Nightmare Memories

Who Holds These Memories?


There was never a clear view, he had no desire to move, so from where he sat in the damp cold mud there was never a clear view. Low leaves obscured his vision, the thick bark of the tree, which serves as his shelter were details that were firmly imprinted in his mind. A small bug ambled past, blue yet purple yet gold, the wing casing shimmered in the bright sunlight.

Voices… He looked up, his attention distracted away from the tiny critter. He knew the male voice and grinned, burying himself deeper into his bolt hole. An expert in this game, he could remain concealed for hours, stubborn and determined to win.

The second voice, he did not know, was also male and spoke with a thick accent, his words foreign to the child. He frowned and pulled away a few leaves of his camouflage curious, but still unable to glimpse the scene distinctly.

“Xunus dos talinth dos gumash veldri pholor l’shinduago mal’rak?”

The words haunted his memories.

What followed happened so swiftly, that it was over in just a few heartbeats, but would remain imprinted upon his mind forever.

A young woman entered the clearing carrying a crop of apples in her arms, her golden hair caught the sunlight, her voice softly singing, her step light, the shift she wore clung to her long legs as a cool breeze whipped through the trees.

The two men, near identical men, save for their garments turned to regard her arrival. The stranger growled angry words, with a tone of accusation. A sword leapt to his right hand so swiftly, the hidden one had to clasp a hand over his own mouth to prevent his gasp escaping.

“No One.” Came the reply to the foreigners’ harsh demands.

The stranger simply raised his left hand towards the woman, keeping the point of his sword aimed directly at the speaker.

All the apples tumbled freely across the soft grass, falling from her slack grip, though the woman still stood still on her feet. Before the last apple dropped to the ground, the foreigner had crossed the short distance to where she was rooted to the spot. He appeared to move impossibly fast. Sword re-sheathed as he stalked around her immobile form.

That all took just a few moments and there was never a clear view. The two, near identical men left together shortly afterwards, both chattering in the same alien tongue, neither glanced back to the maiden in the sunlight, captured immobile by a wicked spell.

It was dark by the time he crept from his favourite bolt hole, he was not sure if he had fell asleep or not, but tears stained his young cheeks, his clothes, muddy, wet and cold. His bare feet padded softly over the damp grass to where the woman stood still. He didn’t understand her motionlessness, he wrapped his tiny arms around her legs, burying his face into her thighs as he had countless times.

Her shift was drenched in cold, dark, sticky blood that pooled around her toes, it stained the child’s face as he clung to her, begged to her to move, to answer him, to cuddle him.

The vile spell exhausted its hold on the dead woman and she crumpled to the ground, her head slid away, released from the magical hold, discharging more gloopy gore. The child blanched as the head rolled away, a maliciously sharp barbed garrotte wire still entangled in her flesh and blood matted hair.


He woke up… The dream was always the same… There was never a clear view.



Anne Harrison.

Originally written December 17, 2015 – Added to the blog 18.05.17

There’s nothing so cruel as memory

*Person Musings*


As a child, my first experience of being humiliated and disillusioned was a painful experience at Sir Jonathan North. I was deeply passionate about history, I wanted to study history and either be a historian, librarian or work in a museum. That was my goal, my fascination with ancient cultures… Especially the Romans, meant that I had collected a fine display of Roman pottery and coins. When we covered this era in history class, I was beyond excited and chose to take my collection to class to share in a ‘show and tell’…

Well that was a disaster, my class ‘friends’ mocked my collection… Calling the whole thing a waste of time and boring etc…
My bubble was burst, I was disheartened and at that point neglected my life goals, feeling humiliation and bullied…

My passion became a dirty secret, I lost a lot of the pottery (because it reminded me of being bullied) but somewhere in my heart the ancient Romans refused to let go of my interest…

So when the chance arose to visit the dig site in Leicester last weekend, I couldn’t resist, waiting an hour in drizzle and cold with hundreds of others, for a glimpse of Roman Leicester awoken some of my passion, but also a fair deal of humiliation.

However it has thrown into light an interesting concept in my mind, how one painful experience changed the whole direction of my life, because I was bullied for something I loved… Had I not took comments so personally, had I shrugged off such negative attitudes, would I have never been bullied for so long?

Had I just ignored them, would I have followed my dream, fulfilled my goals and become an academic? How different could my life had been had I reacted differently to one singular event?



Anne Harrison 15.05.17

The Face of Depression 

A Personal Blog…

I was utterly horrified when an old photo of me surfaced at work. Taken near the start of my current job,  around 2010/2011 time… I am beyond embarrassed,  so here I am,  sharing the monstrosity on the bloody Internet instead of putting it through the shredder…  Because, my very first thought when I looked upon myself from (not that many) years ago, was ‘OMG… I was so unhappy’…

It was that thought which compelled me to keep the photo and to share the photo.  This is the face of Depression,  this was me at my lowest ebb, this was the self destructive,  self harming, suicidal,  drinking, eating junk, miserable and ill… I was slowly killing myself and I hated myself…

This is my face and I’m wearing my depression in my eyes, it lays heavily on my shoulders along with the weight I was carrying.  This is me, this is who I was and I can’t hate her,  she’s my past,  she’s all the horrible things I’ve been through… But she survived… Because she is me…

This is me now, this is who I am, who she came to be…  I no longer live with depression… It’s been a long path, that journey to self love,  to love life and grasp crazy adventures (like Glass Walking)…

If I had given up,  if I had vanished into the bottom of another empty wine bottle,  I would never had thought I could have achieved all I have done in just a few short years.

I am not perfect, but I don’t need to be perfect. I still have moments where I’m gripped by anxiety and  I am still overweight (Damn You Cake!)…

I never anticipated that I could change my life around so much,  so drastically… Sometimes you need that blast from the past, that smack in the face to help you understand just how far you have come and give you the courage to continue…
Love Anne x


Reasons Why I Could Never Write Movie Reviews

*A Personal Amusing Musing*


I go to the cinema more often than I should, I adore the solitude, the time to escape the mundane and plunge myself into a tale. I adore the darkness, the ice cream and the size of the screen. I watch a whole range of genres, but mostly Horror, Marvel/DC, Action, Thriller… Basically anything with explosions…

… I’m enjoying my work on my blog, the way it skips from the short scenes of a progressing story, merged with my dreadful poetry and random thoughts, with a sprinkling of rants to spice things up a bit occasionally. Several friends have suggested that I could use this space here to add some Movie Reviews to accompany my passion for the cinema. I can’t do that.

I don’t like movie reviews and I hardly ever read them, I like to form my own opinion with an open mind, I don’t like to know the story before hand, I go on the strength of ‘trailers’ which means I have sat through some weird shit before now, because I wasn’t really sure what I was letting myself watch. Though that is really half the fun at times! A movie review – at the end of the day – is but one persons view alone.

I have noticed that reviews are written in a certain tone of voice, quite similar to professional bloggers, or at least those who take their blog far more seriously than I. A review needs to be carefully written in order to avoid spoilers… This would be my first hang up, I would want to write about the story instead of Mr Fame Pants dreadful acting.

So I would possibly unintentionally let spoilers slip.

I don’t see films as acting – I submerge myself into the tale so much that I forget I’m watching Mr Fame Pants working and I see the character instead. Problem number two – I couldn’t judge ‘acting’… I am very easily entertained  (I think this is because I do not own a TV) so basically everything is awesome…

I think should I write a review, it would run along the lines of overwhelming enthusiasm an overdose of the word ‘awesomeness’, unintentional spoilers and a summery which is based on whether I would buy it on DVD or not…

Lets face it, I’m not good at being critical, I prefer to be emerged, I forget to look for ‘Easter Eggs’ I never scoff which an unimpressed “As if!” … Because it’s a movie – it is designed to be beyond real, to be fantastic, emotional, larger than life and make believe…

I think I’m too dipsy to write a clear review as I can get too excitable, I always have, I could not sit still in my seat as a child because I wanted to jump into the screen and throw myself into adventure. I believe my movie obsession fuels my love for writing and I am fascinated by the whole process from idea to story to screenplay to screen (and all the little steps in between) Yes! I do judge a film against a book – if I have read the book that is – But I can accept that a film is another persons translation  upon the book and everybody see stories differently in their minds.

I can’t write a film review – I prefer to collect experiences and each film I watch at the cinema is another experience to treasure.


Anne Harrison 10.11.16

The Two Year Gap

So… I found something I posted from 2014,  which I have already shared with you all recently…

Wow! I have changed, or at least I feel as though I have changed… I read through my old words and I see the old me as I was, tubby,  insecure,  anxious,  fragile,  dependent…

I still have issues with anxiety,  but I have developed independently enough to understand that the ‘what if’ situations I play inside my head are all figments of an over active imagination.

2016 has not been kind to me and my family, but I strongly believe the old me, the one who wrote those words,  would have struggled with all this shit…
Trust me,  it is a struggle,  but I know I need to be strong for others now and not my old selfish insecurities… Me, me, me…I, I, I… Can you really escape that personal torment and focus on others…  Was I really that unbearable?

I realise that what I wrote was so close to the point where everything changed,  that I really was on the path to where I am now… I also know I still have a way to go yet.

I have come so far in two short years…  That I’m looking forward to next Monday!!


Love Anne 02.11.16

2 Nov 2014 @ 9:18am

I wonder how many times I have fucked up and slipped back into bad habits because they are an easy coping strategy. How many times I fool myself into believing I have conquered my depression only to get the black dog snap at my heels. I’ve worked bloody hard to this year without a holiday. I long to go away, but that’s an impossibly (currently) there are many things I long for, like a release from crippling insecurities or a magic cure for panic attacks. But there really is only one answer… Me!
I’m turning into another year of my life and I can not go on living my life inventing non-existing fears in my mind.
I found some answers which actually suit me and who I am. I need to work on these and drag myself away from negative bad habits. I know I can do so, I’ve done so before. I am strong,  I am beautiful,  I am worthy! I need to believe that!
This is my birthday gift to myself xxx

Pop Art

Tumbling down the Tumblr hole and finding you’re not as strong as you think you are…


i saw an image today
i watched - it did not move
just a lone image upon a screen
one of many - but single to me
despite all horror and gore
the made up shit that is nothing more
sometimes reality leaps back
and turns your stomach inside out
memories you would rather forget
scenes which question strength
pain wrapped up in stitches
tears stain the bathroom floor
i click - close the page - open anew
and write
words flowing freely as my tummy tumbles
feeling emotional
without the strength to cry


Anne Harrison 07.10.16

Reflections of the past

Have you ever looked back upon your life & remembered an event (or series of events) which, when reflected upon, may have helped your journey on whichever path you have found?
These memories may lay hidden in the back of your mind until something or someone triggers off a chain of events, taking you back to reawaken forgotten experiences.


Many, many moons ago, when I was a young child, before I questioned the teaching of my Sunday school. I met a man, a friend of the family& a giant of a man! A powerful character with a gentle soul. He is dead now; I regret to say I did not know him so well. Yet this kind Gentleman, who I hardly knew, left such an impact on my child like mind!
He used to work at the school where my mother was a dinner lady.
Sometimes I used to help my mother at work & that is how I met Bob.

I remember this one time I had a thumping headache & Bob introduced me as a mere child, to what he called ‘Hands On’ healing.
Though he never laid his hands upon my physical form, put my aura!
He taught me what your aura was & how, even simple things like headaches may be relieved by smoothing out the impurities within the aura.
Indeed my headache subsided.
But that is not all I remember learning from this giant kind man, he lead me deep within my own mind.
It was as clear as day within my memory…
His voice muffled slightly as he was hard of hearing.
When I complained of my headache he sat me down cupped his great hands around the aura of my head. Almost instantly I felt my ears start to ‘glow’ instinctively I closed my eyes.
“Picture rolling hills…” I heard him say & out of the darkness, in my minds eye, fresh green hills & lush bright colours filled my inner sight.
He didn’t need to tell me to picture myself there…
I already stood at the top of the hill, not to steep a lazy slanting roll of the earth.
He continued to talk me through the scene, though my mind built up the patterns he wove.
The hill became a valley & flowing through the centre of the valley nestled between the slight hills & fresh grass.
Was a shallow, cool clear, running stream.
You have to remember that I think I was about six at the time, so instead of strolling calmly down to the waters edge. I lied on my side & rolled down the grass!
I must have laughed out loud!
And I remember daisies….
He continued… though I needed little prompting to explore the stream…
I was looking for fish!
With bare feet I tiptoed into the chilly water & over slimy stones.
I never did see any fish!

The water ran over my toes cool & rapid, over stones slick with spray…
He continued… the sun was high in the sky, bright & clear, I lifted my face & I must have moved my head, as I felt the warm ‘glow’ shift from my ears…
Yet my face felt warm & refreshed from the bright blessing of the sun & my toes were feeling cold now.
He continued… On the far side of the stream was a huge old twisted tree. Under this I rested, wet feet tickled by sweet grass.
Lying under the tree I watched the sun make lazy shadows through the dark green leaves, which shifted & danced in a slight breeze…
Sound now accompanied my inner vision… the clear babble of the constantly flowing stream, the odd pop as one of those elusive fish disturbed the waters surface.
The sound of the wind rummaging through the trees leaves…
But peace & tranquillity can only last so long in the mind of a child…
He continued… The adventure began…
There is a hole at the base of the roots…
Well the first thing to pop into my head was the opening line in a story book I had my Mabel Lucy Attwell. “Brownie Bean the gay little elf lived under the roots of the old oak tree.”
I ventured under the tree roots pretending to be a bunny…
Yet I found myself wondering along a dark almost black tunnel, taking me down deeper into the earth.
The smell of soil filled my nose & almost blindly I followed the passage.
Hands on each side of the wall, the earth moist against my feet.
Don’t be afraid, I heard him say. But I wasn’t, I was too curious.
The light from the tunnels entrance hit thousands of tiny shards of multi-coloured crystals. Blinking, embedded in the earth’s walls…
I almost fancied that I would turn a corner & find myself in a fairy kingdom.
But like those elusive fish, no such sight presented itself in my vision.
He continued…
And I found myself standing within a cave lit the same way as the tunnel, yet hard stone now replaced the soft turf.
He left me there, fell silent.

Within those silent moments a figure of a dark man made himself known to me, I was no longer alone in my cave. He spoke in a language I was unfamiliar with. Yet I knew I should know. He handed me a gift, which I didn’t look at instantly.
I turned to thank him, but he had already gone.
The guiding voice began again, leading me back to the bright sunlight.
Strangely enough once I was back from under the tree roots, He said I could look at my gift.
A small pale blue feather lay in the palm of my hand, and it made me smile.
I was lead back, bidding farewell to the strong tree from the earth, the subtle wind in its branches, to the water that nurtured it & the sun that lifted its leaves in awe.
Lead back out of my journey back to the school kitchen, with warm ears, sleepy eyes & a clear head!
Free from any previous pain.
I almost expected that blue feather to be in my hand, as I felt strangely reunited.
Naturally with no headache to hinder me I tore about to terrorise the boys!!

Though now I was not alone…

Once Upon a Time – Not so Long Ago


Facebook – love it or hate it – it lingers on the internet with its soft edged blue ‘f’ – just another popular social network  – a place to share your thoughts, photos, rants or dinner. You really don’t need me to expand on this fact… However one of its features is the ‘time hop’ – which can be rather cringe-worthy or amusing if you bother to check it… Some days I do, some days I forget or just cant be bothered… Today was one of those days where I was just absently scrolling through such memories, re-posted a couple of silly Deadpool or Harley cartoons on Tumblr (because I can) …



… Then I found an open letter I had written and posted three years ago – This was a real smack in the face, as I read my own words again and the replies I received… A wake up call, if you like… So along with silly cartoons, I have decided to share my words again – NOT on Facebook, but here in a blog, I’m afraid it’s more for my own selfish reason, I’m afraid, so that I can recall these words and remember them, so I can see how far I have come and accept how much difference a simple three years can make…

… Apologies for a break in fiction – Usual nonsense will resume next week…   

Anne Harrison 19.08.16

This is the hardest post I’ve ever written!

An open letter to my friends,

If you’ve noticed that I’ve not quite been myself this year, or even vanished into obscurity a little, personally withdrawing from social events.

(but not from posting silly jokes on facebook)

I need to be honest, with myself, more than anyone else, but also with friends who may have thought I have abonended them this year. For that I am dreadfully sorry.

However, in March I had a Stroke… Not a full on major stroke, a minor stroke… But a stroke is still a stroke and it’s effects are quite drastic.
I’ve been left with some numbness/tingling in my left hand, trouble with my head, neck and vision. My memory is scatty and I’ve had suicidal thoughts with depression. 

Mainly I’ve been trying to pretend that nothing is wrong and ignoring pain. I’ve kept working and kept on trying to put on a ‘normal’ face and mask pain and sight loss with ignorance.

Though, please don’t think this is a ‘woo-is-me’ letter, I’m not writing for sympathy, what I honestly desire is forgiveness, for not being there for you when you needed me. For being absent from an event or meeting. For hiding away from the world at times and for being a fool to myself.

I’ve had 6 months now to recover and I’m nearly there, it’s made me look at my life in a different way and realise how lucky I am to be alive. I’ve applied to go to Uni, I’ve quit drinking (100%) and I’ve learnt how to cry.

A recent conversation made me realise how foolish I’ve been to hide this like a ‘dirty secret’ if it was someone I adored, I’d want to know, even if it was just to supply hugs…
Everyone loves hugs!

So there you have it, my written confession for the world to know… Tomorrow is a new day and the wheel turns on, just as it will do when I’m dead and gone.

Life is a precious gift, love your life, be at peace with yourself and make each day count!

Love, Ayn xxx


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.