“I walked in still holding the bouquet of flowers and worried the vet tech would think I’d got them for the cat.”
“I’m so much more careful now with the company I keep, the liquor I avoid, the bars I go to.”
“But you were indestructibly you.”
“Representation of Black people in the media is crucial because there are young Black children out there, watching and waiting for their next idol. They all need to know that not only are they acceptable, but that they are beautiful and destined for excellence.”
“The young man at the protest about to climb the lamp / can’t be Gene Kelly, / trained to keep his hands off the high light, / take home as much grace as he can scrape off the bottom.”
“She used code-switching as a buffer, a way to protect herself when she took a tentative step into the thick haze that was an infinity of potential futures for them.”
She stood on the edge of the bedroom. The walls, floors, and light were grey. She was wearing her shoes. The room was cluttered. Some of the clutter was hers, natural to her. Her uniform lay crumpled vertically in a corner by the closet; she’d stepped directly out […]
prints that pair art and the stories they inspired
“When I grieve for my mom now, I grieve for her at her gentlest. The leaves in the treetops turn orange. A chickadee calls out from somewhere in the cityscape.”
“Striking colours provided a glimmer of hope through the subversion of institutionalized hatred, confiding in the expansive possibility of self-expression.”
“In time, she may return to the rubble, / pick bones for a living”
“I came home from work one day in the winter with a bag full of big hunks of white chocolate. I had no intention of eating it and I knew she didn’t like it. It was a small test, I suppose.”
“Home is wherever I’m without you.”
“Tell her I checked in & checked away from there. /
Tell her she’s not in my thoughts or prayers.”
“the dropping of tobacco and the cleansing smoke of pray / these are the pinpricks of light that cast my dreams into doubt”
In years past it’s been scraps of paper, candles, a drainful of hair — anything to light on fire in effigy of the calendar, walking figure eights through Strathcona trailing rosemary and smoke. This year I am keeping it simple, throwing salt out of my own eyes, casting […]
“Can you notice something subtle like that and then learn the word for it, or is it kind of invisible until you can name it?”
Who is paying for our survival, and at what cost?
“What I’m noticing though, now that I’m paying attention, is the ways in which the darkness is growing, expanding, in spite of the moonlight.”
This poem by Jessica Goldson was inspired by Juan Travieso’s “The Monument”
“a paper literally the “White Paper” was intended to give representation to the demands of Indigenous people.”
L says to T, “Do you ever hear sounds coming from your fingers?” She’s examining the tips of her fingers, the little grooves put there by the strings of T’s guitar. She holds her fingers to her ears. “I swear I can hear a buzzing sound.” L is […]
“Recording glass breaks creates the sensation of a process of shattering that doesn’t end.”
“Aligning yourself with passionate laziness is a bad look.”
“Portrait of an Artist as an Old Photo of My Dad Leaning Against His Siren Red Chevelle”
“We dated for four years. I never orgasmed.”
“What good is it to you
to bear the weight
of their despair?”
The bottoms of the little creature’s feet were rough, as if they were covered in the tips of hazelnut shells. This was a thing it didn’t much like about itself. If it could have gotten some kind of procedure to fix its feet—surgery, maybe, or even something […]
Meet our new editor, Leah Mol! “I’m so excited to be taking over for Liam as an editor at Word and Colour. He’s done great things in the position, and I’ll take that as inspiration to work hard and keep publishing art that speaks to social issues and […]
“submitting stories is sometimes like looking for approval from strangers who you might profoundly hate if you met them.”
as of June 22, we’re ONLY on Instagram with a new mandate: “One image. One sentence. One story.”
on cold winter mornings / face shrouded in black veils / girls marching to six o’clock Mass
1.5 million pounds of soil raised to the 4th floor of Calgary’s CORE shopping complex supports an inner- city oasis. The Devonian Gardens are open publically during mall hours. Oil executives employed nearby visit the green-space on lunchbreaks, eluding the paupers of Stephen Ave. in +15s returning […]
We did not talk. You were too high and I was enamoured with the symphony of sounds coming from rushing waters beating against soft rock on the bottom of the riverbed.
She heard it crack, felt it flatten beneath her. She experienced a moment of relief before the panic—if there’s one, there will be others, she thought.
I’ve known too many people who’ve left.
“Later he will associate running faucets and the shadows of mid-afternoon with his grandmother’s bloodshot eyes and tension-stooped back. Blood and screams and broken bodies are banal compared to a tap left running, to an elongation of shadow on a kitchen floor.”
“I dance around it, as we always dance around it, not wanting to make it a big deal, but wanting to make it maybe just big enough that maybe they’ll be able to help.”
“You should read this book!” “Why?” “Because I liked it!” “But you also like Iggy Azalea.” I’ve decided to fill my summer editorials with mini book reviews! The goal is to save time for my community and others to navigate which books they might want to […]
When she was little, she always ran her baths too hot. She would sit on the edge, naked flesh pricked with goosebumps, running cold water in and stirring it, flinching at the hot current that made her hand flush.
People don’t want to be rock stars or actors or authors, they want to be rock stars who act in movies and who just saw their memoir hit the New York Times Bestseller list.
Nineteen thirty-seven was Icarus in seamed stockings. My grandmother spent nights praying for the blanched bones of Amelia Earhart, femur and sacrum floating somewhere in a blackened sea. Gravity could kill a gal. Now, Google tells me that my fear of flying is an inherited nervousness, a bred-in-the-bone type […]
“if an idea is painted, a history, a desire / a colour is not just a colour”
“but I am still standing here / drowning in your eyes”
“There are two versions, / one always melting into / the other.”