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 it’s 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, ect 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, ect. 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 the 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 its 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 over cooked, 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 fun house, 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 cutting 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 finger print 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 at 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.

The Day the Pineapple Fell

“When life gives you pineapples, take them because, hey, free pineapples”


Featured image

* I want to start of this story by telling you that this pineapple was fully skinned so there is nothing gross about my story you germaphobes.

It’s a rainy, dismal day and I need to take my beautiful white, all too stain-able, puppy out for a walk. I curse at the litter lying around the doorway of my apartment building; cigarettes, Tim Horton’s cup( It’s Canada’s favourite coffee shop for those of you who are unfamiliar) a McDonald’s bag and other odds and ends. Either someone decided to have a disgusting meal in the rain or there were multiple vandals.

Since I am not a janitor, I walked Thief and my cute butt right by it, trotting on our merry way. Short story even shorter, he did his business, sniffed some things, tripped me as usual, and we made our way back.

Now, I don’t know if it was the lighting or my general interest to find more discarded litter, but I took a closer look and found a treasure. A marvellously, fully intact, golden, pineapple – in December no less. 

I shiftily looked around to make sure no one would see my crime; I swiped the pineapple, booking it back into my apartment, laughing histerically the entire way, which pretty much blew my cover of secrecy anyway. I took it inside and devoured it instantly.

And you know what, it was the best damn pineapple I’ve ever had.


Because I needed a hug today

Because I needed a hug today

It’s one of those moments in life where it’s far too difficult to face yourself, yet you know you must if you’re ever to survive. You’ve let yourself down in some monumental way, or perhaps it’s the same mistake repeatedly. The feeling to run and hide can be overwhelming, and for me it was. This is my story of depression. I’ve never written or even really spoken of it my entire life because I thought I could beat it on my own. Here’s proof that I haven’t.

I’ve had depression, severe depressions, since I was a kid. Coming clean and talking about anything that makes me less than perfect is something I’ve chosen not to do until now. What these symptoms, along with my own bad decisions, have led me to commit shames me. Why would I want people to see that? Put into perspective though, these things are nothing outrageously terrible. For me however, my mistakes could cost me my future.

My education is quite literally all I have that is my own. My future is what I hold on to. That promise of better. I boil up in side when people say it will get better. I’ve actually started to scream at them, I scream that I’ve been waiting 15+ years for things to be better. I’m sick of hearing it, and I’m sick of hoping; and yet here I am. Hoping. My education is the only way out, and it seems I’ve failed.

I need to put this out there, and it is not for bragging purposes but purely to show that I am perfectly capable of passing. I use to be a straight A student, and that comes with minimal effort. Within this year though my attendance waned, and my work load piled up, something that has NEVER happened to me. I freaked, just straight-up broke the fuck down. I can’t pin-point the reason of this break-down, but it completely and utterly consumed me. All I saw was darkness. I got so behind in my school work that it became physically impossible for me to catch up. So I didn’t. Three classes…failed. Three very important classes might I add. Failed.

I made the decision that I needed outside help because my dreams are massive and not for the weak of will, and I refuse to go down without a fight. Even if the enemy is me. I have wild dreams of being a top professor at Oxford with documentaries and books written by me soaring the internet and stores. I want to travel the world as an activist and fix the things I read about in the papers. I want to do all of these things and more, and sometimes it feels as if I’ll burst. I know I cannot do all of these thing, but I’ll work towards them none the less. I can still teach, and I can still protest what matters to me. But it will never be enough.

My outside help was a therapist and the thing I dreaded most, medication. It dulls me. It dulls my writing and it dulls my senses, but it’s easier to just be. So the question ends up being, do I choose to lose what really makes me me, the fire and the passion, but gain a general balance, the ability to function? Do I want the white fence, SUV and kids? Or do I choose the all-consuming chaos that will destroy me in the end so that I can have that fierce passion? I can choose to feel things, or I can choose not to.

I will always choose fire.