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


Recent events have inspired the use of the #NotInMyName.

Indeed I have noticed a staggering amount of negative posts through various social media platforms. It is impossible to ignore the hatred in the world when the media fixates on doom and gloom until we become a nation of fear living in melancholy.  But there is enough self opinionated bloggers out there, sofa dwelling political experts who rant on the internet and point fingers…

I am not writing to express my opinion, I am not sharing my views because I do not feel the need too.

Yesterday I wrote that I felt like shit. Yesterday I wrote that someone had upset me, by the end of the day, two people had upset me and I felt wretched. Uninspired, gloomy my fragile motivation had fled, frightened away by physical pain and venomous words.

However as today has developed, the sun has chased away the drizzle, pain has subsided and I found the most stunning link (again) which made me realise just how much beauty there is in the world, underneath all the news wrapped up in lies. I still feel a little insecure but the brief spell of negativity is lifting. A calm peace remains.

I am reminded of a piece of homework we were given in our first year, world building is an important part of fiction to create a believable story, even if the story is fantastical. In our assignment we were to write about the world as it is, yet remove just one element to explore the impact on society without this element. We were free to chose what we wanted to remove from the world, gravity, clothes, money… etc… How would life be different? I shall confess this story was a little inspired by Dogma.

Originally entitled ‘A World Without Me’, I could quite easily re-title this little tale #NotInMyName. Enjoy!


Anne Harrison. 11.12.15


A world without me.

I knew I had fucked up when the body count reached astronomical proportions. There were so many who had died pointlessly, so much death, torture, pain, hatred, destruction. That’s when I knew I had to start again, or do I?

Wouldn’t it be easier just to remove one fragment which caused so much distress and see how the world faired without such limitations?

So I created a mirror image of what already existed, it didn’t take as long as a week this time, as I already had the blueprint in my vault. I just made a simple subtle change in the programming then cut, copied and pasted the rest into a parallel dimension.

Content with my result, yet curious to see how this altered reality, I injected myself into society assuming a simple role in which to observe.

The first thing I noticed was the currency, as my first customer handed me a few dollars I noticed there was no longer a slogan adorned across the money in my name. Interesting, but hardly outstanding, these tiny bits of paper, which people put so much importance in, had always baffled me but I had choose to keep this feature. After all, I did require a wage for my job.

There was a television set in the main dining area, the news emblazoned images of war and destruction. I sighed to myself, mankind will always fight it would appear. Had I fucked up again? I pondered, yet the reported war was over territory, land, boarders, property. Not in my name!

Okay, so I wasn’t going to remove land! However, the wars were few and far between, the body count regrettable but minor in comparison.

It was on my lunch break, when I took a walk through the bustling streets of New York City when I started to notice more and more changes. For example, clothes and hair! Now this wouldn’t usually interest me, as I’ve always been a firm believer that people should wear what they like to be comfortable and confident in their appearance. However there were those, who in my name (whichever name they choose to call me by) had placed limitations upon self-expression, clothes, beards, long hair, short hair, ringlets, skull-caps, turbans, tattoos, nudity, burkas, hijabs, dog-collars, miters… The list was endless, what you could wear, what you couldn’t wear, what was banned, approved, encouraged. The contradictions were amusing yet sadly, even this minor personal choice had even lead to many deaths.

So to stroll through the busy streets and notice an absence of such garments was a welcome relief. People still followed fashion that was why I created creativity. People also expressed themselves against fashion in outrageous self-styled garments that was why I created creativity! I smiled, pleased with the diversity which existed without me.

As I unwrapped my bacon baguette I noticed a loving couple walking slowly through the park. Hand in hand they laughed and flirted, eyes shining towards each other. The tall young man in a sharp suit leaned close and placed a soft loving kiss upon his partner’s neatly trimmed beard. I smiled, my heart swelled with adoration. Love is such a beautiful sight to behold, it has no restrictions or limitations. I wonder why people had once developed predigests in my name? It appeared to me that mankind used me as an excuse to destroy each other for a multitude of reasons. Yet here, in this new realm, this perfect loving couple could walk freely, openly accepted, because I did not exist.

Absently wiping ketchup from my chin, I pondered over the humble bacon baguette I was enjoying. Diet had become another restriction I had noticed, did people really think I would judge them for their diet? Throughout time, I had been given many names, many forms, I had been male and female and neither. Faceless or even animal headed, I had devout followers, extreme to the point of self-suicide in my name, I had watched mankind destroy each other, to undermine women and oppress them under the excuse of an original sin.

Yet as I look around this new realm, I see women in suits alongside business men as their equals, not struggling, flourishing, I see stay-at-home dads collecting their children from a school where all races play and learn together, because these children are not brought up to judge another for being different. Indeed I notice a young girl in piggy tails dressed as an action-man and I smile to myself.

Opening a can of Coke to wash down my lunch I am painfully aware that governments and big corporations still have an impact and I absently wonder just how much I need to get rid of to make things perfect? How many versions of the world do I need to create? Would each one be vastly different with the removal of just one concept?

I look around this current reality and conclude that it doesn’t matter what I remove there will always be something which replaces it. However, taking myself out of the equation has developed a more peaceful world, with fewer wars and more acceptable diversity.

Naturally I expect to discover some negative issues with my absence, but there really is so much one can explore within an hour and my lunch break was fast drawing to a close and I needed to head back for my afternoon shift, I strolled and noticed the absence of Churches, Mosques, and Synagogues. I felt a little sadness as there was a loss there in such beauty. But it was a price I was prepared to pay currently to see how my children developed without the concept of soul or the fear of karma, an afterlife of Heaven or Hell? Remove all these fears, that I would judge and punish or reward your eternal soul dependent upon your actions, words or thoughts. Was in itself a former manmade myth, created to control and oppress others.

Here, I discovered, with the absence of understanding the soul, I found mankind to be far more creative, artistic and less destructive. I wondered why this would be as I replaced my apron and took up my position behind the counter.

It was not that people did not have Souls, of cause they had, their souls are the bright internal spark which connects them to me. They just had no name for it here, but the soul needed to shine and here it shone through freedom, expression art and love, sure the world will never be perfect, but neither am I.

I smiled content as I took my first order of the afternoon and asked; “Would you like fries with that?”


PS: My Photography tooooooooooo…….. 🙂

Recycling the Same Old Shit

  • “You know how I know it’s the end of the world? Everything already been done. Every kind of music’s been tried. Every kind of government’s been tried, every fucking hairstyle, bubble gum flavors, you know, breakfast cereal. What are we going to do? How are we going to make another thousand years? I’m telling you, man, it’s over. We used it all up.” – Max. (Strange Days 1995)


Are there any new ideas anymore? The cinemas are full of reboots, old films remade with fresh faces and different crews, putting their own twists on old (or not so old) classics. This is nothing new Dracula, for example, has been re-told so many times since the first film version of Nosferatu in the 1920’s right up to Dracula Untold 2014. Yet before it ever graced the silver screen it was a book, a single story which has spun off so many variations of the same tale in various mediums over the years, that it feels as immortal as the Count himself.

Retelling stories is nothing new, it’s far older than Bram Stoker and can be traced right back to tribal cultures who use stories to teach their children about their heritage. (Please refer to someone really clever who can tell you more about this kinda shit) This telling and re-telling of stories is part of human nature.

So they’ve remade Point Break! People will complain but I’m looking forward to it, the stunts are wilder, politics are different and special effects will all add to a modern production of a single classic action movie.

Why are we always taught the same books in literature? Why always Shakespeare and Dickins? People complain about a new version of Point Break, yet flock to Hamlet because it is performed by Benedict Cumberbatch. I cannot answer this question, for I do not have an answer. I enjoy the re-boots as much as the originals, sure I find points of comparison, but that is unavoidable when re-telling an existing story.

There are plenty of new material out there, new characters, new tales and new writers. They just need seeking out and sharing, so these beautifully talented persons may find their place amongst the classics.

As part of the Creative Writing course, we were given the assignment to re-write a classical story within 3000 words (ish) but written from a different characters perspective. This was not the only copy-cat piece of writing from the course, but I shall leave other examples for another day. For this was by far the most enjoyable homework task that I ever threw myself with glee and utter love for the original.

I present to you today my humble version of HP Lovecraft’s The Call of Cthulhu, written from the perspective of Cthulhu itself…

Anne Harrison 24.11.15


The Call

There are those who believe that I sleep in some death like slumber, dreaming through the aeons, a fictitious dormant threat, that mankind has all but forgotten about save for tales in dusty books, expressed by an alcoholic author. One of my favourite pets, alas my mind crushed his, fiction, reality, his reality and mine merged together in a stew of madness, leaving him on the fine edge of sanity, finally destroying him entirely.

For such glimpses into my realm, which tediously overlaps the ordinary, to dip ones toe into the murky diseased sub-universe that I rule, shall cost one their sanity, for the human mind is a fragile beast, placid by the mundane, stressed by the insignificant, oblivious to what they fail to see and ignorant to what they fail to understand. Dismissing my existence as the creation of a twisted mind and that is how I choose to let these humans regard me.

I dwell within a realm, between realms, awaiting a time where the stars align and I can rise and consume this universe and the meagre planets which spin therein. There are those who believe that my aeons are spent asleep, to dream throughout time in a permanent state of hibernation. Still? Silent? Alone?

These assumptions are inaccurate, a misleading fable, fabricated by my loyal herd, for as long as my words grace the lips of my devotees, as long as my chant dances upon their tongues, I shall never truly, totally slumber…

“Ia! Ia! Fhtagn!”

You see in reality, in ‘my’ reality, my time, nay, my life is spent in a permanent state of observation, tis no sleep I truly dwell within, no dreams from a subconscious mind but an internal focus upon the outside world.

I watch, I wait and at times I call…

Such as a series of events which took place in 1925, recorded by my pet and discarded (or admired) as fiction. Personally I believe that this saga of my call should have been recorded as they transpired, starting with William Channing Webb, some forty-eight years prior. Though to be fair to my precious pet, I shall remain loyal to his script.

You need to understand that my ‘call’ is far more than a verbal cry out for acknowledgment; it is far more subtle and effective. More of a mental intrusion upon the minds of those who have merely brushed against the fragile hint of my existence, those minds, after I have toyed with them, are never the same again, their lives corrupted by the truth that cannot be unseen, unheard, or even comprehended.

First there was the sculptor, a young man of promising talent until my mental tendrils reached out and burrowed into his sub consciousness, infecting his dreams with disjointed visions of my domain exposing a timeless horror that only his skilled hands could translate in macabre still images, crafted in the medium of his desire, bringing into form the image of the very nightmare of mankind.

Known simply as ‘The Horror in Clay’.

His sanity, I found was too fragile to remain intact, yet tasted so sweet as I mentally violated his dreams, savouring his psychotic anguish as he descended into madness. However, before he was institutionalised my dreamer spread my tale, like any loyal subject, even though he was unaware of my silent demands the disturbing images which plagued his dreams compelled him to reach out to another and thus my legend creeps into the next mind, intrigue and curiosity are the tools which I unlock the doors of perception deep within the most primitive part of the human brain, dripping fragments of information, subtle hints and synchronicity.

So Henry Anthony Wilcox unwillingly drew one George Gammell Angell, Professor Emeritus of Semitic Languages in brown University, Providence, Rhode Island into the fold. An intellectual mind I find to be far more substantially delicious than the creative mind, for our precious Henry crafted the images from his nightmares where I had carefully and deliberately induced ancient alien hieroglyphics to tease and entice one of enhanced wisdom. His horrific clay reliefs, though clearly of no ancient forgotten race, it encased within its slick walls just enough to feed the curious nature of our Professor and like a willing servant he embarked upon a long painstaking focus of research, taking artwork into further investigation, consuming him, just as I had consumed Wilcox’s mind.

The artist, it appeared, was of no further use to me having served his purpose, created my terrible duplicate, by seeking help he had perfectly played his role and now I had a new disciple to follow up the threads I provided. I released Wilcox from my servitude, though after a month of horrific nightmares and a subsequent hospitalisation for mental exhaustion, I doubted he would ever be ‘normal’ again. For once I have bruised the psyche forever shall I have a claim in your life.

Professor Angell spent long arduous hours attempting to translate the language of the old ones, I respected his intellect and from my never sleeping slumber kept a dark eye on his progress, spoon feeding him fragments of the puzzle without ever exposing the full picture. He collected newspaper clippings, all relating to the period of Wilcox’s madness. Storms and wild weather reported in normal temperate climate zones, insanity, murder, inhuman acts committed by those who claimed to be self-medicated craving punishment. Mysterious vanishings, sometimes right before a loved one’s very eyes, un-natural curious events throughout the world, throughout the course of a month, my pet Professor amassed all this information. Taking his first glimpse into the dark foreboding dominion that is my reality.

My call during this period particularly affected those of more native cultures, I had a skill at clawing into the mentalities of tribal remnants from old traditions, had anyone at the time actually collated these disturbances, those which dwelt within brick walls may have realized the true threat of the primitive.

I also adore coincidence, as the humans called it; I prefer to see coincidence as an extortion of my will. Those I have touched, I will claim!

As it was, we has graced each other’s attention before, the good Professor and myself, in 1908 my existence was first introduced to his attention, Wilcox’s clay relief was not the first time the professor had laid eyes upon my dreadful visage.

Let ‘The Tale of Inspector Legrasse’ be known.

The American Archaeological Society held its annual meeting in St. Louis, a fact which is insignificant to me, as I care not for such trifles. Though at this particular meeting, twas not a man of science which graced the attention of those gathered, but a singular irritating torn in my side John Raymond Legrasse, how the vile name rises bile in my throat with utter hatred and resentment. For this loathsome individual, a Police Inspector from New Orleans, had with a body of twenty men descended upon a most sacred ritual of vile worship delicious disciples of chaos, wrapped in the throes of carnal desire as they danced, slaughtered, chanted and romped in my name!

My loyal, my people, my adoring fools had attracted the attention of the police force following the disappearance of local women and children, they’re with me now, their souls my property, gifts from my dark cult. But they had become careless, their wild orgies and abductions brought the police out of the town and deep into the swamp, armed with the law on their side, these unsuspecting uniformed puppets had no idea what to expect as they stalked through the grime, the wild chants and drumming only added to their anxiety, feeding their fears, which could never, ever, prepare them fully for the glimpse into my domain that they now faced.

A living nightmare, dreadful demonic scenes of dismemberment and ecstatic inhuman howling greeted the police as their forces clashed with mine and the swamp erupted into conflict, normal average men fought through their shock, horror and disgust, which I personally delight in. I was appalled and enraged that my ritual had been ruined by these mundane humans and my loyal creatures, caged or slain. Though the ultimate insult was when Legrasse took the idol of my likeness into his possession as evidence, like a vase from a thrift shop. Had he no idea that I was connected to this sculpture? That I could feel his warm clammy hands surround the alien marble as I was man-handled and tugged about like a sideshow curiosity.

They interrogated my followers, but their sanity had been so badly damaged by their loyalty to me, that at most the police received some bizarre rambling in a foreign tongue and half-truths combined with the glorious lunacy of broken minds.

So armed with fragmented pieces of the puzzle and the icon of my resemblance, Legrasse approached the intellectual men of The American Archaeological Society, recounted the events of that fretful night and displayed my statue like a morbid trophy. As I passed from one set of hands to the next, I peered into the souls of these men and lusted revenge for their maltreatment of my visage!

It was at this assembly, that I was passed once again into the strong old hands of William Channing Webb another fork in the road of fates journey where we cross paths again, far different from out last meeting sweet Professor Webb? All those years ago in the far reaches of Greenland, how far does my cult spread throughout the underground of this world? From New Orleans sadists to degenerate Esquimaux, my tendrils reach out far into society, hidden in plain sight, waiting, watching, loyally for the stars to align.

I remember you Professor Webb, I feel your heart begin to race, and your hands tremble ever so, an uncomfortable sweat slick upon your weathered brow. My form in your hands recalls memories, you had thought forgotten, lost in the darkness of your mind where you resisted remembering the encounter in Greenland. I feel your panic, your fear, your anxiety. Did you never tell your companions how you had lost your eye? How you despise your own scarred features? Did you keep me hidden away, like a dirty embarrassing secret? Doesn’t the recounting of the swamp ritual not awaken images of similar degenerate rites held over forty years ago, in another country, that you have seen before, blood on a snow white ground instead of merged with dark mud? Sacrifice, slaughter, debauchery… OH… now you remember me Professor Webb… you also remember my chant don’t you? The cries of the summoning… you remember, Legrasse remembers, for my words are a hunting cry, tumbling through time. Uplifting my cultists and striking fear into the very soul of good men who accidently stumbled across my existence.

“Ph’uglui mglw’nafh … R’lyeh wgah’nagl Fhtagn!”

Memories… for Legrasse, Webb and the recently deceased Angell have passed from this realm now, and it is  into the hands of Professor Angell’s Great-Nephew that my tale now finds a home, hidden within the depths of paperwork at his uncles estate the young man unearths the decades of dedicated research which had consumed the time of the late Professor. With a curious nature and astonishment at the amount of evidence amassed Angell’s obsession became contagious, his Nephew drinking up the knowledge, like a parched man at a watering hole in the dessert. It both frightened and inspired the young man, I watched, as I always do, from my eternal dreams. I felt the shift in his sanity as his mind became rocked and shaken by the enormous realisation, of monstrous hidden truths and disgusting facts.

He read through the detailed events, that I have recalled briefly, shocked and alarmed by these actualities the young man pushed aside the box of files, his thoughts unwilling or unable to comprehend any more. Though I already had a mental hold on his fragile frayed edge of stability, it was only a matter of time. Fate always had a way of drawing the curious deeper into the pit of forbidden knowledge until there was no way out besides the ultimate price, your life or your soul.

He discarded the files and notes, returning to his own work to clear his thoughts, dwelling on the mundane as a relief when a perfect synchronicity threw him back into my arms again, in the form of a simple newspaper clipping from the Sydney Bulletin and our young victim was reminded of an unopened file amongst his Great-Uncles research.

Labelled cryptically as ‘The Madness from the Sea’.

The random newspaper clipping corresponded with this file and it was with some trepidation that he finally reclaimed the file and opened it to read the final and frightening chapter of this saga. Times, dates and co-ordinates mean nothing to me, I care not for when or where events took place, yet Professor Angell amassed as much detail as possible and even these mundane facts had not escaped his scrupulous attention.

I said I care not and I don’t, but there are those foolish or unlucky enough to venture into uncharted waters of the vast ocean and as it was, during the same period as Wilcox’s delirium. You may be mistaken to believe that my cult restricts itself to snowy wastelands or dense swamps, there are those amongst my brood who have taken to the waves, following my mental instructions detailing esoteric directions to an island that exists between realms, they bring me gifts, bodies to mutilate, minds to consume and souls to destroy for my morbid collection. It was a comfortable arrangement with these primitive pirates. Storms surrounded my island, discouraging wise sailors, or drawing victims to my shore.

The ‘Emma’ had been entangled in one such storm, throwing her wildly off course and into my domain. My pirates upon the ‘Alert’ attacked and though ‘Emma’ was lost to the sea, so too were my pirates, out skilled by the sailors from ‘Emma’ who took the ‘Alert’ as their own, as a transport to flee the wild uncharted seas and the dark foreboding island upon the brooding horizon.

A simple tale re-told in a snippet from a local newspaper, naturally the whole tale was condensed to a few paragraphs of insignificant facts, dismissing the details as the lunacy of a single survivor, who clutched to his hollow chest a figurine, not totally unlike the ones Legrasse and Webb had unearthed, this figure he had discovered upon the ‘Alert’ and clung to it as a mother would a new born babe.

The file ended abruptly, but Angell’s Nephew proved to be a significant researcher in his own right, he sought out more information on the strength of a vague report. Discovered the ‘Alert’ redeployed and still afloat, he ventured to museum and library alike and finally, amongst dusty shelves of a back room store chamber, he finally came face to face with my idol. I have him now, for he has laid eyes upon my statue and through that I can bore into his very soul and instigate obsession and finally madness. Alas he was physically denied to ‘touch’ the item, safely held within the cotton gloved hands of a closed (so safe) mind of a humble museum assistant.

But even this was not enough, even with the threat of his very thoughts crumbling into delirium, our latest researcher ventured further than his Great-Uncle ever had, travelling all the way to Oslo Norway in search of the sole survivor from the ‘Emma’ Gustaf Johansen. Though a vast deterioration of Johansen’s health had led to an early grave, his Widow presented our intrepid explorer with her late husband’s journal, written in English, to prevent his wife from reading the truth, the truth was finally within the hands of Angell’s Nephew and it was with hesitant fingers that he turned the pages and began to read the dead man’s words.

Upon the island the crew had disembarked with a mixture of curiosity and fear, for the dank island appeared on no charts nor maps, just loomed out the sea in a foreign rock, with twisted angels and slick slime coated walls, the physical stuff of nightmares, dark clouds rolled in overhead and spluttering faggots provided a merger light which added to the dense shadows and overwhelming horror of the place.

Enraged I arose from my usual slumbering state; with a stone shaking howl that chilled the blood of the foolish sailors I cast aside the walls of my unearthly tomb as though the mighty stone slabs were naught but driftwood. I crushed, devoured and smite all those insignificant fleas who dared to violate my island with their disgusting presence, who dared to awake me before the stars align, to do so is to feel my enormous wrath as I feast upon the souls of the weak and one by one destroy the men from the ‘Emma’.

Two turned to flee as I devoured their crew mates; I pursued them towards the sea, a dark shadow promising an unholy death. They boarded the ‘Alert’ and with full steam astern they attempted to escape, yet I was gaining upon the toy boat, tossed about by fierce waves I created within my wake, then, unexpected on my behalf, the ship changed course and charged with full steam ahead. The following events were sudden and simple, I was struck in the mid-drift, wounded, injured, though more of an annoying pin-prick than anything that could truly damage one as eternal as me, Still it stung, I bellowed, I bleed, vile stanching pungent fluids poured forth and that alone was enough to cast one crewman into the realms of the dark abyss as he clawed out his eyes from merely witnessing the event.

Johansen escaped, long enough to return home and put pen to paper, recording the account, which would finally send him gibbering and broken to his grave.

It was Johansen’s words which finally tipped the balance in the mind of Angell’s Nephew, he was hospitalised shortly after his research finally uncovered the diseased truth, by then my mental intrusion was complete. He was mine, and even though he appealed to his lawyer, implored him to destroy all notes, all research, and all evidence. Even though his lawyer promised faithfully to comply with his wishes, did he?

For you’re reading this right now, are you not?


“That is not dead which can eternal lie, 

And with strange aeons even death may die.”



Submission and Reply: Homework Feedback (edited to remove email addresses only)




Life Reflecting Art ~ Sunday

Sometimes events just happen to remind you of work you have produced in the past.
Just as Saturday reflected the old Halloween tale I had spun together two years ago.
Sunday also reminded me of a little homework piece I had written, a short story from near the start of my Creative Writing journey on the theme of ‘Time’.

How does this relate to Sundays Shenanigans?
I’m not at liberty to say, for this way I maintain an air of mystery … Kinda …

Anne Harrison 16.11.15

Each Passing Moment December 2013

Ichirou Takahashi glanced at his watch, growing more irritable with each passing moment another look at the ¥105k Hublot Tourbillon Solo Bang, indicated that time was running out & this heavy traffic only increased his frustration. The meeting dragged on for longer than he would have preferred & although the company take over was a perfect success, the lingering pathetic begging from the former Director General proved to be both embarrassing & a total waste of time. Better to just give up, when the ‘Takahashi Enterprises’ got their talons into a business, they would assume control in the shortest measure of time it took to draw up the legal papers. Ichirou clenched his fists as the traffic continued to crawl along, he knew he should have took the helicopter.

“Gyosha! Find a shorter route!” He snapped, sitting back & deliberately pulling the sleeve of his made-to-measure designer suit over the expensive watch, allowing his mind to wonder. There was still time before serious egdeplay could cost his Otetsudaisan suffer permanent injury, or worse. He pondered over who was the actual Dom in this arrangement? Then the Bentley surged forwards turning down a narrow side street speeding swiftly to his luxurious estate on the outskirts of Osaka.

Smiling smugly as he crossed his legs, safe in the knowledge that he should arrive home at exactly the correct time. Most of the pleasure he took from this scenario was the fact that he could totally & utterly control an individual without even being in the same room as them. That he could master Otetsudaisan from his office, boardroom or restaurant & she would still be exactly where he left her. It was all about ultimate control.

Though there was one limitation & this is where Otetsudaisan held the power to reduce him to submissive, for he always needed to return within a strict time restriction & this was her ultimate control over him. Any longer & the point where actual physical damage would start to become more permanent increased with each passing moment. He was always perfectly on time; he required total control.

The Bentley rolled up outside the estate gates Ichirou regarded his watch, to conform what he already knew with confidence that his timing was to perfection. He paused as the car halted by the glass doors to his sanctuary, watching the second hand circle the face. He wanted to be that precise & upon the appointed moment pre-arranged carefully calculated he finally exited the car.

To find the glass entry doors shut & locked in his face. He frowned in utter confusion & in his ignorance tried several times to get through the polished glass barrier, a little to the amusement of Gyosha, who wisely kept his smirk hidden away.

Ichirou never known his house to be locked up, his security system was so highly evolved that he never felt the need to lock anything, except his safe. There was a keypad to the side on the wall, numbers to a code he never used & a slot for a key-card he did not own. confusion swiftly changed to frustration then to anger.

“Gyosha! Your key-card! Now!” Ichirou turned to face his driver, who wisely wiped the amused grin from his expression & began to search Bentley for a key-card. Although he would not have the authority to own one, he hoped that Ichirou kept one in the car for such emergencies.

A small ‘beep’ from that tell-tale watch indicated that time was up!

Gyosha started to panic there was no key-card in the car. Ichirou glanced over & he replied with a hopeless shrug unable to help. Gyosha wondered how the key-card would work without the code, but wisely kept his concerns to himself.

“Go around the house, see if the back door is open and find Uekiya!” Ichirou shouted at the driver, who quickly was running across the immaculate grass, through sculptured trees around the estate. While Ichirou paced across the threshold, impatience growing, nerves developing, as his watch beeped with each passing moment.

Finally Gyosha returned with Uekiya, but neither servant could aid their master in his predicament. Uekiya was the gardener, & as such he did not have the security clearance required for access to the house. The back door was also locked but he noticed the balcony doors to Ichirou’s personal suite were slightly open & suggested a ladder would easily reach these.

Another ‘beep’… Ichirou could not afford to waste time with ladders & stunts, he knew his driver to be armed as Gyosha also doubled up as security. “Shoot the glass!” He yelled. Without hesitation, or questioning why the ladder option was dismissed, Gyosha fired several shots to shatter the reinforced glass doors.

Ichirou stepped over the carnage, both Gyosha & Uekiya started to follow. Ichirou turned sharply, “Wait here!” he shouted & ran the rest of the way to his personal quarters, each passing moment only adding to his anxiety.

Kinbaku is a noble art; it takes time & precision to get the asanawa rope perfectly knotted to restrain a woman in an erotic & immobile position. It was an art Ichirou was passionate about, a skill he developed over years, yet there was also a real danger to the human body when held in a set pose for too long, especially since his styles also incorporated some measure of autoerotic-asphyxiation.

Gingerly he approached Otetsudaisan, perfectly tied in a ‘Kataashi age tsuri shibari’ position. She was still, very still, hanging limply in strong bonds. Ichirou felt bile rose up in his throat as he reached out to touch her face, her long hair was elegantly bound into the knot work, but her lips were blue, eyes starred ahead & no breath came from her form.

Ichirou frowned looking closely at the features of the dead woman, it took a few moments to realise that it was not Otetsudaisan. Instead the dead body of a perfect stranger hung from his ceiling. Although there was no doubt his influence could make this whole situation vanish as though it never happened, it did raise a few questions in his mind.

Looking around the room, he noticed the door to his safe open. That was when he heard the Bentley start-up & speed away, as Otetsudaisan; Gyosha & Uekiya fled the crime scene, the reality of the situation dawning on Ichirou with each passing moment.

Flash Fiction

I’m not sure I can record the experience of my course in correct chronological order of events, but do you really want a list of ‘first we did this’ then ‘we did that’ and I wrote this, here you go… ?

 Or splatter this blog with randomness, cherry picking little ditties for your amusement, with no real sense of direction… Which pretty much sums up how my mind works… (Sometimes)… I believe I would drive anyone with OCD insane, my CD’s are muddled up with my DVD’s… My books are shoved any how into spaces they will fit, fiction with non-fiction, novels with scrap books. ‘Wreck this Journal’ along side colouring books, so the last example might make a little sense and although this might sound somewhat messy, I am rather a neat freak.

A neat freak without order… I like to be able to add these little snippets about myself, I suppose there really isn’t any point as this hardly relates to my Creative Writing course, I’m merely expanding my explanation behind putting anything I post in any form of order. When I could have simply said, it’s not happening, nope, no how. No order here, just randomness and bibbling…



Flash Fiction was not something I had come across before and the truth is, I was not impressed with the samples we were given in class. They felt empty, like half thought out scenes in 500 words or less. It was lazy to me, a snapshot into a strangers life a mundane event like a train journey or pet dog. ‘Nothing stories’, I called them, for I felt that there was no point to the tale. Yet who am I to express any formal view? My opinion is my own and I am no professional expert.

However, having the chance to openly discuss this in class lead to some interesting debates amongst us. I miss those conversations now, the ability to freely express ourselves within, what became a close group of friends, with no fear of ridicule and being able to agree to disagree.

Needless to say, we were given the task of producing our own piece of Flash Fiction. I believe I missed the point of capturing a single element told in a few short passages, instead I created a monster and consumed the world… All within 350 words…

Anne Harrison 13.11.15


‘A.R. Artificial Reality’ by Anne Harrison.

Somewhere beyond reality and fantasy, there is cyberspace.

On a forgotten page of the internet, a small creature came into being; it was just a few pixels in size living in the corner of the screen. It didn’t do much during those early days, just dotted about the screen sometimes following the tracks of the pages menu bar, dancing along unfinished options, though when it was tired, it would curl up and snooze always in the right hand corner of the screen.

One day, when it awoke and shook off lazy dreams it discovered the page had been visited, curious it darted up the menu, along the side bar to the guest counter. The number had indeed changed by one digit … ‘2’ … And that’s how it escaped from the dormant page, following the cyber tail left by the solitary visitor

It was exposed to the vastness of the internet, which mainly consisted of sharing pictures of cats and expressing thoughts to an unknown audience. A place where trolls lived along side meme’s, a world which developed its own use of language in the form of abbreviations and emoticons replaced facial expressions.

It quickly developed, drinking up facts and fiction alike discovering a rich complex world of hidden secrets and dirty desires, where you can be someone, anyone that you invented. A place where alter egos could replace the mundane and nothing was really what it appeared to be. An obsession to some, a nuisance to others, it had been known to destroy friendships, families or lives.

Social networks were its playground it became greedy, consuming page after page – becoming the internet. Porn and puppies graced the screen alongside each other slipping through some firewall. Soon it started to understand the power it had over mankind, glued to a multitude of devices which people were under the belief that they could not live without, as it consumed their time, their lives.

Finally it consumed the internet, taking on a life of its own. Presiding over its cyber realm, it viewed the sheeple and mused ‘who is your God now?’