Writers Unblocked Magazine Volume 1/ Number 1

late riser it was with the grim satisfaction of
a sniper in the urban wasteland seeing the
muzzle-flash of a hidden enemy. Then I’d aim
and… bang.
But with destruction comes renewal. And
as the low and level dirt stretched far away,
we even began to consider repopulating the
yard with plants of our choosing. We picked
up creeping vines from the local florist,
plundered ferns from a vacant lot, seeded
the lawn with clover, and split hosta after
hosta to fill the voids. Our neighbours had
wisely kept their distance from our mania,
but now pitched in their spare geraniums
and lily of the valley too. A garden slowly
coalesced before us, and day by day our
minds cleared. Over time, we didn’t even
scan for imperfections as we walked the
neighbourhood; we looked for the beautiful
possibilities of every bush and blossom.
“I’m pretty sure
it’s some kind
of onion.”
This brings me to a Saturday in early June
when we lingered at a flowerbed in Glen
Stewart Park, a small riot of color in the
green expanse.
Our son (now 6) was racing around the lawn
while my partner held my hand, directing my
gaze to ask, “What do you think of those tall
ones with the purple flower? Do you think
we could pick up a few to put near the maple
tree?” And I smiled, calmly acquiescing to her
vision. “Sure thing, it’s really nice. What kind
of plant is that?”
She had a moment of hesitation, and in that
moment, I knew exactly what kind of plant it
was. My smile decayed, my eyes widened,
and I released her hand. I heard a low and
distant alarm in the back of my animal
brain. Then I slowly turned to her, scoring
a trench across her profile as she looked
fixedly ahead. And with an air of undeserved
consideration, she finally told me:
CHRIS JACKMAN
VOL. 1 / NO. 1 • WRITERS UNBLOCKED
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