Curios And The Christmas Fairy

Curios And Th Christmas Fairy

Content Page

From Issue 1:

Sleeping on a cold winter’s night by Irina Novikova Christmas by Anna

Cat During Morning by Datoyes Tan Overall Destruction, Detail 2 by RUNA The Guardian by Grainne O’Brien Cat by Irina Novikova Sivka-Burka by Irina Novikova Formsy 2 by Teri Anderson Finding Peace In Chaos by George Fisher

From Issue 2: The Sky’s Plight by Willow Kang Baobab trunk of a metaphorical tree by Xiao Gan Leaving Home by Jaoarmsa Wanderer by Irina Novikova Instant by Irina Novikova City of Sirins, Sheet 2 and 3 by Irina Novikova Sirines and apples by Irina Novikova Castle Combe In Spring by Ani Lacy

Bonus content::

The Christmas Picture by Jessica King

"Jar" Op. 5 No. 1 by Angie Yeung

"Grey" Op. 5 No. 2 by Angie Yeung

Winter Festival by Willow Kang

Acknowledgments

Thank you to The Garden Of Venus Zine for joining us on this collaboration!

Managing Editors: Willow Kang Sophia Lai Graphic Design: Gerselle Koh Editors: Jessica King Italo Ferrante Staff Writers: Sharon Pan Angie Yeung Jessica King Italo Ferrante

Staff Artist: Ker Vanish Guest Artist: Naomi Ong

Acknowledgments

Issue 1

Winter 2021

Sleeping On A Cold Winter's Night

by Irina Novikova

Sivka-Burka

by Irina Novikova

Cat

by Irina Novikova

About Irina Novikova

Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, writer. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design. The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates stories. She loves mythological images. She is inspired by people, their depth and ambiguity, she loves the evening forest. Sometimes she picks up and heals injured birds. Her works were published in the magazines "Little Literary Living Room" , "Gipsopfila" and others. In 2020 she took part in Poznań Art Week.

Christmas

by Anna

Christmas Eve Night 2021

Why is it that everyone longs for Christmas? We wait all year, but as soon as it gets to the holiday season, it is over with a shimmer of the fairy lights, and we go back to our normal mundane lives, no longer feeling that buzz.

It is a shame nothing feels like Christmas anymore, it is all around, in the decorations, the festivities, and the air. Everywhere but in our hearts this year.

Christmas Morning 2021:

I am afraid to get up and out of bed because that will only make it go all the quicker. The mood is always over too soon. Decorations comes and goes, normality resumes, and nothing is left of the fun we had. Jubilance turns into leftover dinners, presents shoved into dusty cupboards, to be found in years' time. Then, we will wonder where time stole away to. What will be in the stocking this year, I wonder? A small toy, the kind you only get on Christmas? Some chocolate I will never eat. A piece of fruit, for a chance? I wouldn't know until I open it, although I am loathe to do so. That just speeds time up again. It is after 6, this is the longest I have ever been in bed on Christmas morning. I can 't say if I feel good about it. I can hear e veryone else moving about without me. I

can 't say I enjoy thinking about them right now. I guess this is a sign of getting older, maturing. I can 't say I like it very much. Where does that time go?

It is almost half past 8, I do not want to leave my room. I don't want to go back to my life. I long to stay in my Christmas bubble, like the angel poised on top of the tree. My sister gets me out of bed. She makes me happy with her comforting smiles. She manages to make me drag myself out of bed and into real life, but funnily enough, I did not feel too bad about that.

Christmas Night 2021: End of the night. The last present. The melancholy feeling resurfaces. This will all be over in three hours. I hate to leave this feeling behind. I would miss the presents and happiness and food. They would stay by the chime of the midnight bells, with the twelfth chime carting away the glitter, and I am left with arguments and sadness, work and my real life. I like it here. Please don't make me leave. Please don't drag me away from this safe bubble. Please don't make me get older.

Cat During Morning

by Datoyes Tan

His stripes has been replaced by bands of fluorescent sunlight

Looks for the weeping bird under the chair, finds only roads So looks again, inside the lion's stomach, inside the cartwheeling jets Amber eyes are drenched in gasoline tears, set on fire

The sun commits arson, over the rooftop pools, the steaming coffees, the kaya toasts

Cat tears off his fur with his tongue, dons a cape, then leaps Into all the liminal spaces, now blazing

Overall Destruction, Detail

by RUNA

About RUNA

Rute Norte is a visual artist - painter - and has traveled through Kenya, Australia, Amazon, Patagonia, Greenland, Timor, Vietnam, São Tomé and Príncipe, India, Egypt, Tunisia, China, New York, Seychelles, made the 9 islands of the Azores in bicycle, and of course, traveled to several countries in Europe. She was born and lives in Lisbon, graduated from the University of Lisbon; she completed the Painting course at the National Society of Fine Arts; she studied Photography at Cenjor – Professional Training Center for Journalists, and is currently attending the Masters in Painting at the Faculty of Fine Arts of the University of Lisbon.

by Grainne O'Brien

The shop is closed. The final dregs of readers had long since been gently ushered out of the door by exhausted, withered staff. Some had left smiling, knowing they had stayed beyond their welcome. Others, eager to spend one more moment in that space of endless possibilities, were less gracious. From his highest perch he watched, his tail flicking in annoyance on his employees’ behalf as they were met with disregard and disrespect. The clock ticked past the time that he was usually left alone and his agitation grew. Soon, coats were pulled on, dinner served, rubs administered and lights turned off.

He had his routine.

He stalked between the bays, finally alone to prowl his kingdom. His paws plodded along the worn, warm, carpeted floors. They say he is not social, that he wants to be alone, but that was not the case. He craves the company of his own kind as much as any being longs to be with one of their own, just not often enough to leave this place of knowledge over which he is keeper and guardian. Besides, he is never alone. A thousand and one lifetimes lie inches from his nose. With one sniff, he can sense them all.

He pauses to contemplate the lives that had been altered by the decisions made by those people, surrounded by heaving shelves and endless pages, knowing the agony of only being able to choose one. He did not know what it felt like to live in a place with less knowledge and potential.

He flicks his ears forward, confirming that he is in fact alone. It wasn ’t out of the realm of possibility that the staff, distracted in their rush to leave, left a poor wandering soul alone. It has happened before.

He lives for these moments where he’ s alone and able to observe the silent grandness of this place. Stacks of books lay on the floors and counters, ready to be priced, sorted, and placed on expectant, incomplete shelves. It can ’t all be done in one day.

He made his way towards the place that houses the books for children, a part he avoids during the day because of the noise and chaos. He hears and smells it at the same time. His eyes were the last to comprehend its presence. A form like his own. Smaller, slighter and younger. Its voice is nothing more than a faint mew, whiskers barely long enough to be seen past its pointed, tiny face.

He had always known they would send another. Once it had been he who had been sent to inform that last guardian it was time. But he’d thought that had been eight lifetimes ago. This place had taught him how to read. Not to count.

How would they react? When they found him gone and another in his place? It didn’t matter.

He wasn ’t ready to leave this place. That didn’t matter either. This kitten was here. His time was over. Her time had begun.

Can I have one last moment alone with the books?

He asked, because although he resented it, he was no longer the guardian of this place. And though it would not have been proper to say no, that did not mean she would not.

She mewed and twitched her tail, turning and trotting off into the darkness, leaving him alone, for one last look.

Formsy 2

by Teri Anderson

About Teri Anderson

Teri Anderson creates work that looks into the idea of craft in art, textiles, installation, and sculpture to create a linear or surreal environment which the audience have to inhabit. The work links to her heritage and how textiles were key in their family history including sample machinists and pattern cutters. Building on this Teri proposes an art practice which incorporates craft based techniques into the art ne of installation.

Finding Peace In The Chaos

by George Fisher

No matter where you live, the world has become a very loud place. Whether it is the drawl of city life, with vehicles drowning out all other noise until it is impossible to hear the voice in your own head; or the white noise from constant contradictory opinions about current affairs spoken more at you than to you in everyday conversations. Add the pressures of work, studies, and social life on top; or even the basics of life; getting enough sleep, eating well, and being all round ‘healthy’ ; life is a lot.

And as a young adult trying to find his way in the world, struggling emotionally as much as everyone else, I think it is time to start actively prioritising mental health and spiritual health.I believe we need to stop seeing spirituality as joining a religion or a cult; and more about your own moral compass to help you navigate the world and making conscious, everyday decisions.

Of course, we have all heard lots about mindfulness as a new trend. But practising it does not mean having to sit for hours trying to meditate to a voice-over app. Many people experience mindfulness in their hobbies and do not notice because it either has not been pointed out to them, or because it has been called a different name.

Spirituality or mindfulness did not come very easy to me at first but to cut a long story short, it was Muay Thai that opened the door to feeling connected to something bigger than myself.

Throughout the years of training various martial arts, I never esonated with anything so well than with Thai boxing and I believe it was due to the spiritual side of the sport that I so desperately needed in everyday life. I fell in love with the sport instantly, throwing myself into the hours upon hours of training, fight shows in market halls and nightclubs and pretty much any other place the promoters could put a ring in. And as I began to fight regularly on local and national shows, I truly learnt peace. During the chaos of a round, with the crowd shouting and screaming, for me or against me, there was a quiet inside myself. Before I understood what this was, the only way to describe it to my family was ‘being in the zone ’ . Now I have experienced this feeling in other aspects of my life, I understand that it is ‘being present’ . To be completely in the moment as they happen. Of course, in the fight I had to be, there were consequences if I was not present. It took several years to experience ‘being present’ in another situation, and in that time Thai boxing had become an integral part of my life and identity. It helped shape who I wanted to be by exposing me to different role models and life ethos from a different culture. Of course, in the fight I had to be, there were consequences if I was It took several years to experience ‘being present’ in another situation, and in that time Thai boxing had become an integral part of my life and identity. It helped shape who I wanted to be by exposing me to different role models and life ethos from a different culture. I was lucky enough to be able to move to Sydney in 2018 and had to put Thai boxing on the back burner for a few years. However, this opened a new door to surfing. Another sport where I could only control my

actions, how I responded to the situation.

In this instance, the situation happened to be the ocean, and waves, and whatever they decided they wanted to do on that day. Some days they were wild, heavy, and thick waves trying to swallow me whole just to spit me back towards the beach, daring me to try and catch another; other days they were gentle and rolling, allowing me to try different things and feel like I’ m cruising with the most beautiful style in existence. The biggest thing I learnt was to be there, in the moment, as it happened. Be present.

I noticed the similarity between Muay Thai and surfing pretty early on. They both have their individual cultures, influenced by different things, but to me they both teach a moral compass. They both teach (indirectly and directly, depending on aspect of the sport) compassion for people, and for the planet. And they both demand mindfulness. Regardless of whether you want to be the best in the world or just a casual surfer, or if you fight for the love of it, if you aren ’t there when its happening to respond and act/react, you ’ll never be good. Or even worse, you ’ll never understand why you fail.

Mindfulness and spirituality doesn’t need to be a cult or religion. It can be about resonating with your reasons why you act the way you do in life. How you impact the world and people around you. Everyone thinks they’ re a good person, but do you make conscious decisions to follow your moral compass, and not act based on expectations?

It’ s about being in the moment, in the zone, being present in as much of life as you can. My advice for a starting point is your favourite hobby. The aspect where you cannot coast, the aspect where you need concentrate to keep improving, or as it was in my case, to stay above water. Start there, recognise that feeling and try to find it in other areas of life. You don’t need hours of meditating every day. You just need to find your starting point, as every book ever written on mindfulness says, it’ s your own journey, you need to find your own starting point. Sometimes peace can be found buried in chaos.

About George Fisher

George Fisher is an aspiring poet from Sydney, Australia. Originally using poetry as a form of therapy/emotional outlet, he has recently started to submit to various publications in the hope to reach greater audiences with his work. He has also published 'Lockdown' , a chapbook, on Etsy. 'Lockdown' is a small collection of poems and haikus written during and about the recent pandemic. It aims to show the various ti th th i d during the periods of isolation.

Ho, ho, ho! It's me, Santa Claus Cat! I shall come and haunt your chimneys...oops its christmas, not halloween.

Special thanks to

Sophia Lai

for creating the Christmas Cat!!

SOPHIA LAI provides much-needed advice on designing this zine's instagram posts and website. She has drawn for the Meditating Cat Zine, a cast of unique cats. Fuelled by shibas & tea, Sophia finds solace in scribbling lil’ doodles in between the draining yet amusing life that is her school life. While most of her interests & fantasies constantly come and go, thoughts on what to draw next stays on her mind 24/7, rent free. Other than her hopes of pursuing a path in the visual arts or graphic design sector, she strives to actually fill up a full sketchbook (and fix her sleep schedule) someday. Find her on IG: @kumo.yoko.

Spring 2022 Issue 2

Meditating Cat Zine

The Sky's Plight

by Willow Kang

The sky sings for the people under the umbrellas made of iron. the nightingales are revolting & we can only weep, drag in smoldering skeletons Saint Michael is hapless under the children’ s curses

When the demons flee and angels sing Lacrimosa, homes become shrapnel and wind is the hissing of a missile’ s pilgrimage sew shut the eyes of the cult children, throw paper money to the burning earth, an offering to Charon for salvation from the exodus to the pauper ’ s grave

About Willow Kang

Willow is the managing editor of the Meditating Cat Zine. She sifts through submissions to find the hidden gems inside. Willow often covers for Curios while Curios is napping entire days away, and also feeds Curios. After school, Willow enjoys writing, reading, and drinking coffee. She hopes to make it to a social work course in university. Find her on IG: @oldmanheart.

Baobab Trunk Of A Metaphorical Tree

by Xiao Gan

Sitting in the hawker center and talking German in our own tongue: ‘mein’ and ‘mian’ were the strangest pair of twins. We would then fly out the back door, chirping about majestic Eiffel Towers and English high tea and Spanish ballroom waltzes all the while our cotton skirts brushing against ancient, eroded gravestones and golden platters of offerings on ancestral altars. The daffodils gasped and suffocated on my tongue. The babel fish in my ear has long abandoned me in aching searches of desolate heritage trees, their baobab trunks swaying in mislaid languages and unreturned tickets, third class steerage and trading ports

If I had not gone on your magic carpet would I be home right now in hazy incense and the clanging of lion dances, lantern festivals and rice dumplings?

Would I be able to taste your words and their loving ciphers, their prayers and their sweating backs?

Would I be home and not in the middle of uncharted seas, sailing to a metaphorical tree?

The silver tongue passed down from my mother is rusting, forgetting how to untangle old languages

My grandmother’ s words land in a clump of smothering lotus roots, its taste of mandarin oranges and prayer sticks fading with every word uttered in the noise of strangers, this cacophony of dreamers and immigrants

The baobab trees will sprout again from the wavering footprints taken in a land that carried us long ago on its spices and silks and ceramics.

Leaving Home

by Jaoarmsa

Prairies are the extensions of photos from visiting hours, mimosas growing in pans winter pots as the car 's bumper, fish soups boiling in the doll cabinet This is a nursery of dreams, and when coronation day comes stay away. Soon, grasslands cleaves with all the wrong tones sung, the unwary tumbling down bowls of sesame paste, babies lose their mouths All this, set off by the tremors of three sails in different exotic skies, searching for unrecovered suitcases that had carried a household, abandonment still ringing distantly in the yearbooks stowed inside, away

Wanderer

by Irina Novikova

The splash of a wolf and the clatter of hooves, someone from somewhere rides on a dark horse.

The rider's face is not visible, only his cloak is embroidered with silver stars. His hair is blown by the wind.

Like a vision, he raced, and after him.

When I look at a white surface, it always seems to me that this is a ceiling, that this is something that can only be occupied by people, they are small black dots, they move and live.

The nest was twisted by a bird on the wires of reality, the wires were torn from the shot, the bullet broke the pole, and the chicks fell into the abyss, unborn and unknown to life. And there, in the abyss, a spider lived. It caught the chicks, but they were too large to be eaten. He began to feed them. As he fed and raised them, they grew stronger, and flew away on their strong wings. Their mother forgot about them, and they became strangers to her. Only the butterfly remained in the web, dead and not alive ...

by Irina Novikova

I saw the sunset, but did not see the boat, it sank near the shore, and a shark ate its fuss. And I was left alone and there was no one to cheer me up. I can swim, but I do not know how to live alone ...

There were many of them, too many for one ocean, and they went ashore and conquered the land, only they had their guards and gills, as a memory of the past.

My people once perished in an old war, when the nuclear eye swallowed up the world and lit a new star, brighter than the sun, and this star passed along the earth and everything became gray and people were gray and mute, and they forgot themselves. My grandmother told me about them a lot. They lived in tumbledown houses, drowned brushwood, ate grass and caught mice, but she did not remember my father and my mother, too. She only said that they were beautiful and kind, and nothing else.

-So why did they disappear?

-Do not know!

-Where have you gone?

- I don’t know either! Let me tell you better about the swallows, about the birds of happiness and the birds of sorrow, about the deer that are no more ... They drank grass and the hunter caught them, and brought them to him, and began to live with them, and fed them well, and for a long time they lived with him ...

Until everyone died, the world was bright, when everyone thought they could have fun. When it was over, everyone forgot everything ... Someone chewed tobacco that no longer exists, someone ate nettles that died out, someone-

He had children who did not grow up. They remained ghosts and people forgot. There is no one else and nothing, only what you wrote down in a notebook that exists for you ...

Sirins And Apples

by Irina Novikova

City Of Sirins, Sheet 2

by Irina Novikova

City Of Sirins, Sheet 3

by Irina Novikova

About Irina Novikova

Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, writer. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design. The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates stories. She loves mythological images. She is inspired by people, their depth and ambiguity, she loves the evening forest. Sometimes she picks up and heals injured birds. Her works were published in the magazines "Little Literary Living Room" , "Gipsopfila" and others. In 2020 she took part in Poznań Art Week.

Castle Combe In Spring

by Ani Lacy

About Ani Lacy

Lacy's academic background is in history, philosophy and fine art. She has an interest in ceramic practices transmitted through family lines and through traditional apprenticeships. Generally focusing on the effects of migration and colonialism on ceramic production within specific geographic regions with a focus on colonial era ceramic labor of enslaved African and Indigenous peoples in North America and of their descendants, Lacy's historical research aims to communicate the embodied and visual cultural history of site specific ceramic production.

Working at the intersection of migration and memory, Lacy's art practice uses industrial ceramic production techniques, film, and photography. She explore questions around visual culture language, permanence, migration, mem aspects of her w

Winter Festival

First published on Cordelia by Willow Kang

Oxen hooves tap-dance around creaky ice rinks, still hesitant of their posthumous repertoires the year grows inert when glossy carnivals finally become hypothermic and irrelevant today, the human condition is all sensile party-goers, dubious paperboys like confused cartographers undecided on how the stars should ride in their wedding rings

I can see us by Winter Festival: mothers screaming at the bazaar, tanks hibernating, dawdling amidst rusty snow & us, precarious strangers playing idealistic lovers I want to send these fickle love letters into the celestial echelons of a supposedly friendly neighborhood apple tree

Winter advances, then recoils in disgust of the perplexing days ahead them & their addled weathers

The Christmas Picture

by Jessica King

Gold ornaments and silver ribbons on an emerald fern beside a wooden mantle, with black and blue fabric pressed to obedience. Warm brown eyes softly smiling, adoration so pure only a grandmother could possess for her true love.

And then me: smiling painfully, waiting for the fireworks to freeze time for a split second. I’d run away from every camera shouting, “Cheese!” because I couldn’t face my mother’ s lies in the photos. But for her... I’d try to know what pure love felt like.

Diamonds and crystals embedded in a silver frame, artificial–my wallet so small–like my childhood smiles. But at dawn, with the sunlight peeking through my curtains, Grandma sparkles like a thousand dreams, eternal and absolute. And for her... I’ll remember what pure love feels like.

"Jar" Op. 5 No. 1

by Angie Yeung

Autumn skies an urn — upturned; Leaves, like corpses in cremation — The bottom spun to the top, dripping thoughts — Dew on my forehead. My breath encapsulated in this jar Of water, drowning me into a blanketed Snow in autumn — Freezing to the recesses within; The air, condensing and ageing since September — All white and ashen in the urn, In the conjoined burial of leaves Light as an echo— a drown of them on the opera stage— Repeating, repeating, repeating, Reverberating like a pond With the surface frozen From the snow in autumn; Could I live again?

“Grey” Op. 5 no. 2

by Angie Yeung

The walls thinned, malnourished and anaemic— Stretched with fluoride as the skin— The eye the glass window, cracked like a guillotine With its pupil my reflection Before execution Within a hospital— An asylum. The room hollow, A mouth of a den, Toothless and forked With a tongue, Orphaned, motherless— The silence starved me.

Special thanks to Naomi Ong for creating the Christmas Cat!!

NAOMI ONG is yet another sleep-deprived student from Singapore, whose favorite subject is English. In her free time, Naomi enjoys reading, procrastinating, and drinking coffee. Despite that, she loves school...most of the time. Naomi's comfort book is 'Codename Verity' . She will come to regret doing free labour (aka drawing) for MCZ in a few years' time, as MCZ will likely never be able to pay her for drawing the Christmas Cat. Eh we will pay you those royalties...someday. But thanks for drawing it! eHe~

The Garden of Venus

H R I S T M A C S

ED I T I ON -

A Letter From Venus

Dearest Reader,

It's hard to believe I've been invited to collaborate with the incredible Meditating Cat Zine! I owe a huge thank you to Curios and staff for this wonderful opportunity, and for being so welcoming and kind (and ever so patient). I could not sing higher praise.

I must also thank my beloved friends and family who encourage and support me every day, who have so graciously put up with my worries and ramblings, and who instill me with the confidence to put myself and my work out there.

But of course, there is someone else I have to thank It's you, dear reader! Yes, you! From the bottom of my heart: THANK YOU

Without whom, I would have no audience, no place to share my musings. So thank you!

While I don't have a team or even any submissions for this issue, I truly hope you enjoy the Christmas cheer I've curated for you. There's even a little sneak peek of The Garden of Venus Issue 01: Folklore, so keep an eye out for its upcoming release!

But that's enough rambling for now. Without further ado, please enjoy!

Most sincerely, Imogen van der Ploeg (She/her) Editor-in-Chief

mmovies ovies cchristmas hristmas ffamily amily

Jingle Jangle: A Christmas Journey

(2020)

Jingle Jangle: A Christmas Journey is a musical fantasy film written and directed by David E. Talbert, and choreographed by Ashley Wallen. When legendary toymaker Jeronicus Jangle's inventions are stolen, it's up to his inquisitive granddaughter, Journey, to heal old wounds and reawaken the magic within

Klaus (2019)

Klaus is a Spanish-American movie directed by Sergio Pablos. Pushing the limits of traditional animation, the film's visuals are a breathtaking spectacle Follow Jesper, Smeerensburg's new postman, as he navigates feuding neighbours who exchange few words, let alone mail. Can his unlikely friendship with an old toymaker bring this town together?

Arthur Christmas (2011)

Directed by Sarah Smith and co-directed by Barry Cook, Arthur Christmas follows, well, Arthur Santa's youngest son When the unthinkable happens as Santa accidently misses a child's present, someone has to save the day. It's up to Arthur, accompanied by plucky elf Bryony, to deliver the present before Christmas morning dawns.

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)

Tim Burton and Henry Selick's iconic The Nightmare Before Christmas is beautifully stop motion animated. Jack Skellington accidentally stumbles upon the joys of Christmas. But his attempts to spread Christmas joy unwittingly puts Santa at risk.

The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992)

The Muppet Christmas Carol, directed by Brian Henson, present a moving rendition of Charles Dickens' classic tale. Follow Scrooge as he is visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Along with the kind Bob Cratchit, can they open Scrooge's eyes and heart to the true meaning of Christmas?

How the Grinch Stole Christmas (1966)

A true Christmas classic directed by Chuck Jones, and co-directed by Ben Washam It's Christmas Eve and everyone in Whoville is eager for Christmas day. Everyone except the Grinch. Bitter and hateful, the he disguises himself as Santa Claus, and attempts to steal Whoville's Christmas joy.

Yuletide Latte

On medium heat, stir the butter and brown sugar together until caramelised.

Add milk, and stir thoroughly to ensure most-all of the caramel is dissolved.

Add vanilla extract and cinnamon. Turn heat up to high. Mix until boiling and foam forms on the surface Serve on its own or with whipped cream. Bon appétit!

The Poppy Fairy (1888) Luis Ricardo Falero Oil on canvas

An Invitation to the Faerie Garden by Isabelle Quilty

THE tap on the window broke the silence of my attempt at sleep, louder even than the soft snores of my husband beside me. It was odd how the sudden sound didn’t scare me, nor the creature smiling at me behind the glass. The window sat just diagonal to the bed, the soft glow of my childish lava lamp shedding only half a few flashes of light on the creature. It almost looked human. Almost. It had a woman ’ s body, but its skin was violet and looked like it was made of porcelain. On its back translucent wings the shape of a rose let it float there with only the slightest movement. It didn’t blink, simply

staring at me with eyes filled with no irises, just a pure amber fixed on me. It tapped again.

“I remember you, ” I rasped, my voice fogged with my half-sleep. Its stiff lips peeled back to reveal two rows of needles, long and glinting in the moonlight. It spoke without moving, its voice clear as though it was only a tongue-length away from my ear, its words worming into my brain.

“I am but a toy from your childhood, mistress. I am a doll of your innocence. A plaything for you to do with as you wish. But tonight, I am your messenger. To deliver an invitation to the Faerie Garden, a place where your every want is our duty. Your every want, need or desire.” A tongue like a lizard's ran over the Faerie’s teeth. “I am to be your guide to our Garden. There are cups overflowing with warmed honey, jugs overflowing with milk spiced with cinnamon and thickened with cream. All for you, mistress.”

I ran my tongue against my cheek, pressing my fingertips against the cold glass. Her voice felt like sugar on my tongue. Just how I remembered it.

“This isn’t the first invitation I’ve received, is it? You came to me when I was a kid You’d tap on the

window and ask me to play. You promised me chocolate and a new Barbie,” I said, feeling old memories begin to flicker back to life. The Faerie cocked her head to the left.

“I am a toy from your childhood. But you weren’t ready then, mistress. But you ’ re ready now! So full and stretched like dough. How life has wrung you dry, pushed its teeth and needles into your skin and pulled, pulled and pulled. It has greyed your skin and made your eyes sunken and damned.

Mistress, please, let me take you to the Garden.

There are honey-cakes, pillows stuffed with goosefeathers, and women dressed in silk that will brush your hair and laugh at all your jokes. Come, mistress,” The Faerie pressed her face and palms

against the glass.

I began to reach for the lock on the window, eyes glazed over. My tongue ached for such sweetness. My palms sweated, hands shaking. All I had to do was take her hand, blue and perfect and “Nope!” My husband, suddenly awake, slammed the faerie in the face with a broom. It hissed and screeched as it wheeled away, snapping me from my daze. He put a hand on my shoulder. We exchanged a silent look. I bit my lip.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice low and sheepish. He’d already dropped the broom and flopped back onto my side of the bed.

“If she comes back, kick me awake. The broom is next to the bed,” he grumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow. I sank back down onto my side of the bed and lay beside him. I let the moonlight wash over me and gazed at the moon.

Sleep did not come to me that night. Instead, I lay awake and thought only of all the delicacies in the world, just out of reach.

About the Writer

Isabelle Quilty (they/them) is a non-binary writer from regional NSW, Australia Most of their work is based around LGBTQ+ topics, working towards a greener future, and works inspired by their South Asian ancestry They’ve been published by a variety of magazines, including the University of Newcastle’s Opus Magazine, Spineless Wonders' Queer as Fiction Anthology Kindling and Sage Mascara Literary Review, and Demure Magazine They also have a bachelor’s degree in the Creative Industries and love a good oat milk iced latte Instagram: @thecaffeinebee ☘

Thanks for reading!