If you’ve heard of Aviary, go ahead and award yourself some hipster-points. A kind of cool-underground-indie collective, Aviary has been fluttering about rather exclusively recently, shrouded in whispers and rumours. I first heard about it at a workshop with the Mays Anthology, the name overheard between hushed excitement and buzzwords of ‘zine’, ‘hand-crafted’, ‘limited numbers’. I was intrigued by this Harry Potter-esque ‘owl post’ that flew into the pigeon holes of the lucky few. And I still am as curious as I sit here with the latest ‘issue’ spread out over my desk.

Yes, ‘spread out’. For this is no ordinary student publication, rather a flock of paper presents, lovingly hand-crafted and addressed to the individual. Today, when we are surrounded by online media, advertising and regurgitated syntax, the pleasure of holding this large collection of random materials and art-pieces was refreshing. With a floppy disk, tracing paper, marbled paper and lined paper thrown together in this envelope, Aviary prides itself on its variety of textures and inks. Unfolding Kat Addis’ beautiful poem ‘The Sand Lady’; contemplating the bleakness of F. Bazalgette’s concerns that “I too am a pawn in a plan which has no visible aim except to play itself out” as it sits on a stark black and white page; sticking Holly Gupta’s serene image of what seems to be the top of a ski-slope to my window; holding the now-archaic floppy disk with its image of a capitalist work-chain, Aviary feels like a raw, intimate gift from a thoughtful lover.

Indeed, the standard of submissions is very high. By very definition of its mismatched nature, though, it is also incredibly varied, featuring for instance, a recipe on how to make stock, typed over the boiled remains of a roast chicken. Whilst this seemed less innovative than other entries, the novel approach adopted by Aviary generally worked very well. Rowan Evans poem '5://erosion makes' was bizarre, reminding me of a computer screen with a virus, and the collages were pretty if somewhat somewhat uninspiring. But the refreshing quality of such a beautifully presented collection of pieces meant that the weaker parts were easy to subsume into the greater admiration. In its fragmented form, we are invited to shun the collective, almost-capitalist fetishisation of magazines and encouraged to keep what we like and throw away what we don’t. Aviary is both unassuming and pliable; the works are not drawn together, but instead allowed to reign free on whatever texture they choose. It is this very virtue that makes Aviary so interesting: each work is judged on its own, and whatever the quality, it does not infringe on the almost cult-like status the name possesses among the secret circles of Cambridge.

And that is perhaps its main drawback: its exclusivity. Regularly running out in minutes when limited numbers of ‘issues’ are released, you have to be quick to get a copy. Aviary shuns the public consumerism, and in so doing, has taken Cambridge by storm. But if you aren’t lucky enough to get to hold the pieces yourself, the beautifully designed website is perfect; featuring all of the submissions to Aviary, printed or not, here is your first port-of-call for jumping on the Aviary bandwagon. Enjoy.