Luster + Occult
by Amy LeBlanc
On an A4 sized piece of paper, draw the outline of a torso or an hourglass. Cut the mid-section with scissors. Place the template on the tray and cut out the curves with a serrated knife. Shave the edges off so that it looks like a rounded body. Take the mold mixture and use it to form the chest area. Coat in buttercream and smooth with a hot knife. Powder edible luster dust and attach pieces of lace. Add molded fondant jewellery, pearls, flowers or anything else that will enhance her. Look at her, then, and ask: How many lemons did you eat today?
Occult, adj., n.
When my grandmother died, we opened her closets and found seventy-two packs of double sized toilet paper rolls. The square bags nestled in next to one another without gaps in between. The neighborhood kids started a rumor that she was a witch and didn’t eat human food—she ate toilet paper. They said she didn’t have teeth because she chewed cotton balls, which made them rot. Every day, she left a bowl of chocolate bars out on the front step so the kids could take some on their way home from school. When the sun began to set, she brought the bowl back inside to be emptied and refilled for the next day. I opened her bags of toilet paper, pulled squares off and separated the layers from one another, focusing on their softness between my fingertips. That’s when the kids decided that I was a witch, too.