Writer’s Block Boot camp – Day 1

This is a two-week boot camp  program that is supposed to help with writing, both the motivation and the creativity. So today is obviously the first day. Let’s see what comes out.  The link for the site follows: http://www.writersdigest.com/wp-content/uploads/V7705_BootCampOfWritingPrompts.pdf

Day 1 – “Breaking Up With Writer’s Block It’s time for you and Writer’s Block to part ways. Write a letter breaking up with Writer’s Block, starting out with, “Dear Writer’s Block, it’s not you, it’s me …” – WBBC

Dear writer’s block, it’s not you, it’s me. Everything has been foggy lately. Disorientating and in a whirlwind. I lack motivation and persistence, so I blame you. You’ve been daubed “writer’s block” for a reason, have you not? Even now, I struggle to lose hold of you. The words seem forced through a too small strainer. All the good parts just sit in a pile watching the liquid and small particles fall into the sink. You can try and press firmly on the remainder, but you just ruin it. You can’t force matter to do what it doesn’t want to do. So I am dumping you out, and searching for a bigger strainer. So long. It’s not me…it’s you.


Death by Fire

This is a further attempt at fiction.  I’m attempting to show Scarlett’s character rather than just tell. I hope to develop this story further so any suggestions are welcome

Death by Fire

I saw her across the dim, smoke-filled bar. Everyone saw her. She was a Jessica Rabbit come to life. All ruby lips and high slitted dresses. Every movement was a sultry dance that captivated all the patrons of the establishment. Gazing at her made me remember our first and only meeting. It is the reason that I, like so many of these thirsty men here tonight, will never go over to her table. Not twice at least.

I stared a while longer, watched her caress her Lucky Strip cigarette between two plump lips. Staining the end of it ruby-red with her lipstick. She glanced sideways in my direction and slowly exhaled while crossing her left leg over to reveal more of her long, fair leg. Unexpectedly, she raised a long, delicate finger with its blood-red nail polish and beckoned me forward without ever looking back.

I would be a fool to ignore the summons, but I would surely not see the dawn if I went over. The idea of making a break for it was dashed as I saw large, monochrome men move towards the exits from my peripherals. I drained my whiskey glass, slammed it down on the counter, and walked to my death.

Sitting across from her, I felt the exhilaration I had the first time, even when I knew what she could do. She stared at me intensely, silently and put out her cigarette in the ashtray. As the last of the smoke lingered away she leaned forward, hands clasped, waiting. She waits for me to speak, and I accommodate her, trying a light conversation. “Lovely evening, isn’t it Scarlet?” I asked. She sits back in her chair, looking dissatisfied. “It’s raining Jon, not what I call lovely.” She quips. “Why are you here Jon? If I remember correctly, you were no longer…welcome here.” She said the last part of that sentence with the twinkle of malevolence and mystery that bewitched me in the first place. “Are you telling me that my memory is going Jon?”  Fear gripped every muscle in my body, if I made one false move, one slip, things would not end well.

“I’m not here on business Scarlett; I no longer carry a badge at all in fact.”  “How terrible that must have been for you” she purred. I choked on the scoff I wanted to let out and simply waved to a bartender for another round, anything to hide my fear, even though I knew she could smell it. She had this coy smile on her lips as she toyed with the diamond cross around her neck. “Don’t make me ask again Jon, why are you here?” I could hear the impatience in her voice and resolved to be out with it. I was as good as dead if I didn’t. Good as dead if I did, but I might as well go out with honesty, something I was not comfortable with.

Stumbling for words I confessed my obsession. “At first it started as an obsession linked with the job. I always knew it was you, and I didn’t understand why everyone was willing to turn a blind eye to your crimes. In the months of stake-outs and spying, I could never catch you red-handed, but I knew it was you. I was forced off the case after being asked repeatedly to leave it alone. This obsession eventually went in a downward spiral and in the end I lost my job completely. Went mad almost. I needed to catch you. After a year of digging and spying on my own I finally had you.” I paused at this part, taking a long sip of my newly arrived whiskey. All the time I was speaking, her lips were curved into a coy smile. She knew that I had never had her, and I learned that lesson far too late when I attempted to take her in. “A citizens arrest eh Jon? How utterly valiant of you. Not at all what I would have expected from the likes of you.” She almost spat the last word at me. I needed to speak quickly, or I would never arrive at my point, my only chance at survival. “I thought I was doing the right thing Scarlett, I wanted to make up for past sins, and to stop you. You control the entire city behind the scenes. I realized shortly after my release from your captivity that it wasn’t the idea of stopping the slaughter, or trafficking, or any of these illegal establishments that obsessed me. It was you.”

“My my, Jon, that is quite a confession, but it does not explain why you disobeyed me when I so mercifully released you in good faith. While I find your obsession quaint, I find your lack of fear…unnerving.” I could tell she was choosing her words carefully; nothing could unnerve this woman, this goddess of death. I knew it was too late by that carefully chosen word. I glanced down at my whiskey as her smirk returned. She stood up slowly then, placed her polished hands, leaning over on the table, revealing her bosom. I felt the light-headed and fuzzy vision crowd my sense, and as I slowly faded into death I heard her whisper in my ear, almost as if in regret “I told you never to come back Jon”

Burn it All Down

Sorry about my long absence over the Christmas break and such but I am back and have decided to challenge myself this year. I want to start writing short fiction which has always been hard for me. I find it difficult to develop plot and character. so I decided to put up pieces on here, excerpts so to speak. It will probably take me months to develop as I need guidance but I plan to put up my initial idea below and then through advice, or tips I will edit and fill in things such as setting and character. Please keep in mind that this next post is a jumble of ideas but I know there is something in there I want to pull out so excuse its lack of structure or coherency. Also, keep in mind that my sentence fragments and poor grammar at times is a writing style of my own. other than that, all edits, advice, etc is needed and appreciated.

Burn it All Down

Stories aren’t usually written about people like me. They’re written about people like my sister; beautiful and average intelligence. Simple, yet kind.  Hair the colour of straw that shimmers in any light. She knows when to smile and laugh at jokes.  She can make any one feel welcome and all the knights in their shinning armor adore her.  She is the ideal heroine.

People don’t usually write stories about me, the villain. I burn too brightly and who wants to look at something that could scorch your retinas. From afar it seems like a glorious light, miraculous and mysterious at its distance.  Like the sun however, the closer you get, the more you realize what a terrible mistake you’ve made. Hopefully you can get out in time.

Her and I were never close but never far apart either, what kept us in contact was turmoil. A struggle between light and dark.  Constant.  And with all things that come too close, she was gone. What’s left is the villain, the girl, the one who always gets kept at a distance. The one who broke your heart and laughed.  The one that still intrigues you.

The Day I went to Prison… and Didn’t Even Know It.

happy easter

It’s weird to think my best Easter was spent in prison. What’s even weirder is that I had no idea. I can’t remember the logistics of it but it was a large event for minimum risk prisoners to spend Easter with their children, grandchildren, etc. I think they brought us in through some magical tunnel so that the sight of our loved ones, and strangers behind cold bars, didn’t frighten us. Now it obviously wasn’t some magic tunnel but I had NO CLUE that is was a prison until a couple of years ago.

Yeah, apparently my grandma was a notorious drug dealer, and finally got caught.  I thought she was the sweetest woman who always had the best treats; funny how things work out like that. These criminals behind bars aren’t all bad people; they just do some not so good things. I don’t think less of her for her crimes, I actually think it was badass but I’m glad I didn’t know where I was.

We were taken to a large field with a basketball court in the middle. I remember nothing else but a couple of worn wooden benches. The sparseness struck me even then, I thought it was a crappy place to have an Easter hunt but hey, at least I was on one. I could see a couple of the elderly or lazy guardians lounging on the benches, the slightly sunny sky giving them this hazy glow.

I glanced over at my grandma, waiting for the cue to hunt. I was a competitive brat even then and I would find the best chocolates.  Sadly, I was right and this was a crappy place to have an Easter egg hunt. You can only hide so many eggs in tall grass or under a bench. Regardless. I won. Ha.



Easter wasn’t over yet, now was the time to potato sack race, egg race and three-legged race.  We gathered on the cracked cement that was supposed to be a basketball court and suited up. My grandma told me to go easy on them, but I scoffed in her face and bolted past the short-legged, unstable twits. I won all three races, and I suppose some credit is due to my three-legged partner for not being a complete nincompoop.

After the utter humiliation of all the small children and the refreshments had been consumed, we left without my grandma, and I never wondered why. I was busy reflecting on my day of successes. I don’t normally get birthdays or Easters with family so I got to show off in front of them. Make them proud. One last time.

When I finally found out that I had been to a prison unbeknownst to me and the reason why my jaw dropped, I hope you’ll excuse the cliché but that is how it felt. My sweet, innocent, baker of a grandmother was even more badass than me and I made her proud.

How could that not be the best Easter ever?

No, this its not an picture of my actual grandma. Wish I had one

No, this is not a picture of my actual grandma. Wish I had one

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From Failed Food Posts to Pretty Pets

Since my last post on food was an utter failure – thanks guys ;)-  I’ll just post a picture of my adorkable puppy to satiate my need for a post and all those delicious views. If you follow, more pet picture will be the reward 😉

Thief watching my post pics of him from the ground, where his cute butt belongs

Thief watching me post pics of him from the ground, where his cute butt belongs

And now my cat, Kizzy has caught me adoring someone other than her and this is the death look she gave me on top of her pinky pillow

Feel the roar

Kizzy watching me post pictures of her arch enemy

Happy weekend fellow bloggers!!

My Epic Murgh Makhani and the Adventure of a Lifetime

butter chicken

Some of the best experiences revolve around food; weddings, holidays, and gatherings of all types include food. For me, the greatest experience was always the making of that food. There are so many variables and varieties; the theoretical database of recipes would be a mindboggling experience to behold. Despite this sundry of recipes, I have my favourites. I’ve twisted and contorted meals until I’ve created the perfect dish. My most recent, and difficult accomplishment was my Murgh Makhani (Butter Chicken). It took me three years to get here, to this magical and savoury land of sauce and chicken.

My path to this magical land was riddled with horrors and all the bridges were haunted by trolls out to stop me. Acquiring the vast amount of colourful spices needed was expensive, so I paid off my first troll and crossed the bridge, buying in bulk in hopes of defeating the dragon I now call Lauren’s epic Murgh Makhani. My first encounter with attempting this dish was a fiasco. I knew little about butter chicken other than that I loved it, so I used the first recipe that had a delicious looking picture. We’ve all done it, don’t judge. Needless to say, following a recipe blindly with a romanticized dream of how it should turn out, did not work. The chicken was dry and overcooked, with little flavour. The sauce tasted like a slightly spiced, watered-down, tomato cream sauce, which is not at all appealing.

I paid off many more trolls in the months to come, trying new recipes and combining old ones until I started to understand what this dish was really about. The key is to get the perfect mixture of all the ingredients. This isn’t a salad where you can enjoy a fresh tomato in one bite and a crisp lettuce in the next. This is a dance of every flavour put in there. It needs to become one ingredient rather than 20. In order to do that, I needed to make a lot of mistakes and discoveries.

Slowly, my sauce thickened and my chicken moistened and the day came where I was ready to show the world. Well, it was a couple of my boyfriend’s family members, but to me, it’s the same thing. All of my trolls had been fought or bought and today was the big day.

I woke up early that morning, unable to sleep and decided to throw a fabulously excited puppy at my sleeping boyfriend. While his squeals of alarm and random giggles pierced the air I ran into my long, mirror-covered hallway. Those mirrors made me realize that it was impossible to hide in a funhouse, and I accepted my punishment of having to take that fabulous puppy outside. Upon our return from the triumphant adventure, I showered and went to work on what was to become the perfect creation.

I whipped around my kitchen collecting all the utensils, tools, ingredients and other odds and ends that I would need. It’s a small enough kitchen that I can basically stand in the middle and reach all my cupboards and appliances, but I’ve got my music on and I dance to each cupboard instead. I have to remind myself to close all of those white cupboard doors as my boyfriend foolishly walks into one, scolding me for once again leaving them open. I mock him instead and set him to cut the onions. They need to be small as I like to blend them and have a shitty, broken hand-held one that threatens to break and fly into the air at any moment. What can I say, I’m a daredevil. While the onions are being massacred, I pull out the marinated chicken and light the grill. The chicken is stained pink from the chilli and tandoori; the two spices mask the bright yellow of the turmeric, something that I ALWAYS get EVERYWHERE and end up yellow for a while. The grill is heating up and I’m mulling around my tiny kitchen preparing the many other ingredients because it’s time to make the sauce

Making the sauce is my favourite part because you get to experience every step of the meal through your sense of smell. Even the butter heating up in the pan, browning, gives off the smell of hazelnuts and almonds. Its delicately sweet smell becomes almost spicy-sweet as the dry spices are added, heated up until that smell breaks free, mixing beautifully with the butter. Slowly the other ingredients are added in segments. The ginger-garlic paste, the onions, the tomatoes, all add their own voice until a glorious song of flavours is made.

The sauce is made and simmering, which means it is time to add the chicken that has been grilling on the BBQ. First I need to chase my all too white dog around the house so I can clean his turmeric stained face… again. Even now, I can see a small yellow fingerprint on his cheek as he ponders my laptop. With the crisis averted, I add the grilled meat, blackened around the edges, into the orangey-red butter sauce. The simmering stops with the temperature change and I take the opportunity to taste test my concoction. Like a witch, I cackle at its magnificence. It feels as if I could fell Rome with this one delicious dish. I pace as the dish reaches its simmering potential once again and wait for the right time to add the cream, the final ingredient. I stand over the pan and pour the thick cream into it, watching the stark contrast of the fall coloured sauce with the white of the cream. I grab my spoon to destroy that contrast and bring rise to the final product.

The family arrives now, so I put on the rice. Basmati with a bit of saffron and a stick of cinnamon for that extra pizazz I love so much. The fluffy white rice is yet again contrasted by the colour of the sauce as I pour it over the rice, adding a splash of cream to the top of the dish for presentation. I hear the “oohs” and “awes” from the members who have already been served. I move more quickly as I wait to serve myself and join my family so that for once, I can have one of those great experiences that revolve around food.


I recently stumbled on this wonderful idea by a woman named Rochelle and decided to enter her photo prompt club type thing that she has on her blog. The challenge is to write a story about a photo that is given out weekly as a prompt. The flash fiction should be under 100 words and I’ve managed to do that! If anyone else is interested in participating Rochelle’s blog link will be below the photo.

weekly prompt


Carnage 92 words

Whenever disasters such as these sweep the land, it strips away all that was pure and only leaves the carnage. It shows us our mistakes, our trash.  As a survivor, I feel ashamed of what I see; deep beneath the plastics and metals is death.  I feel ashamed at what our kind has done so I walk amongst the wreckage.  I embrace it and shout out my rage so that perhaps someone will hear it. So that perhaps something can change.  So that perhaps, the next disaster will only leave the pure.