dollshouse
Contents
1. Contents 2. Editor’s Letter 3. Welcome 4-12. Rose Cottage 13-20. Antique Tea Party 21-26,31-34. The last dinner 27-30. Rustic memories Article 35-36. House Rules 37-42. The last tea
1
Editor’s Letter
Welcome to dollshouse A Nostalgic, memorable, Creative, Colourful, magical publication. Florals, bows, lace, teapots, flying sauces, glitter, clocks and cupcakes take you into dollshouse. It is an experience which will release your inner child and stay with you, and a tale to tell once you’ve left. Lose yourself and drift into another world, this is your playground. You will revisit your childhood years and enter the house of wonder, excitement and imagination. Leave your troubles behind and arrive into the dreamy world of dollshouse. Alexandra Gibson Editor
2
Welcome to dollshouse
3
and it’s surroundings
Rose Cottage... 4
5
10
Antique Tea Party
...............
13
18
19
The last Dinner ...........
21
23
24
Rustic Memories Reflecting on the past, are memories real or imagined?
Close your eyes. They peel freshly open. You find yourself in a room. Decaying brick walls, once a fiery burnt red, are thick with forest moss and mould and spouts of daring intertwined ivy. The floor: a sea of yellow golden and rouged leaves. A dimly glowing palatial chandelier grips onto the ceiling from which it was once hung, over flow with diamonds which drip elegantly. An elongated worn wooden dining table, which appears to be set only for one, is dusted with soil. Vibrant succulent fruits have willing convened as they always do on a day such as this; pomegranates, raspberries, lemons, mangos. A bronzed overweight cauldron rests idly in the corner of the room, encompassing one of the prongs of a giant silver fork, which slouches against the wall in an attempt to deceive you regarding its size.Its height alone limits its purposes to not even that of gardening, but as you tread towards it, contemplating its profile and frosty arduous surface, you gain the knowledge that its sole purpose is to assist eating, although you know not how. Your eyes travel up its handle and the wall upon which it slouches. It stops as you just about reach the room’s upper-limit. You peer across and your eyes admire twinkling pink thread, which teasingly dangles angelic white origami paper birds from the ceiling. They oscillate in the room’s atmosphere, as if in an attempt to fly away, but cease to do so: their captor: the roof, which is black with soot, yet as you scope the walls of the room, there is no fireplace to be seen. They all seem to pine for the same thing, in the same direction, the window. Blocking its true view, skittles, encapsulated in abstract vases, strike a fierce pose at the grot-ridden window. You look beyond them and can vaguely see the thick layers of crackling bark, swirling claustrophobically around what was a once glorious oak tree. From a
thick branch, you notice coarse rope apparently interspersed with chunky Tahitian pearls, which loyally holds on to a weathered plank of drift wood, creating a swing. Fairy lights traipse carelessly, entwining around the black gothic curtain rail from which no curtains remain. They warmly smile, as they whisper amongst themselves of the many delicate romances they have seen. You scroll your fingertips, tactile, along the wall as you wander. An excitable shiver runs down your spine. You pause and look to the dining table, an instinct perhaps.Your dazzled eyes notice that now, a banquet presents itself upon lime green lily pad placemats. Robustly, they wait to oblige you, like footmen at a carriage door. They proudly position themselves upon ornate glass cake stands, which jest with the light, firing shoots and flecks, orchestrating a magical array of rainbows throughout the room. Each glass platform, overflowing with scrumptious foods of the Gods; tender chicken breast, mounds of powder-covered bon-bons, miniature apples no bigger than a two pence coin, buffed to a ruby hue,piled high upon their residence, adamant in their innate desire to please you. The table’s setting, fixated around a gargantuan bowl of irresistible intoxicating liquor, in which a swirling vortex of colourful molten candy bathed, reminiscent of the finest jewels, enriching the room with its warm and sweet scent. Sophisticated ladles with curled handles gestured for you to delve in and enjoy a scoop of their marble heavenly glory. A blue and white china shoe dawdles upon one of the lily pads; a teacup, sitting patiently on its comrade saucer awaiting to be filled to quench the thirst. Beside them and closest to you, a plate, on which pastel coloured feathers lie naively, drizzled in luxurious, lavish cherry sauce.
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You clasp your hand around the smooth handle of the teapot and oozing from its spout into the delicate china piece of footwear, pours sumptuous glitter; fuchsia pinks and vivacious indigos, spritely golds and daring oranges. The rose gold chandelier floating above you now seems more content in its illumination and its subtle shine tempts you towards a far corner of the room, where a benevolent wooden door waits for you. Dust particles which flutter through the air are highlighted in this spot light, yet they are not just that of dirt, but rather, substances of history. As you pace towards the washed out brown rustic door, your hand urges to reach black latch which sits haughtily upon it. You startle its cold ceramic touch and it wearily creaks open in obedience. Grey walls protrude textured stones towards you as you enter a narrow yet seemingly spacious hallway. Above your head runs a stream of crisp, bright lights suspended: innocent, unique. You follow the whispers of new life that are thrillingly engulfed in these walls as you advance through the corridor, your mind knows not of your destination, yet your empowered feet walk on. Your eyes attempt to read the route ahead, yet no ending can be seen, merely the steam of lights above you, which flood on. Abruptly, all is dark. The bright white lights expire as they perish in a synchronised motion and you are left amidst the darkness. You gasp and then glare incredulously at what was your memory of the previously situated, now invisible walls. As you squint at the thick set stones beside you, the only light you can witness is through what appears to be a tiny circular frosted glass window ahead and so, you follow still. Your eyes focus on the light which influences you to approach what seems to merely be a dead end. As you approach, soft lumps of soil congregate beneath your feet, banished from an
overturned plant pot and complicating your advance. Entering the terracotta diameter, you hunch your back slightly as the plant pot narrows. It is recognised that what you perceived ahead, is not frosted glass that separates you from the light, but thick congealed slime, perhaps that of a giant snail. In order to break this greasy membrane you know instinctively that you must dive through the plant pot’s outermost end. You hold your breath and lurch forward, expecting to be embraced in slime, yet landing into a cosy sumptuous mound of what feels like thick cotton wool beneath you. Clambering to your feet, beckoned by the light ahead, growing ever-larger, as you trek. A deep mischievous tanzanite sky smiles woozily down at you. As you tread through, you occasionally stumble on hard lumps which invade the otherwise idyllic floor. There is a gentle breeze which welcomes you as you infer that the light which you have followed was that of the glorious moon, beaming down upon something obscure in the distance… a tree? As you grow closer, nomadic through the disperse cotton cushion of ground beneath your feet, you recognise the deep curves of bark that shape the old oak tree and from it, illuminated by what seems to be the diamond moon’s only ray of light, the drift wood seat which had faithfully waited for you, to pay it a visit. The swing stirred in the breeze, as progress towards it. Your heart flutters at the experience. Entranced, your hand reaches as to grasp a string of pearls as the alternative to its dense, frayed, dried out rope. Contemplating for a moment, then you sit. Beneath your feet you notice that the soft cloud-likecarpet, on which you have tottered, is pale pink candy floss, sewn not with hard lumps but with empty jam jars which lay scattered about the garden, which are now illuminated by
the tea-lights that perch within them, their inner glass walls embraced with coloured tissue paper, each different from the next. Each light seems to huddle as though it were in a jewelled bracelet, glowing and twinkling around you, as if waiting to be told a magical tale or deep secret.The garden around is becoming lighter, more joyous, as though fresh life had been breathed upon lifeless flowerbeds. Glancing at the old oak tree’s mournful braches, to find they have bloomed spritely pink blossoms… How can this be? At this precise moment in time, everything feels right, all is as it should be in the world. Blinking, you find you’re now sitting in your home… reading, and remembering. The magical touch with which you first caressed those walls will be remembered there forever more and never forgotten. Although you do not remain there, a part of your soul will live within those walls,in that room, in that house, that home, that garden,at that particular seat on the dining table, your seat. Memories, immortalised within a glorious jewel, memories, which with one dazzling reflection from its seemingly distant surface, can be glorified and relived. If you ever wish to return, all you must do… is close your eyes, and smile.
By Alexandra Gibson.
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The Darker Side
House Rules 1. Explore as you
2. Travel make sure you
3.Capture those moments then
4. Create
and 5. Fall in Love while you
6. Dream Big as
7. The World is your Lobster and
8. You only live once.
...
A Footnote: Don’t drink the tea