Writers Unblocked Magazine Volume 1/ Number 1

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in a large booming voice. This angers the little man with the ponytail and denim shirt, who has been intently watching the television. “Damn you, I’m missing the end of the story!” The man with the ponytail is surprisingly quick as he gets up from his chair to confront the man with the gold sweater. One day, Denise thinks, those two are really going to get into it. Then the manager will have to decide which family will have to find a new residence. The male nurse Kelvin steps in and the dispute is quickly resolved. Denise puts a cup of coffee on the table in front of George and returns a moment later with two cookies wrapped in a bright Christmas napkin. George smiles to himself. I haven’t thought about that for years, he mused. George looks at the cookies. “Thank you, Denise.” He takes a bite. “Well, they’re not mothers but I guess I finished all the cookies she brought me the other day.” She smiles and pats his shoulder. “Merry Christmas, George.” Seeing he is settled, Denise returns to the medicine cart to resume dispensing the afternoon doses to the residents at Brigham Manor. George hears children laughing and looks up at the TV screen. Boys and girls in woollen caps, mittens and puffy coats are gliding down hills on sleds. It reminds him of when he would take the children to their favourite hill each winter. What was the name of that place? He thinks for a moment. Toboggan Mound, that’s it! He remembers the day George let his children believe they’d tricked him into going down the hill on the toboggan alone. He remembers feeling a bit silly, but it made them laugh so much thinking they had outwitted their dad. CATHY SCHLENDER 8 WRITERS UNBLOCKED • VOL. 1 / NO. 1
THE CONSTANT GARDENING BY CHRIS JACKMAN, Chair, Arts and Design | School of Communications, Media, Arts and Design UNLIKE MY WIFE, I am a live-and-let-live gardener; the kind of gardener who doesn’t like to garden. Yard maintenance was an unfortunate side effect of purchasing our first home in this little corner of Scarborough. So when we first saw a patch of white flowers peeking out of our humble flower bed two years ago, I was sanguine. “They look nice! I know we didn’t plant it, but why not leave it there?” Survival of the fittest, bloom what may. My partner disagreed, but she respected my apathy, smouldering only slightly. I opted to put our kid to bed while she pulled them up one by one. Not a trace remained in the morning, and we granted ourselves the luxury of forgetting. We did not know that these were onions in our yard. Wild onions, whose blossoms flourish mid-spring. Wild onions, who sprout in silky green chives from tiny bulbs in the earth. Wild onions, whose stalks release easily and whose bulbs spread like infection. Wild onions with the tenacity of death itself. The onions became a problem in the summer 2020. They were no longer confined to a little patch, having made homes across the front yard with one or two little sorties in the back. I dutifully chipped in this time - the first months of lockdown were frenetic days for the acquisition of new talents - but I didn’t share the rancor of my sweet wife. These onions had become the hot coal of a Melvinesque obsession. On family walks she’d side-eye the neighbours’ yards and randomly break our stride with a cry of, “There! THERE! They have them too!” She would stoop to analyze their arrangement, trying to divine some secret of their spread, but always stood up dissatisfied. She’d even glare at them as we walked away, as though suspecting they might pick up their skirts and follow us home. I thought she was going slightly crazy, but it was the middle of 2020 and lockdown was wearing on us all, so who was I to judge? Speaking of psychoses, I have come to entertain a highly specific conspiracy theory: the Illuminati earmarked my family for psychological warfare. A true garden plot. Some nefarious bureaucrat was asked how he would break us, and he responded with the naked audacity of “Onions.” Did he even slow down before throwing the bulbs out of his car window? Did he get promoted? 2020 was the year we got proper trowels and kneepads, but these munitions were spent in a scattershot counter-offensive. Would vinegar work? Baking soda? And oops, a volcano. We didn’t even know what we were looking for at the time, memorably hacking away the wiry shoots of a young bush that was soon “transplanted” to a yard bag on the curb. We were also distracted by our son, now home from junior kindergarten and uncommonly fond of running towards traffic. VOL. 1 / NO. 1 • WRITERS UNBLOCKED 9
Page 1 and 2: VOL. 1/ NO. 1 WRITERS UNBLOCKED
Page 3 and 4: LAND ACKNOWLEDGMENT Centennial Coll
Page 5 and 6: When Centennial College Libraries l
Page 7 and 8: WRITING AND REVISING Now, my favour
Page 9 and 10: Be organized Use an Excel spreadshe
Page 11: “I’m dreaming of a white Christ
Page 15 and 16: late riser it was with the grim sat
Page 17 and 18: NO ONE SAID YOU HAD TO DO IT ALONE:
Page 19 and 20: From this point forward, try to be
Page 21 and 22: BUSY BY MAY WALKOWIAK, Faculty | Sc
Page 23 and 24: PANDEMIC Being scared makes me sick
Page 25 and 26: STANDING ON MT. KILIMANJARO BY PHIL
Page 27 and 28: You took the oath as president Of a
Page 29 and 30: LIFE IS A JOURNEY: 8 Reasons to Tra
Page 31 and 32: Egyptian Sphinx and Great Pyramid o
Page 33 and 34: That side spoke to his interest in
Page 35 and 36: Deep down it was about knowing your
Page 37 and 38: THANK YOU FOR READING WRITERS UNBLO

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