipses
in OUR love work


I’m even OK with us being grammatically incorrect
and in love the way we want to be in love

I will never use my red pen on your heart or tongue to disregard or dismantle how you feel or speak
and I am perfectly OK with your mistakes


This love is not a college essay

No Edits, Alex Elle (via alexandraelle)

Reference – 27


Reference – 28


sample of ‘crossing paths’ matrix style



Anne Harrison 05.07.17

the journey continues

A Critical Reflective Essay on Poetic Expression

A Critical Reflective Essay on Poetic Expression


A personal exploration into the realms of poetry through the use of expressive imagery, dating back to the dawn of time and creeping up to date with modern computer graphics. Focusing on the appearance of each piece as well as the story told within and embracing a wide source of inspiration, discovering an ever increasing range of writers and artists who have produced some elaborate and stunning work.

Personal Statement:

Poetry is a theme which had been absolutely alien to me prior to enrolling upon the Creative Writing Course. My knowledge was limited to The Raven, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Vogon Poetry, and these examples I was only exposed to through other interests. (Namely movies, music and comedy) I was unsure what to expect as Lydia Towsey (Chair/Compere WORD! took our class during the first year. During these evenings I was thrown into a confusing yet beautiful world of poetry. With its strict rules of rhymes and stances, counting consonants or lines, style structure, form and prose all of which can be thrown out of the window and disregarded. It would appear that in poetry rules are sometimes made to be broken.

Getting it wrong:

I embraced this new found path with enthusiasm, yet my subject matter was too metaphysical, I took inspiration from my Pagan background and my writing explored subjects relating to the supernatural, esoteric and theoretical. They did not tell a story they posed questions and were just not specific. A concept, at the time, I just failed to understand. My ideas were shelved, but not totally dismissed.

A journey of rediscovery:

Wednesday 1st October 2014, upon this evening I attended ‘A Different World – Poetry Workshop’ held at The Curve and hosted by Anita Sivakumaran.2

An insightful and inspirational event, which once again threw open the realm of poetry for me to gaze upon with delight and wonder. Introducing an unusual twist, these came in the form of ‘Technicians of the Sacred: A range of poetries from Africa, America, Europe & Asia, an anthology by Jerome Rothenberg3 and Octavio Paz.4 Both of which have remained strong influences throughout the creation of my portfolio and changed the direction of my poetry. I was inspired by the use of illustrations and design to create a story, with images and words, words forming images and pictorial portrayal of poetic works.

Introducing ‘Concrete & Abstract (or Abstract & Concrete)’

‘Open to Interpretation’ was written / drawn during the ‘A Different World – Poetry Workshop’ held at The Curve and hosted by Anita Sivakumaran. Exploring poetry from around the world and throughout time as portrayed by various cultures, introducing me to ‘Technicians of the Sacred’ for the second time in as many weeks.

Firstly in Nick Cave’s ‘20,000 Days on Earth’ in an interview, Nick Cave remarks on Technicians of the Sacred: “I read an enormous amount of poetry, and “Technicians of the Sacred” has been hugely influential. The primitive poetry in general and the way it’s presented in that book is pretty extraordinary. After I’ve gotten sick of reading modern poetry, I just open that up, and there’s just something immediate about it and visceral and shockingly erotic that gives a license and a context to go to other places. I think that songwriting is much more conservative than poetry. Themes dealt with in poetry seem to be much more audacious, so I get a lot of inspiration from that.” 5

I found this synchronicity hard to ignore and when this book entered my life I was intrigued to learn more discovering a whole new style of poetry and a major source of inspiration. ‘Open to Interpretation’ was hand drawn remains unchanged, scanned directly from the notebook, it is a very significant poem for two reasons, firstly it marks my re-introduction into the realm of poetry and secondly the message itself relates to my own personal spiritual journey. Therefore I have deliberately not included the translation in this essay, leaving the poem quite literally open to interpretation for the reader to explore the symbols and translate these as they desire.

These symbols illustrate the rebus principle6, where words and syllables are represented by pictures of objects and by images whose names are similar to the word or syllable to be expressed. A simple explanation of this rebus principle can be forming words from pictures:




This is un-doubtfully one of the oldest forms of communication used to tell a story and can be seen in ‘Song of the dead, relating the origin of bitterness’ (from Asia) explored in ‘Technicians of the Sacred’.

‘The Dream’ and ‘The Secret’ are two poems I have chosen to include from the classes in the first year ran by Lydia Towsey, the latter with some recent modifications. ‘The Dream’ was created through a series of exercises given in class, from first making a list of ten abstract concepts, choosing one to focus on then applying the five physical senses to the chosen conception, therefore applying a concrete notion to an abstract concept, which also gave me the working title for my portfolio.

‘The Secret’ was recently altered, after the discovery of an interesting online article on ‘Rewriting Books Through Redacted Text’ (By Kathleen Massara)7 This article looked at the work of the artist known as ‘someguy’8 and Jonathan Safran Foer’s cut-out, remixed novel, ‘Tree of Codes’9. Both of which took existing work and heavily edited it to create new pieces work from the remaining words.  Considering the theme of ‘The Secret’ I choose to blank out words to invite the reader to participate in my work by interjecting their own words into the space provided. There is no right or wrong way to read this, the idea is to develop a relationship with my reader by allowing them their own creative input into this piece.

As Stephen King once said: “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” ― Stephen KingOn Writing: A Memoir of the Craft 10

‘Crow Haiku’ A Haiku11 is a Japanese poem, which dates from around the 9th century. They consist of three lines, the first and last line contains 5 moras and the middle line has 7 moras (In English syllables are used as moras). From the development of my earlier piece ‘The Dream’ I felt inspired to look into various forms of communication which related to the physical senses and for the ‘Crow Haiku’ I reinterpreted it into sight sound and touch, recreating the Haiku from Words (sight) to Morse code12 (sound) and Braille (touch)13. The visual effect of just casually glancing at a series of dots or dashes and trusting that these patterns also say what is written, almost leads the reader to overlook these translations. We skim over the dots, because we cannot visually translate them into words, as I developed this concept, I became aware just how much we take words for granted and how beautiful they may appear in a different form of communication.

‘SSDD’ another form of communication, the modern abbreviation and most commonly used in text / email / social networks, such as LOL, LMAO, BRB, GTG, IMO and so forth.14 Phrases have become reduced to a series of letters and SSDD simply stands for ‘Same Shit Different Day’. This abbreviation also features in the Stephen King novel / film ‘Dream-catcher’15. My poem takes the reader on a bus journey with me, just a mundane daily routine, with a sparkle of adventure added to it. The nonsense of the surreal day dream realm plunges the reader into my vivid imagination. Inspired by the works of Dr Seuss16 and the tremendous Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll17 for the use of invented words to create bizarre illusions of a make believe world. All presented in the appearance of a newspaper clipping to keep with the theme of the poem, adopting modern use of graphic design to illustrate my work in such a way that it’s presentation becomes part of the written work. SSDD also drew inspiration from a stunning painting by the artist Chiara Bautista18

As I became more fascinated with the works of Octavio Paz I developed an interest in the astounding ‘House of Leaves’ By Mark Z. Danielewski.19 Both Octavio Paz and Mark Z. Danielewski have used layout of text in various different ways to express their work.

With this in mind, I developed a series of different styles to present my poems ‘Mirrored Verse’, ‘Crossing Paths’ and ‘Music & Dance’ to merge poems and create a visual design with the words.


‘Mirrored Verse’ itself is a Handfasting20 (Pagan Wedding) blessing I wrote, inverted, reversed, flipped and mirrored. Words change when you look at them differently, live becomes evil when backwards. The appearance looks alien as we are so used to reading letters in a certain format, though other cultures may read back to front or up and down the page. However English letters appear to loose meaning when presented in another direction, In a Handfasting, the four elements/directions are traditionally honoured, which inspired me to present the blessing in the same way, in four different directions and although they may look bizarre the words and therefore the meaning still remain the same. I was personally impressed by a poem entitled ‘Lost Generation’ by Jonathan Reed21, a palindrome, read normally this poem gave a very bleak view of the world, yet when read in reverse, it gives the reader hope and changes the whole meaning of the work.

‘Crossing Paths’ Consists of two poems (Feathered Family and Seasonal Connection) written and inspired by my home, reflecting my thoughts and feelings surrounding where I live and the community around me. I have taken the poems apart, twisted them around and rearranged their format, which echoes how I felt by changing my life in such a way. The merged poems influence the reader to participate in the work, they need to physically turn the page, to mentally piece together the puzzle and see the story hidden within. By turning the text to the side, I saw a pattern forming and the idea to change the background black, the text green transformed the work into an image which resembled the falling, or raining text code used in the film ‘The Matrix’22 (sample on Page 29) an ironic twist considering the theme of the work is connected to living with nature, yet the layout and style embraces technology.

‘Music & Dance’ Two poems, based on two very different styles of genre, exploring ballet and jazz, presented in such a way that each poem may be read individually, flowing down the page, or across, connecting the two pieces of work into one and creating a whole new tale from both themes. The layout on the page creates a beautiful twisting path between the poems, inviting the reader to cross over this path. Using a performance of Swan Lake23 and the recent 2014 film Whiplash24 as inspiration, this piece crosses time as well as genre.

Whilst researching performance poetry and listening to John Hegley, John Cooper Clarke, Rob Gee, Ministry of the Mundane by Project Adorno on YouTube, I came to the conclusion that my work cannot be performed, that it is more visual, creating art from words. I also stumbled across performance artist Marina Abramović, my latest piece of work ‘6 Hours’ is based on her 1974 performance piece entitled ‘Rhythm 0’25 Art may be performed and poetry may be artistic, inspiration comes in various disguises, from bus routes to ducks, they have all found a place in my work. I realise that my first attempts at poetry were wrong and I began this essay by admitting this error, shared with you my change of direction and progression, how I developed each piece and where I found my muse. Yet this couldn’t have happened without first making mistakes, this brings me to the final piece. ‘Content’ (the accidental poem) put simply this is the Content page from my first failed attempt, however it tells a story in itself, so remains here to remind me, and the reader, that there really are no mistakes, just a journey of transformation.

In some way the content remind me of the artist Richard Serra26, who created a list of verbs to explore in his artwork, for it resembled a list and when read down the page suggests a list of events.   

What about the Caps?

            You may have noticed a distinct lack of capital letters, punctuation, question marks, full stops etc… this is a deliberate theme in my work and a trait prompted by  – No Edits by Alex Elle27 (via alexandraelle) a beautiful yet simple poem which adheres to no rules.

Social media has transformed the way we communicate in recent years, creating a new platform for anyone to share and display their work with ease. Because of Tumblr, I discovered ‘Wreck this Journal’28 and on Twitter, poems or even whole stories maybe told within 140 characters, developing a new style of work contained in Tweets.The Journey Continues:

Using my poems, my ‘Wreck this Journal’ and my love for both photography and graphic design, I can see this collection I have presented morphing further into an artistic display. (Sample of this progression on Page 30) However, this is still work in progress and a separate project continuing from this portfolio, so my journey continues by putting the ‘Creative’ into Creative Writing.

A.M. Harrison.
















  1. Lydia Towsey

Poetry. Art. Performance. Change.

Chair/Compere WORD!


  1. Anita Sivakumaran


3.     Technicians of the Sacred: A Range of Poetries from Africa, America, Asia, Europe and Oceania by Jerome Rothenberg (editor) since its first publication in 1968, Jerome Rothenberg’s Technicians of the Sacred has educated a generation of poets, artists, and readers to the multiple faces and possibilities of poetry throughout the world. Hailed by Robert Creeley as “both a deeply useful work book and an unequivocal delight,” and by the Los Angeles Times Book Review as one of the hundred most recommended American books of the last thirty-five years, it appears here in a revised and expanded version several years in the making.

Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 3


Paperback: 672 pages

Publisher: University of California Press; 2nd Revised edition (1 July 1992)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0520049128

ISBN-13: 978-0520049123


  1. Octavio Paz Lozano March 31, 1914 – April 19, 1998) was a Mexican poet-diplomat and writer. For his body of work, he was awarded the 1981 Miguel de Cervantes Prize, the 1982 Neustadt International Prize for Literature, and the 1990 Nobel Prize in Literature.


Conjunctions & Disjunctions Paperback – 25 Apr 1991

by Octavio Paz  (Author), Helen Lane (Translator)

Product details

Paperback: 160 pages

Publisher: Import; New edition edition (25 April 1991)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1559701374

ISBN-13: 978-1559701372


Collected Poems, 1957-87 Hardcover – 22 Sep 1988

by Octavio Paz  (Author), Eliot Weinberger (Editor)

Product details

Hardcover: 686 pages

Publisher: Carcanet Press Ltd (22 Sept. 1988)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0856357871

ISBN-13: 978-0856357879



  1. Wall Street Journal article ‘Nick Cave, Star of ‘20,000 Days on Earth,’ on Poets, Bandmates and Loneliness’ by By Barbara Chai


20,000 Days on Earth


20,000 Days on Earth (2014)

97 min  –  Documentary | Drama | Music  –  18 November 2014 (USA)

Writer and musician Nick Cave marks his 20,000th day on the planet Earth.

Directors: Iain Forsyth, Jane Pollard

Writers: Nick Cave, Iain Forsyth

Stars: Nick Cave, Susie Bick, Warren Ellis



  1. Rebus principle representation of a word or syllable by a picture of an object the name of which resembles in sound the represented word or syllable. Several rebuses may be combined-in a single device or successively-to make a phrase or sentence. Literary rebuses use letters, numbers, musical notes, or specially placed words to make sentences. Complex rebuses combine pictures and letters. Rebuses may convey direct meanings, especially to inform or instruct illiterate people; or they may deliberately conceal meanings, to inform only the initiated or to puzzle and amuse.






Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference-8


  1. Tree of Codes by Jonathan Safran Foer, Tree of Codes is a haunting new story by best-selling American writer, Jonathan Safran Foer. With a different die-cut on every page, Tree of Codes explores previously unchartered literary territory. Initially deemed impossible to make, the book is a first — as much a sculptural object as it is a work of masterful storytelling. Tree of Codes is the story of an enormous last day of life — as one character’s life is chased to extinction, Foer multi-layers the story with immense, anxious, at times disorientating imagery, crossing both a sense of time and place, making the story of one person’s last day everyone’s story. Inspired to exhume a new story from an existing text, Jonathan Safran Foer has taken his “favorite” book, The Street of Crocodiles by Polish-Jewish writer Bruno Schulz, and used it as a canvas, cutting into and out of the pages, to arrive at an original new story told in Jonathan Safran Foer’s own acclaimed voice.


Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 9

Paperback: 140 pages

Publisher: Visual Editions Ltd; First Edition (13 Nov. 2010)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0956569218

ISBN-13: 978-0956569219


  1. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

Part memoir, part master class by one of the bestselling authors of all time, this superb volume is a revealing and practical view of the writer’s craft, comprising the basic tools of the trade every writer must have. King’s advice is grounded in his vivid memories from childhood through his emergence as a writer, from his struggling early career to his widely reported near-fatal accident in 1999 — and how the inextricable link between writing and living spurred his recovery.

Brilliantly structured, friendly and inspiring, “On Writing” will empower and entertain everyone who reads it — fans, writers, and anyone who loves a great story well told.


Mass Market Paperback: 320 pages

Publisher: Pocket Books (June 25, 2002)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0743455967

ISBN-13: 978-0743455961




  1. Morse code is a method of transmitting text information as a series of on-off tones, lights, or clicks that can be directly understood by a skilled listener or observer without special equipment. The International Morse Code


Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 12


  1. The raised dot system now known as ‘braille’ was pioneered by a young Frenchman called Louis Braille.


Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 13




  1. Dreamcatcher (2001) is a science fiction novel written by Stephen King. It was adapted into a 2003 movie of the same name. The book, written in cursive, helped the author recuperate from a 1999 car accident, and was completed in half a year.


Mass Market Paperback: 896 pages

Publisher: Pocket Books (December 1, 2001)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 074343627X

ISBN-13: 978-0743436274


Dreamcatcher (2003)

134 min  –  Drama | Horror | Sci-Fi  –  21 March 2003 (USA)

Friends on a camping trip discover that the town they’re vacationing in is being plagued in an unusual fashion by parasitic aliens from outer space.

Director: Lawrence Kasdan

Writers: Stephen King (novel), William Goldman (screenplay)

Stars: Morgan Freeman, Thomas Jane, Jason Lee




  1. JABBERWOCKY Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)



Hardcover: 112 pages

Publisher: Merrell Publishers Ltd; 1st Thus edition (20 Mar. 2006)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1858943299

ISBN-13: 978-1858943299




Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 18


  1. House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski Years ago, when House of Leaves was first being passed around, it was nothing more than a badly bundled heap of paper, parts of which would occasionally surface on the Internet. No one could have anticipated the small but devoted following this terrifying story would soon command.

Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 19


House Of Leaves Paperback – 6 Jul 2000

by Mark Z Danielewski  (Author)

Product details

Paperback: 736 pages

Publisher: Doubleday (6 July 2000)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 038560310X

ISBN-13: 978-0385603102







Full Poem included in Influences and Inspiration – Reference – 21



  1. The Matrix


The Matrix (1999)

136 min  –  Action | Sci-Fi  –  31 March 1999 (USA)

A computer hacker learns from mysterious rebels about the true nature of his reality and his role in the war against its controllers.


Directors: Andy Wachowski (as The Wachowski Brothers) ,

Lana Wachowski (as The Wachowski Brothers)

Writers: Andy Wachowski (as The Wachowski Brothers) ,

Lana Wachowski (as The Wachowski Brothers)

Stars: Keanu Reeves, Laurence Fishburne, Carrie-Anne Moss



  1. Swan Lake is a ballet composed by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in 1875–76. The scenario, initially in two acts, was fashioned from Russian folk tales and tells the story of Odette, a princess turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer.



  1. Whiplash (2014) A promising young drummer enrolls at a cut-throat music conservatory where his dreams of greatness are mentored by an instructor who will stop at nothing to realize a student’s potential.

Whiplash (2014)

107 min  –  Drama | Music  –  16 January 2015 (UK)

Director: Damien Chazelle

Writer: Damien Chazelle

Stars: Miles Teller, J.K. Simmons, Melissa Benoist


  1. Marina Abramovic on Rhythm 0 (1974)


  1. Serra wrote his now famous “Verb List,” which comprises more than one hundred different processes that could be done to or with a given material. “Verb List” was published in 1972 in the book The New Avant-Garde: Issues for the Art of the Seventies.




Full Poem included in Influences and Inspiration – Reference – 27




Image included in Influences and Inspiration, Reference – 28







  • same time
  • same bus
  • same people
  • same journey
  • same bullshit newspaper spoonfeeding lies
  • same seat
  • same


sat at the back of the bus i can escape reality for ten minutes while those around me stare at their tiny screen ears plugged with music flicking through pages of daily crap i fly on dragonflies the size of horses over lilac seas melting into a glittery horizon of low hanging golden moons circling in a turquoise neon sky watching glibberly serks gallop through still waves in schools of elegant dance young dibberboks chase them as i reach down allowing my fingers to trace swirls through the honey sea weaving my steed through airships and balloons flown by cunning fox sky bandits from far off hills in shimmering shadows of kirktop heights laughing enjoying the freedom of my flight i notice a lone hibblelip moon bathing upon a smooth floating sox i wave in glee as she tips her top hat at me the driver slams on his breaks im jerked back to the muttering of grannies complaining wondering why people always need to state the obvious out my window i pass shops of brightly coloured sarees elegant and translucent smooth silks such as the king of undermountain would adorn his royal chamber his guards know me in their realm and im welcomed in my daydream land to a feast of foreign foods dainty desserts of fabulous colours my guardian lives here amongst the fandolots his armour rusty his smile warm i feed my steed slithering gibs to his delight and sloppy kisses we dance to alien music to no tune with freedom and joy the samsots the dames the lillypad slips the giants skip and jive to the dolly pipes in a circle dance that wraps between realms reminding few men they share these worlds  with the marvellous unknown limitation of the mind and forgotten realms inside…. 


  • last stop
  • that fight to get off
  • rushing crowds going their own way
  • ignorant in sleepy gloom
  • another day starts the
  • same




Anne Harrison 29.06.17

Re-Posted as the ‘Newspaper’ version looses its detail when converted into a JPEG

My Pitch


Struggling with body dysmorphia, Simon reverts to extreme body modification to recreate his image. Facing prejudice and judgement from family and strangers alike, Simon embraces an underground subculture which helps him develop his physical image of perfection. Yet the mental demons still torture his mind.

Morphing Simon

Written: 2/24/15

    As the only male in a house full of women, Simon (17) is surrounded by his mother (Sally-Ann Marston) and three sisters (Rebecca, Louise & Abbey) with their never ending dieting attempts, exercise trends and frequent failures. Causing Simon to become neurotic about his own body, this paranoia grows with the uneasy decisions of career, college or university.

He sadly sinks into depression, feeling rejected by his mother, whose main concern is the forthcoming wedding of his eldest sister. (Rebecca – 24) The dieting becomes paramount in the house and Simon turns to self-harm as his grades suffer. Ceases to eat for days on end then binges and purges and finally drops out of college. Much to his mother’s disgust.

Simon hits rock bottom when he attempts suicide, his mother is furious, accusing him of being attention seeking, risking ruining Rebecca’s wedding. However, Simon’s youngest sister (Abbey – 16) supports him, even sharing a naughty little secret. A cheeky cherry tattoo at the top of her butt.

He is diagnosed with body dismorphia while recovering in hospital and it is during this time that Abbey introduces him to her boyfriend (Frog – 28) a tattoo artist.

With the mounting stress over the wedding of the year, their mother has little time for Simon and his silliness. During a dress fitting, the cheeky cherry tattoo is spotted by the eagle eyed mother and all hell breaks loose and it is Simon’s turn to support Abbey.

[Need to include background information about the father]

On his 18th birthday Simon inherits a substantial amount from his late father’s estate. Which he promptly uses to get his first tattoo from Frog.

Over the following months (building up to the wedding of the century) Simon becomes heavily addicted to tattooing and piercing…

On the plus side:

  • He develops a strong relationship with Abbey
  • Frog becomes a father figure to him
  • He starts to eat properly, seeing his body as a canvas
  • Something to decorate instead of punish
  • His friendship circle expands
  • He becomes interested in art

On the negative scope:

  • He is dreadfully bullied because of his appearance
  • His mother & eldest sisters reject him
  • He is shunned by society
  • He is rejected from college and university
  • His career options are limited
  • He is beaten up by Louise’s boyfriend

[These events need to be presented in a juxtaposition]

Simon becomes unrecognisable and is finally banned from Rebecca’s wedding. Which is when he leaves home and moves into Frog’s spare room.

His body dismorphia is transformed from self-hate to a craving to develop perfection through the use of extreme body modification. Expanding beyond tattoos and piercing and moving into branding, scarification, sub-dermal implants etc…

He has a powerful vision during a suspension experience, where he sees himself as perfect, the last modification he craves is a tongue split. He also meets Molly at this event, a timid Goth chick, known as Mog-Mog. Quite plain by his extreme appearance, yet she is drawn to him and they develop a fond relationship.

Frog offers him work in this tattoo studio as an apprentice and helping to run other suspension events. Simon’s life starts to flourish, even though the relationship with his mother is strained.

Instead of getting his tongue split professionally, Simon attempts this procedure himself and accidently cuts through the lingual veins. He faints, the wound untreated causes him to bleed out and sadly his body is discovered a few hours later by Frog.

End Scene – Simon’s Mother, standing with his sisters at the grave side. When Frog, Abbey, Mog-Mog and many other weird and wonderful tattooed and freakish friends arrive to pay their respects for a very loving popular young man.


Anne Harrison 15.19.16

Perfectly Imperfect

A collection of five ‘really dreadful’ pieces of poetry …

 – With some mediocre photography thrown in to make the page look pretty


There was once a bookshelf, no two.
Their books stood tall and proud.
Colours danced upon their spines.
Words promised delights within pages,
musty or new.
Amongst the books of fantasy, magic & history,
there lived a collection of curious characters.
Friends to the books.
Family to the earth.
Their dance was one of internal light.
Hiding secrets amongst their edges,
their knowledge as vast as the books they live with.
(or more so)
Reflecting sunbeams, moonbeams alike,
in the settled dust of an old cover.
Figures stand, entwined between tomes and crystals.
Characters created through the vivid imagination
of their crafter.
Wood and coins.
Cock and shells.
Random collection, upon the shelves…
Once again I find myself in life’s limbo
Not knowing which way to go
I know love and I know hate
I know life passes at it’s own rate
Days Months Weeks Years
What to be done is neglected I fear
New dreams obstruct old
New goals drive me forth
Away from where I want to go
So I stand sitting on the fence
Watching waiting for life to make sense
To see my dreams come  into range
Though as bizarre as I feel my life maybe
I am the only person who is me
I do what I want it’s my choice
I have freedom will power a voice
Yet here I stand in limbo still
for now this moment is full of thoughts of thrill
I see in my eyes a change fall over me
Order in an organised mind
The plan firm and as clear as light
Get on and try as thy might
Now. Is the most precious time you have.
Not yet, Not then,
What are you doing?
Are you always planning ahead?
… worrying about what could be?
… worrying about what has past?
Mind locked in future or distant thoughts…
Now. It’s all the time you’ve ever got,
Past is past
Future, a collection of maybes…
Now is all we are
Thrown back in the need to move forwards
Too much attention to detail & need to be neat
Lead things to a halt
A standstill created by fear of scribbles
When in reality the fluid words flow easier without precise design
Words flow freely from my mind & from my pen
With an ease I find comfortable & relaxed without force
Without pressure
Just a scribble from the mind to the page
From the heart & with inspiration
Fuelling the need for freedom of expression
Without boundaries
I dance with the elements in their own realm
Travel beyond what I can dream
I’ve seen amazing wonders
So many different scenesMy very form has changed shape
My astral self transformed
Guided along my way
Even being reborn

My lessons are gifts
My soul awake & focused
I’m starting to see beyond…
… the frame of the picture

To a limitless boundless realm
With lifetimes to explore it’s infinite wisdom
I keep my feet firmly on the ground…
…and fly!

I am absolutely responsible for all questionable attempts at poetry and snapped the pictures on my humble point-and-press camera – any links will take you to my DeviantArt page – that I set up in the ridiculous name ‘Nikihix’ – for some obscure reason that escapes me now – I’m updating this old page so there isn’t much on there currently, so I wouldn’t really bother to visit because I have moved all my embarrassing attempts at photography over to flickr…
I’m not ashamed to share my initial attempts at poetry, basically because everyone needs to start somewhere, I have learnt (through my course at University) where I fucked up with these pieces and why they are considered no good. It’s a painful lesson to learn and one which will linger…  So why am I sharing something so dreadful?
… Because I can …
Anne Harrison 25.08.16

In Prose:

Anne’s Final Essay … First Draft … 

A personal reflection on Creative Writing

Once upon a time (for that really is the best way to start such tales) there was this crazy lady, who, following a life threatening illness, decided in her ultimate wisdom to do something she had never done before in her life. Enrolled at University.

Little did she know that this impulsive decision would throw her headlong into an academic adventure that would last two years and result in gaining some very good friends. Along the way her little brain was subjected to rather some baffling use of language and a vast array of information, which she wasn’t sure would fit inside her head. At first it felt like she had found a platform where she could unleash all the lovely twisted little characters which lived in her imagination upon the world, but soon came to learn that there was a lot more involved than simply scribbling on paper.

For a while she felt totally out of her depths, struggling to tread water and keep her head above the surface, each word, each sentence was finely constructed in order to keep with the daunting rules and regulations which were slowly smothering artistic desire. But she was determined to soldier forth, sometimes burying the need to scream (for that would have been most noisy) but mostly because of stubbornness, no one expected her to succeed and she had to subdue her own self-doubts.

However, there was an amazing abundance of inspiration. Little characters in different genres came out to play and she ventured forth into different styles and all new exciting writing experiences. As well as reading a vast quantity of literature that was totally out of her comfort zone.

Yet this inspiration blasted her world wide open, beyond the classroom, beyond books. These lessons inspired our shy heroine to explore the theatre, dance, poetry, art, screenplay and local events. How exciting it was to find a trail of breadcrumbs that lead from one subject to another and how these all in turn slowly began to influence her own writing, going full circle.

Though this point of the adventure may have drawn to a sad closure, this has been a starting place for a wider range of experiences and the journey continues.


A.M. Harrison.

University First Assignment

The Curious Case of the Scandinavian Ballet Dancer

Mr Declan Robinson listened carefully as his companions spoke in awe, yet also fear, of the situation that it fell upon them to resolve. These were dire times and his learned fellows pondered late into the evening, poring over dusty old tomes, seeking a reasonable solution to prevent calamity.

He was the most recent gentleman to join the ‘Council’ having been selected by an anonymous letter, which curiously arrived on his desk one morning, hand written with a wax seal, a fleur-de-lis within a pentagram, which he chose to research before opening…

A naturally curious gentleman, Mr Robinson was a young American scholar who travelled with his mother to England at an early age and was educated at Oxford. His accent was all but lost with the proud Queens English he developed during his years at University. He chose to remain at the University’s Library following his graduation, where he researched ancient languages, signs, symbols, arcane alphabets and esoteric history, which fascinated this young man.

Therefore when this letter arrived, the seal turning out to be a regal crest from a French Nobel Household ‘Rutan’ which was reported to have been wiped out in the French revolution, Declan’s curiosity was instantly ignited. The letter itself consisted of a series of instructions, leading to a secluded location in London.

That was three months ago and those directions resulted in the discovery of a room, the tall ceiling was elegantly fashioned with alabaster reliefs, pillars circled the walls, high columns which held bookcases of solid old English oak between them. Heavy books adorned the shelves from various authors, upon many subjects. This was the library of ‘Et Consilium eiusdem duodecim’ and the room where he was now seated, nursing a brandy and listening to his companions.

Within those three months he was hired as a translator and as such was granted access to many an ancient document. Though only segments, at first, another man, Doctor Vincent Croft, grey and bearded, confined to a wicker wheel chair, took every other page and watched over the younger man’s progress, looking down his beak like nose.  He was not in attendance that night and there was no indication regarding the cause of his absence.

Mr Robinson may have been the most recent to join the ‘Council’ yet he was not the youngest. His eyes flickered over to the silent Gypsy looking girl, whose green eyes instantly flashed up to meet his gaze. A fierce stare he felt could bore into his very soul if he kept eye contact too long.

Declan once pondered upon the notion that this collection of mature, well-educated gentlemen were Freemasons, though the inclusion of this young woman, simply known as Julieta, had ruined that notion and Declan was still mystified by the ‘Et Consilium eiusdem duodecim’.

Julieta tilted her head slightly to one side, yet her expression remained cold, the movement made him realise that he had been staring at her and he swiftly glanced away, blinking rapidly a little flustered by his own discourtesy.

Apart from the immaculately uniformed maid who was always fluttering through the library like a hummingbird, gathering glasses and replenishing beverages, Julieta was the only woman he had observed at the estate, she hardly ever spoke and always seated herself in the window chair, away from the main bustle of conversations, always watching with those incredible green eyes.

Declan was gazing once again. He recalled stumbling across Doctor Croft and Julieta engaged in a vicious yet low toned argument, she ranted in Spanish, so swiftly, her words rolling off her tongue as she argued with passion against the old man, who just as rapidly responded in a firm tone.

They both fell silent when they had noticed Mr Robinson cross the hallway, Spanish was not one of Declan’s strong languages and the theme of the conflict escaped him.

At that point he was posed a question and was drawn back into the conversation and away from his silent pondering.


Petra Rutan dances the lead role in the ballet ‘Giselle’ at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Originally from Scandinavia, it is said that she left her home country at an early age, following a family tragedy, moving to France where she took up the art of ballet and changed her name to Perette, or Petra for stage.

Her performance is immaculately exquisite and she receives a standing ovation from the audience and several generous bouquets. Exhausted yet exhilarated Petra carefully arranges the flowers within her dressing room once she has changed from her costume, when a card tumbles free from a collection of perfect blood red roses onto her lap.

A smile graced her fine features as she recognized the handwriting of a persistent admirer, one Professor Demetris Tagtgren. A mature gentleman, greying, who walks with a cane, yet charming and sophisticated perhaps too aged to be a suitor, though that would not cease his relentless adoration. The card was an invite to dine at the London Strand, that very evening, a table had been booked and the invitation indicated that he would remain waiting for her. Petra shook her head and smiled at her own reflection, applying a pale blush, slipping into heels too uncomfortable but fashionable, she wrapped a mink stole around her shoulders and left for a short stroll to The Strand and her waiting loyal Professor.

As Professor of Antiquities at the London Natural History Museum, Demetris Tagtgren spared no expense on their lavish late supper; they exchanged polite conversation over the fine meal, with a hint of flirting. Only at the end of the evening as Petra stood to leave did the Professor startle his beloved dancer with a gift.

Petra took her seat once more, startled and curious as she opened the carefully wrapped package to behold a delicate tiara, so finely crafted from an unusual black metal, adorned with semi-precious stones and ancient coral, carved and set into a unique alien design.  Astounded and in total admiration, Petra rewarded her besotted Professor with a feather like kiss upon his grizzled features, promising to wear the treasure at her next performance.


It was late, after the meal the Professor walked Petra to The Savoy Hotel and bid her goodnight, however, instead of heading home the Professor went to his study at the museum. With a heavy heart he seated himself at the solid old desk and poured himself a large brandy from a hip flask he kept in the top drawer, he downed the strong spirit in a single gulp and slumped, his head in his hands his mind poring over with guilt and consequences to his actions…

“Is it done?” A voice cut through his racing thoughts, the professor turned, but saw only the glimpse of a shadow in the darkness. Reluctantly he nodded.

“Good…” it hissed or laughed, he could not tell which it was to be sure, only that the sound sent a chill through his very soul, there was no turning back now.

Silently the Professor cursed the day he had set that one free from its Arabic tomb, yet they were bound together now, their fates intertwined. It watched, he knew, as he poured another brandy and opened a file. He turned up the flame on the gas lamp and started with the translation, the silent shadow watching over his shoulder in eager anticipation, its acrid breath fouling the air in the study.


The Professor was not the only one who suffered from mental turmoil and lack of sleep that night, Declan had finished the translation from the latest document he was researching and the facts it revealed had shook him to his very core.

First thing the following morning he gathered up all his papers and headed directly to the estate, insisting upon an audience with Doctor Croft. The Doctor looked up at the unkempt image of his young companion, his hair dishevelled and unshaven, evidence of little sleep and urgency.

“What is it my good man?” The Doctor asked, guiding Declan to a chair and ordering a strong coffee from the maid.

“The translation…” Declan stuttered, unable to verbalise his disturbing findings.

Slowly The Doctor nodded “It is true.” He spoke softly, yet the ease of his tone did little to soothe Declan’s rattled nerves.

“How can this be?” He asked.

“My good man, did you not stop to consider the fables in which you have spent so many long hours researching were more than humble Folklore? That our ancestors lived alongside supernatural beings, creatures of nightmares that in this day and age are dismissed fairy tales?”

Declan blinked as he mused over the Doctors question, he took the coffee from the maid in trembling hands. “But I assumed…”

“Never assume anything in this profession Mr Robinson.” Doctor Croft smiled warmly. “I understand this was discussed in my absence yesterday?”

“Yes Sir, though I was under the impression that was a theological debate?” Declan frowned, recalling the stern mannerisms in which the topic was discussed. This was no hypothetical deliberation, their plan was an actual solution of this otherworldly event occurring. He sipped at the coffee, pleasantly surprised to find it had been laced with brandy to ease his nerves, looking up to thank the thoughtful maid, she had gone again, fluttering along the corridor humming a little tune to herself.

“What form of twisted mind would seek to unleash such horror?” Declan finally asked, the reality of the situation and their responsibility slowly sunk in.

“We have a few suspects, the Germans have been meddling with occult curiosities for some time, mark my words, we shall have to keep an eye on that Nation over the next few years, there are some troubling stirrings. However I think in this case our main antagonist is closer to home and I suspect he is little more than a puppet himself, manipulated by higher powers.”

“Higher powers?”

“Demons my good man, Demons.”


The following day Petra is bubbling with glee and displaying her treasure to her fellow dancers.

However it is only when she is in the privacy of her own dressing room does she adorn the tiara in her rich dark curls. An instant change befalls the talented dancer, a dizzy sensation disturbs her vision and she reluctantly removes her gift. Forced to lie down to recover, her companions will notice her absence at the rehearsal. Petra herself is plagued with vivid dreams during her unnatural induced slumber.

Shadow holding shadow

Creeping tongues and stares of horror

Words never spoken

Secrets sealed in fear

Pointed towers

Crowned with signs of death

A night wraps the altar

Spectators made of stone

“Thirty minutes Miss Rutan!” The call to performance startled her from the bizarre visions, disorientated by the missing time and haunting images Petra splashed cool water upon her face refresh herself before changing into her costume.


The young woman uncurled, like some soft Siamese cat and silently set up a small round table.  Declan was sceptical about the decision of the ‘Council’ to hold a Séance that evening to seek answers, all ten members were present that evening for the sitting. Naturally he had read about such events, yet never witnessed one first hand; he was even more startled when Julieta selected him to be one of the sitters with her. She chose three of the men to join her, Declan, Doctor Vincent Croft and the young cockney Daniel Randall who appeared just as astounded as Declan; they stepped forwards and took their place with Julieta.

As the rest of the distinguished gentleman from the ‘Council’ took seats around the room at a respectful distance the gas lamps were lowered and the curtains drawn. A still silence fell over the room as Julieta instructed the three companions seated with her to place their hands flat on the table, finger tips lightly touching.

After a very long twenty minutes absolutely nothing had happened! Her companions surrounding the table were starting to get restless.

“I do not understand?” She spoke out loud, yet her words were not directed to any one in particular. Never before had her guide failed her so.

“Something is ‘blocking’ him, I can feel it. It’s like a brick wall and I can hear him calling to me, but he cannot get through…” Sweat beaded on her worried brow, her concern creeping into her tone of voice.

“This is poppy-cock!” Daniel huffed, his patience wearing through finally he removed his hands away from the circle on the table…

…it was then that ‘it’ broke through… A sudden chilling wind shot through the room, tossing Julieta’s raven hair wildly about her face.

The words that flew from her mouth were totally alien to their ears, sounds and pitch more than any familiar language. Julieta rose slightly from her chair as though swept up by the wind and noise.

“For heaven’s sake man!” Vincent shouted at the stunned Daniel. “Put your hands back into place!” Daniel hesitated… But finally obeyed.

There was a moment of almost unbearable noise that screeched and echoed around the room, before almost silence abruptly returned to the room.  Each of the four stared at each other in disbelief and not a little panic at what had just occurred.

Then Julieta spoke, her voice distorted by the spirit guide which communicated through her:

When the Mirror Shatters

Then all Hope is Lost

A Fallen God – A Mortals Fight

A Lover’s Loss – A Demons Flight

All Fates are Intertwined

Old Enemies – New Friends

Will Fight Again – To What End

Life from Death

The Sacrifice to a Lost Cause

Snare the Dancing Temptress

The missing Piece of the Puzzle

Holds the Key

To an Uncertain Future

Beware Ignorant People

Beware Demons take Flight

Darkness will Fall upon Thee

When the Mirror Shatters

Leaving Eternal Plight

Declan was pale, visibly shaken following the séance. “How can this be? His question pierced the silence, drawing the attention of his companions, who eagerly awaited an explanation.


With no time to ponder over the peculiar visualization, Petra prepared herself for the show; swiftly the images left her mind as she focused on her footwork, pouring her heart and soul into the role of ‘Giselle’ a cruelly betrayed peasant girl, who returns from the grave. The Professor watched from his box in total adoration, yet he was not the only one who observed this performance with intense expectation.

The dark host awaited in the wings.  The unique tiara complimented her delicate costume and caught the limelight glistening with an innate shimmer, however it became tighter as she danced increasing pressure on her brow, Petra became dizzy and disorientated she swooned and collapsed onto the boards.

An audible gasp issued forth from the audience as the performance was halted; a stage hand called for a doctor and a very pale frail Petra was carried from the stage.  Professor Demetris Tagtgren stood yet found himself frozen to the spot, by his own fear or supernatural forces he could not tell, only that he watched helpless as his delicate dancer was removed from sight.

“What have I done?!”

Eventually he fought back his fear and found the courage to move, he lied his way back stage on the pretence of being a medical doctor to get to his precious Petra. Frantically arguing with staff, though his mind was plagued by the dreadful scene he witnessed, his beloved stumbling and collapsing mid-performance, that wretched tiara shimmering like a morbid token of his betrayal.

Finally he persuaded staff to allow him to the stricken woman, however, as the dressing room door swung open unaided, a cold spear of reality struck him hard – the dressing room was empty – Petra was gone and this was entirely his fault.


Declan fumbled with his briefcase pulling papers free from their neat order.

“The Poem! That rhyme!” He exclaimed as he detangled his journal from the ‘Evening Standard’ discarding the newspaper to one side as he searched through this notes – Finally finding the translation he had been working on – an exact replica to the words issued forth from the spirit world.

“My dear boy!” Doctor Croft read through Declan’s detailed notes, there was no discrepancies, the translation and the psychic message were perfectly identical and furthermore, there was no way for Julieta to have read his journal, his briefcase had been within his sight all day.

“The passage is taken from the Arabic scrolls I had been working on last night.” Declan explained, referring to the documents which had caused him to call upon Doctor Croft that very morning in such a state of distress.

Daniel casually picked up the newspaper as they spoke, the conversation causing ripples of speculation amongst the gentlemen who huddled in to bear witness to any more revelations. Julieta sat back sipping her water, exhausted yet intrigued by the turn of events.

“There is more!” Declan continued, pausing to nod briefly to thank the maid, who had presented him with a welcome brandy. “A banishment!”

The ‘Council’ erupted into a mass debate…

“Could it be free?”

“How? It would need aid, it cannot just break forth.”

“We need to find it.”

“And do what?”

“The banishment.”

“The banishment needs to be performed by a medium.”

“Poppycock that is just heresy.”

“Where would we find it?”

“This is no evidence.”

“We need to find it before it can complete the ritual!”

The deliberation continued amongst the men, raised voices and speculation.

Julieta regarded Daniel who appeared absorbed in the newspaper.

“You have nothing to input? That is unlike you.” She smiled against the rim of her glass.

“Just puzzled over a name I reckon I ought to know.”

She listened to him, even as the rest continued their urgent discussion.

Daniel handed her the paper to display an advertisement for the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House.

“Petra Rutan.” He indicated to the illustration of the French dancer, “Where have I heard the name ‘Rutan before?” Daniel mused; Julieta shook her head, unfamiliar with the name.

“Rutan?” Declan turned his attention to Daniel, who nodded in affirmation.

“What a coincidence.” Declan chuckled “Rutan, why that is the very same name which was on my invitation to join the ‘Council’.”

His companions fell silent, each looking from one to the other with total confusion.

Finally Doctor Croft placed a firm hand upon Declan’s shoulder.

“My dear Mr Robinson, we sent you no invitation.”


The Professor knew exactly where to go, for he had foolishly shown the access way through to a closed wing of the museum, where the former tomb of the dark entity was stored in an unfinished Arabic display. He was trembling with anxiety so badly that he could barely get his keys from his pocket – though it was a redundant act – the lock savagely broken and the door swung slowly open upon its own accord.

A resounding hissing laughter filled him with dread, yet somehow he forced himself to move forth towards the unfinished display area and the awaiting fiend.

“Where is she?” He demanded, with as much gusto as he could summon.

“You’re too late Professor!” It slithered towards him – stealing the light – forever encased in shadows. Demetris looked around the display frantically seeking any sign of the demure Petra, spying nought but a torn strip from her costume, the professor lunged forwards towards the entity – anger replacing his fear – yet he was forced to his knees by the overwhelming evil emanating from the otherworldly creature.

“Soon Professor, your failure will be absolute!” It hissed, venom dripping with every word.

It tore away a soiled dust sheet from a heavy ornate mirror, the glass dark, the frame created from the same alien metal as the tiara – the tiara which was now merged into the frame, crowning the arching apex of the demonic design – the two items appearing melted into each other.

The Professor groaned in despair as the reality of the situation tipped the fragile scales of sanity in his mind towards madness.

“You know the incantation Professor; you personally desired to wield the power that I can bestow upon you!” It seethed with pure evil, its words perfectly true. “You were a fool to fall in love with The Dancing Temptress, there needs to be a beacon. I need to be whole again!” it roared.


Declan sat down and sipped his brandy. “If you did not send me an invitation, why was I so easily accepted into the ‘Council’?” He asked.

“There was a letter, indication to expect you and that you were highly recommended by…” Doctor Croft halted mid-sentence to seek out the letter and Declan once again shuffled through the paperwork in his briefcase.

Finally both documents were placed side by side.

One invitation – One recommendation.

Same handwriting – Same wax seal.

Same signature – Same crest.

Same name – Rutan!

“Well this is a conundrum.”  Daniel mused.

“Maybe it would help if we understood the context of the rhyme?” Julieta asked.

Declan nodded, “Around ten to twelve thousand years ago, the Mahabharata Ramayana and other sacred texts recorded a terrible war between Rama and…”

“The short version please!” Daniel sighed; this really was no time for a history lesson.

“Oh… Oh of cause…” Declan thought quickly to explain the whole story as simply as possible. “An ancient Indian demon was trapped by an ancient Arabic magician. This creature’s physical form was trapped and bound magically in a sarcophagus, then its spirit, or essence as it were, was banished into limbo.” He paused pondering over recent events and discussions the ‘Council’ engaged in the previous evening.

Julieta tilted her head to one side, waiting for Declan to continue, yet it was Doctor Croft who picked up the thread. “I believe this sarcophagus has been discovered and is destined for display in the London Natural History Museum.”

There were gasps and mumbles of concern amongst the gentlemen…

He continued “My research has lead me to believe that it has broken free with some foolish aid, which is why I have had Declan engaged in the Arabic translation for the banishment, without its ‘spirit’ it is weak, if both parts were unified, then it could unleash devastation equal to events recorded in the Mahabharata Ramayana.”

The ‘Council’ fell silent as the enormousness of the situation dawned upon them; the hypothetical theological debates they had discussed were suddenly a very real course of action the supernatural was encroaching upon the mundane with possible catastrophe.

“There is but one part of the translation which continues to perplex me.” Declan admitted, “It is said this demonic spirit may be unleashed from limbo to reunite with its physical being upon a ‘Black Moon’ … I’m aware that the new moon may also be referred to as a dark moon, yet the translation is clearly Black, not Dark.” He sighed and shook his head.

Julieta scoffed, causing her fellows to turn to regard her.

“A ‘Black Moon’ gentlemen, is when there are two dark moons within one calendar month, the second dark moon, is referred to as a ‘Black Moon’… and that is tonight!”


“I refuse! I no longer care for power nor will I aid you!” The Professor mustered up some frail courage in the face of extreme horror.

“Free me!” It bellowed, shaking the walls, causing dust to fall from fresh cracks in the tall ceiling. “Free me and I will save your precious Petra.” It promised.

Demetris turned to face the dark mirror, catching his own reflection in the black glass, eyes wild, corrupted by the degenerate force. He fancied that he could see a light snow falling within the surface, a pale hand reaching out with hope.  The illusion caused him to chuckle, as he felt his own sanity slipping away, to free the beast from the void was madness! “You will free Petra?” He heard himself say, hardly believing that the words came from his very lips.

“Yes….” It whispered, stepping up behind the Professor. “I need her only as a beacon in the dark and then she will be free.” It lied. “To be with you.”


She spent a while trying to remember events up to this point and all she could focus on were the voices in the darkness… Indeed they were still there, whispering around in her. If she concentrated Petra found that she could hone in on one single voice at a time.

And there was something more disturbing… But she dare not focus on that…

It was then she slowly realised that she had no corporeal form, she was simply thought.  A wisp of smoke drifting in void, unable to comprehend the situation, she found herself trying to tell herself it was nought more than another vivid dream. If she had a form it would have shivered, but as it was she closed her non-existent eyes and shed invisible tears.


The Professor felt detached from reality as he started to utter the ancient arcane incantation that would unite the fiend with its banished spirit – making it whole again – darkness fell across the room as the evocation stirred up entities within the ether. Petra’s life force shone like a bright silver beacon to the corrupt forces locked in limbo the words awoke them and the light of a pure soul guided them, yet the chant could only summon one, they only needed one to free them all…

It awoke; it felt the presence of its physical form beyond the glass illuminated by the frightened woman in a ruined costume. Shaking away fragments of a bored slumber it slithered forth, the sea of maundering evil parted, creating a path for this one, as it approached the ritual reached its crescendo.


With Declan, Julieta and Daniel being the youngest members of the ‘Council’ they sprinted ahead towards the Museum upon arrival it was Daniel and his questionable skills with locks which allowed them to gain entrance. Julieta near fainted as she crossed the threshold the immense energy unleashed by the demonic entity clouded her psychic mind and darkness threatened to overwhelm her thoughts. Declan swiftly caught the swooning woman and held her to her feet which she regained control of herself, focusing her abilities to guide the two men towards the Arabic display.

As the Professor threw his head back pitch rising as the bizarre language spilled forth from his lips with surprising ease. Tears of pure fear ran down his face as the wretched spawn at his back giggled manically.

Declan instantly knew the words, but froze in fear, astounded by the sight before him.  Julieta clung to his arm and Daniel issued forth a colourful profanity.

“You have to stop him!” Julieta shook Declan’s arm, but Declan found his mind had gone blank.

That was when the demon turned to confront the intruders, it sneered at the three companions. “Fools!” It jeered, “You’re too late!” its laughter was enough to chill the soul.

The Professor blinked, startled by the arrival of the strangers, he stuttered over his words and fell silent.

“No! Finish the incantation! You cannot cease now!”

More cracks fractured the ceiling as the floor trembled from the dreadful outcry.

“Finish!” Dust fell around them, “Finish or the darling Petra remains trapped!”

Declan started to recite the words of the banishment, he could not risk everything for the sake of one soul, it was dreadfully regrettable, but there was no choice.

With a resigned nod the broken professor joined in with Declan, giving strength to the charm of exile. Both men chanted the ancient words in unison, diluting the creatures’ energy, sealing the mirror and preventing the foul union.

The mirror frame and the crowning tiara rejected themselves from one another, the frame ejecting the tiara from their former bond; it fell with a light tinkle as the final words completed the ritual. Silence fell, dust fell and the dark entity had fled.

The Professor collapsed gibbering, cackling… “Let the screams in your head be the last thing you hear.” Daniel said, as he hoisted the insane man to his feet…

Julieta picked up the tiara and looked into the mirror with deep regret.


Several days later on a sunny afternoon Doctor Croft was seated by the French windows of the library. “Blanche?” He called over to the silent maid. She blinked startled by his use of her actual name and curiously approached the elderly man. He handed her a silken swathed gift, confused she carefully unwrapped the material to reveal the ancient tiara.

“We will find your sister.” He promised.


“Blimey!” One workman exclaimed to the other. “This’s bloody heavy!”

“’ere watch yer tongue.” His companion scolded as the two men hoisted the cumbersome relic up the final flight of stairs to a store room on the top floor at the ‘Et Consilium eiusdem duodecim’ estate.

Left in silence the artefact stood alone encased in thick sheets and a wooden case, yet the jarring movement had caused a single crack across the corner of the black glass, the mirror split and a small shard fell free from the frame… Fluttering leather like wings pressed hard against the damaged surface; however it was frail pale fingers that breached the gap frantically seeking freedom…

A.M. Harrison


Something I always HATED… Have you read some?!? Gez!! I thought my brain would explode as I was forced to endure several classes of poetry, baffled by terminology, confused by rhyme and structure, bewildered by stances and verse. I can honestly say that I was lost, deep within a midfield of words… I knew nothing!!

So, being of a masochistic literacy nature, I decided to focus on poetry for my third assignment. I realise I have not shared with you yet, my adventures into assignment writing, essay torture and agonising reviews… But I had said I was not following any order in this blog, so I will skip back to earlier assignment at a future date. Today we are exploring my pathetic attempts at poetry.

It might appear bizarre that I chose to write poetry for an assignment, but I had already challenged myself by writing in a different genre (Romantic Tragedy) for my second assignment, I could quite easily revert to my favorite genre (Fantasy) again, to stay safely in my comfort zone, stick to characters and stories I know so well in my mind. I absolutely hated the Romantic Tragedy, I still cant bring myself to read the fucking thing, but I got a half decent grade for pushing myself into unknown literacy avenues. Yes, I will share this story with you, one day, for shits and giggles.

I’m not even going to share with you my poetry assignment, at the moment, maybe later… What I did want to share with you is a PDF I put together of the entire process of writing the assignment. From my very first draft, including so many notes, scribbles, alterations, editing and pretty pictures. This is the whole development of my work and for some obscure reason I am deliciously proud of this document. I love to see how it transformed and evolved into something magical, along the way I fell in love with poetry, I became passionate about the genre, I absorbed myself in the weird and remarkable and to this day that love still remains.

By forcing myself into a new direction, by challenging myself, pushing my horizons and destroying my writing comfort zone, I created an assignment which was rewarded with a distinction!

For now, I attach the progression and  Development of Portfolio for I believe this exposes to you just how much I fell in love with poetry upon my literacy journey.

Anne Harrison 17.12.15