C. H. Weihmann

A former resident of Vancouver Island, C. H. Weihmann now lives in Melbourne, Australia, where she grows citrus trees on her balcony and drinks far too many flat whites. She has placed first and been longlisted, respectively, in two national short story competitions. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in filling Station, West Trade Review, and others.

City of Colour

Standing centre stage, I look out at the faces of farmers with straw-coloured hair and bland bovine eyes, eyes that have never seen the ocean. Only the yellow wheat fields that stretch horizon-wide and whispering. That’s the closest thing they have: the dry, dull wheat fields pretending at ocean depth, and the vast, unending sky. There is no underwater here. There is no freedom. There is no escape.

C. H. Weihmann

A former resident of Vancouver Island, C. H. Weihmann now lives in Melbourne, Australia, where she grows citrus trees on her balcony and drinks far too many flat whites. She has placed first and been longlisted, respectively, in two national short story competitions. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in filling Station, West Trade Review, and others.

City of Colour

Standing centre stage, I look out at the faces of farmers with straw-coloured hair and bland bovine eyes, eyes that have never seen the ocean. Only the yellow wheat fields that stretch horizon-wide and whispering. That’s the closest thing they have: the dry, dull wheat fields pretending at ocean depth, and the vast, unending sky. There is no underwater here. There is no freedom. There is no escape.

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