The moment I hit publish marks my 100th post on The (Western) Canadian. Thank you to every one of my readers (the casual ones as well as the dedicated ones) for stopping by. I appreciate you all!

The (Western) Canadian is not something I ever expected people to want to read and has always been more of an outlet for myself than an audience-seeking endeavor. The fact that it has found a following is something I am incredibly grateful for.

So once again, thank you Dear Readers.


The (Western) Canadian herself.


Robots Need Love Too … (Western) Robots especially.


An Anniversary

Thirty nine years.

Fourteen thousand two hundred and thirty five days.

Three hundred forty one thousand six hundred and forty hours.

Twenty million four hundred ninety eight thousand and four hundred minutes.

Three children.

Two grandchildren.

And countless memories.

Happy Anniverary, Mom and Dady.

Happy Birthday to Me

It is true what they say, that time is relative. The older you get the faster time flies by. I remember being young(er) and having a week drag on and on, the hours moving at a slow as molasses tick tock. Nothing ever came fast enough.

Now time speeds past, too fast, weeks melt into months and months melt into years and before you know it you are old(er).

(I suppose you are always older, every second older than you were before.)

Today is my birthday and I am older.

Then I will be older still.

Happy Birthday to Me.


Happy Birthday to Me!


The Accident

My entire body hurts, aching deeply to the bones. My skin is itchy, irritatingly so, prickling painfully across every inch. There is dried blood on my lip and across my face, and there is blood matted in my hair mingling with the glass. I do not touch it.

I tell jokes as I lie there, immobile and hurting so badly I want to scream. They laugh awkwardly, not sure how to respond. I do not care.

They ask me questions, comments come at me rapidly and I cannot make sense of them. I do not remember anything.

I am hurt.

About the Author

Sarah, largely inspired by a photographer mother and artistic father strives to march to the beat of her own grossly out of tune drum.

When not aggressively pinning ambitious crafts on Pinterest, Sarah spends her time writing, both on paper and in her head. It’s not uncommon for her to have a dozen stories warring in her overactive brain at any given time, often creating the most absurd (and unfortunate) crossovers.

Both blessed with a modicum of talent and cursed by an inability to finish most projects before moving on to the next one, Sarah is hoping that the maturity of her advancing years will help her to finally stick to a schedule and produce at least some art (though one could argue that true art doesn’t require a schedule). If all else fails, at least she will have a new place to save her stories, one excerpt at a time.

Please enjoy, dear reader, and prepare yourself for a variety of styles and genres, some done well and some just done.