I lay myself down in between you
And us
And inhale.
You do not smell like home
Like they said you would.
You smell like old pine trees and the mud they root themselves in,
And I inhale again.
I begin to weep and you ask me why;
“You smell like land unconquered,” I say.
“You smell like a dream.”
these words by Nahomi Amberber were inspired by the work of Selina Vesely
The oddest thing about this new land was the blandness of things constructed by people. She remarked on her first day that all the houses were more or less the same colour. They were brown or grey, or varying combinations of brown and grey. Occasionally a house would have a colourful door. She learnt about a third colour, beige, that described most of the houses in her new land, and she decided it was also the best way to describe the food.
All the food was varying shades of brown and beige. Potato. Bread. Noodles. Meat. Repeat. All brown or beige. Sometimes there were splashes of red for things that were supposed to taste like tomatoes, like this sweet concoction ketchup, but it really didn’t taste like tomatoes at all. Apparently there were colourful foods in this new land too but someone told her that not everyone could afford them.
By far the best thing about this new land were the colours in the trees and on the ground. In summer, there were so many shades of green. It seemed almost a shame that there was just one word—green—to describe all of these magnificent colours, as if a mere word could capture the magic of this land of forests. Back home, all the trees and bushes were the same dull matte green covered by a thick film of grime. In retrospect, maybe her old land was best described by that new word, beige, when it came to the flora.
She was pleasantly surprised by the explosion of oranges, reds, yellows and purples that came in autumn, another new word, and was amazed by the new textures of the leaves which crunched beneath her feet. When winter came, the newest word of all, the white was blindingly beautiful; she wanted to touch it all the time, except that it was cold and afterwards her hands would turn red.
The white stayed for a very long time, much longer than the greens, the oranges and the yellows. She could tell her parents were getting impatient with the white and browns. How dull this was, especially next to the brown houses and the brown food, they complained. They missed the colourful houses, the colourful foods. They missed seeing plants all year round, even if they were dull matte green and covered in grime. Sometimes they were so sad they would cry, or yell at each other, or call family back home to cry and yell. She thought about how happy they had been when they first arrived, when the colours were there to welcome them. She was certain that there were still colours out in the woods, and she decided to go collect some to make her parents happy again.
Down the road from her new brown-and-beige house was a little pond covered with a thin layer of grey-white ice. The ice, which had previously been solid white-blue, had begun to turn into lacey webs, peeking through to still dark grey water. She peered over the side of the pond and spied some reds and oranges. The leaves from autumn! They were still there, in the dark grey water, just beyond the thin white ice. How lovely it would be to rescue the trapped colourful leaves from their cold wet prison, and bring them home to make her parents happy again. She would dry them off and make a bouquet, she decided. Slowly, she shifted herself down, sliding her purple boots onto the grey-white ice, over to the edge of the dark grey water, when she heard a CRACK beneath her feet.
The local newspaper tweeted the next morning: “Illegal immigrant, aged 6, dead in Greenpoint Pond.” The comments read: “serves them right anyway, they get what they deserve,” “now deport her family before they get on our EI.”
these words by Jo-Ann Zhou were inspired by the work of Selina Vesely
From the author: Aside from the ending, the rest of the piece is actually based entirely off of my own personal experience; even though I was born in Canada, I moved abroad to Peru when I was a baby (thus the inspiration for the “beige” land, since Lima is very dusty) and moved back when I was five years old. So, even though I’m “Canadian” I still feel as though I’ve lived through the “immigrant experience” since I had to learn the language and get used to the new food and customs. I wanted to write a piece that conveyed the mixed emotions of arriving in a new country: the excitement of discovering new things but also missing certain things from home. As a kid, that also meant watching my parents work through those emotions too, which I partially conveyed here. The jarring ending is a second commentary on my experience as a “kind of immigrant”; most of the time I love living in Canada and have a great sense of wonder and respect for it, but this is occasionally jolted by rude comments from strangers who don’t think that immigrants belong. The juxtaposition is meant to show the reader how jarring these comments can be, as they often come totally unprovoked and with no context.
The young woman clothes herself in fall colours year-round. Something about being surrounded by hues emblematic of death gives her a sense of peace. Enrobed in maroon, and burnt oranges and umbers, she feels a crispness in her step, a frail assuredness. As she treads through autumn, flattening the leaves, she, too, finds herself bent backward. Snowflakes descend, stifling the last breaths of crunching leaves — disembodied trees. Sheets of ice overwhelm battered leaves, soothing and preserving their bruised tissues. Although she anticipates destruction, winter heals her.
these words by Jess Goldson were inspired by the work of Selina Vesely
It is not the same, the rain here and the rain there. Even though the sky is heavy with untold secrets the same way. Even though when the clouds breathe, they breathe tears. Even though it falls, as it does everywhere. It is not the same. I suppose it can never be the same in any two places. But it takes a while to know the difference.
People are people and places are places. But the earth breathes differently when water touches it, depending on where it is. Sometimes, touches make it shiver and shrivel away. Or don’t make it any more or any less than it is. And sometimes, touches make it come alive. You can tell how the water makes the earth feel from the way it smells.
It is the same with people. You can tell how touches make one feel from the way they smell. There is either the distinct fragrance of desire or the distinct odour of disdain. Or sometimes the distinct scentlessness of indifference that makes your feel like you have anosmia.
That is the worst of the lot. No stench. No perfume. Just scentlessness.
But it takes a while to know the difference. Nonetheless, it falls. Everywhere.
And sometimes, as it falls, it stirs a storm.
There is a storm in you and there is a storm in me.
You have blizzards that are icy. Cold. They stir broken pieces of glass that cut through the heart, leaving you wounded.
My storms are warm. They stir something soft. Clouds that melt, pour water. Heal.
Your blizzard is what you seek refuge from. Sometimes. My storm is what you seek refuge in. Sometimes.
I don’t know if your storm reflects my soul or your soul is reflected in mine. But there is a storm in you and there is a storm in me. And I hoped, maybe, if you saw the storm in me and I saw the storm in you, we would know some calm in each other. That is why I offered you my storm. So you would find some solace in mine and I would find mine in you. So none of us would have to hide. And both of us, maybe, would begin to heal.
these words by Shagufe Hossain were inspired by the work of Chelsea Rushton
we’ve never seen the sunset,
just the reflection of it
on the mountains
our windows face
we could drive to the other side of the island,
i guess
we’ve talked about it
packing a picnic
blanket
all of it
but we’ve never done it
tonight, we sit on the patio
bathed in the noise of buzzing mosquitoes
loud and piercing when too close to the ear
the smell of citronella not helping,
it never does
the light fades on the mountain side
pink
gold
light and then dark green
when twilight envelopes us
we rise on stiff legs
hobble to the bedroom
silently undress
i don’t know anymore in which emotion we look at each others bodies
indifference, boredom,
maybe even hatred
sliding under stiff sheets offers
reprieve
and in the darkness our dreams take hold,
what wondrous things they are
these words by Francine Cunningham were inspired by the work of Chelsea Rushton
On Wednesday you find a white-crowned sparrow
dead on the front step. On Thursday a halo of grey
feathers on the front lawn. You think mean thoughts
about the neighbour’s cat. On Friday you see him,
a handsome silver-coloured fellow dashing
under the wet cedars. He has no collar or bell
and he probably kills for fun. Studies report
that cats don’t only kill when hungry
and they are the number one killer of wild birds.
You have been watching the sparrows for weeks,
cheered by their haphazard foraging, their hopping,
scratch-scratching on the ground. You listened
to their thin, sweet whistle. You admired their black-
and-white heads, their pale beaks, their bodies
chubby and energetic. Wednesday’s dead bird
seemed diminished: suddenly slimmer, elegant,
none of the pleasant enthusiasm of breath and noise.
Thursday’s halo of feathers just felt unfair, obvious:
You hate that birds die. You hate that cats kill them.
But you do not hate cats. No, you hate how difficult it is
to feel good about the ways you love the world—
selectively, prejudiced towards the beautiful
and the gentle, towards the ones that remind you
least of yourself, or most. It is nesting season now
and the birds are tending quietly to their young
and you think, If they can do it, so can I.
You rub your rounding belly and you wonder.
Some conservation experts recommend all cats
be kept indoors. Yes, you think. Save the birds!
Let them all return to their carefully hidden nests.
But what do you know of feline happiness? It is
only an accident of desire that you love the birds
first and foremost, that you have spent so much time
imagining their lofty fealty to the sky, learning
their modest dedication to twig and egg and song.
It takes very little for you to feel guilty about the cats
allowed only limited natural behaviours, felt mice
and braided yarns, chicken-flavoured snacks.
When you see a cat looking out of a sun-filled window,
you do not know if you witness your own longing
or the creature’s—if you fail, as you so often do,
to forget your own feelings, to see the world
as another soul might: all that exquisite light,
that darkness, the life fluttering in the trees.
these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the work of Nick Liefhebber
wordandcolour 
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