This poem is by Oeil Jumratsilpa, a London-based copywriter who loves to read, paint and cook. Illustration by Eric Chow

Here, I say, is my story:

on a plate or in a bowl

soups of fire, budding mountains,

red rings of oily kisses,

stir-fries of grey mornings

under a concrete highway –

the wok song, the flame dance.

My eyes follow the brown hands

– splash, flick, flip, swirl –

a hit of garlic in my nose

a puddle in my mouth.

Of my brand-new leather school shoes

a fist in my belly, a golden sweat

rolling down my spine.

Of the car exhaust in the air

sweet and smoky. Of the heat

yellow and thick, collecting on my skin.

Of my mother’s cleaver, rapping

on the bird’s eye chillies

the green-grass crunch

a splash of coolness.

Here, I am telling you

of breakfasts gone by: my father

cutting, scooping, arranging

his plate, his methodology.

Of my heartache: how it squeezes

and I can’t breathe.

Of a hollowness, a deep clanking in my chest.

Of moments I wish I’d grasped tighter.

Of hands – nut-brown, green veins, gold rings –

I long to hold

again.

Here, I say, eat.

Nice to meet you.

When I Cook is from The Nostalgia Issue – Issue 22. Order your copy here

How much would you pay for a fresh punnet of kisses? Jade Cuttle tots up the sum total of a brief relationship in this witty poem (above).

This poem is the unlikely product of Jade Cuttle’s stint as a litter-picker. Jade has performed her poetry on BBC Radio Three, won competitions run by BBC Proms and Foyle Young Poets, and is a BBC Introducing supported poetic songwriter. She lives in Paris and York.

A Receipt for Our Romance was featured in The Romance Issue of Popshot. Order your copy here.

This poem by  Emma Mary Hulonce was inspired by her guilt over the state of the environment. Illustration by Ciaran Murphy.

Oh my darling –
how I have broken your heart,

I have bruised your skin
cut down to your veins,
crushed your soul

for the food on my plate.

My sweetheart-
I adore your beauty,

I’ll bask in your glory
while I burn out your features,
and poison your bedding,

so I can fly like a laughing owl.

To my poppet –
I truly believe in us,

like a distant dream though,
a doomed romance destroyed by one of us,
and I’ll write you love letters

on your torn apart carcass.

Oh my baby-
I have given up.

So, I’ll leave it to our children
to save this world
and steal their innocence

to absolve myself of guilt.

This poem appeared in The Earth Issue of Popshot.

This piece of flash fiction by Lotte van der Krol was inspired by her slightly horrified fascination with the endless cycle of death and growth. Illustration by Olga Zalite.

Soil is an absolute marvel.

I plunge my shovel into the forest floor, the smell of rot climbing up to me.

Soil is nature’s magic. Nature’s recycling bin. Nature’s way of living a waste-free life, something we could all learn from in this day and age.

I dig deeper, through the thick layer of leaves of years past, not yet decayed but well on their way, till I hit the harder ground. All that comes from the earth will eventually return to it.

Worms eat dead plant matter and digest it back into soil, from which new life can sprout, and so on. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rinse and repeat.

The shovel dives in and reemerges from the ground in a steady rhythm, the pile of earth next to me growing bigger as I dislodge it from its rightful place. I disturb a big, pink worm, and carefully put it out of harm’s way.

We humans have even managed to harness this magical process for our own benefit.

We build compost heaps in our gardens, turn yard waste and food scraps into rich, nutritious soil. With this godly substance, we grow better, more delicious food.

In a way, we feed ourselves with the essence of dead things. A few roots are in the way, tough and white from lack of sun. I cut them with the shovel, digging hard. They give way eventually.

It’s not only plants, though. Insects, foxes, bears, even us, eventually. Leftover bodies from the meal of life, to be absorbed again by whatever thing wishes to grow now. Taking turns to eat or feed. Nothing goes to waste in nature.

Slowly but surely, the hole gets bigger.

We try to resist it as much as possible with our coffins and polyester burial clothes, non-biodegradable packaging just so we don’t have to deal with it. I get it. It is uncomfortable.

But it also means we’re not doing our share. What would the world be without soil?

There’d be no life at all. We’re all dependent on something else’s death. In turn, everything that comes after us depends on us dying, rotting, decomposing.

We should take comfort in the knowledge that our deaths have such a beautiful purpose.

Imagine how many flowers could feed on a pair of legs, how many blackberry bushes could take root in a ribcage. The hole seems deep enough now. I climb out and put my shovel down.

I take a moment to look the body over one last time, for anything that could identify him. I grab his ankles and drag him into the hole. It fits perfectly.

No life without death. In the end, we all have to take our turn, we all have to go back to that sweet, dark earth.

It’s only fair. I pick up the shovel and start putting the earth back into its place.

This piece appeared in the Earth Issue of Popshot Quarterly.

Florianne Humphrey’s poem was inspired by an American President and Lewis Carroll’s  ‘Jabberwocky’. Illustration by Mitt Roshin.

The Blundergaffe

‘Twas quickly that the Blundergaffe,
Did raise its slithy head when hacks
Made great again its orange schnaff
On fake news paperquacks.

Beware the Blundergaffe, my girl!
The tongue that whips, the claws that grab,
Beware the crooked hounds who hurl
Their knives at those who blab.

He took his pingity in hand
And on the keys he clacky clicked,
Eyes of ire for those who withstand
He bleurged his blubbattack.

And ping! And ping! His crashing voice
Sent flooshing through the data waves,
While the slathering hounds rejoice
And the withstood stay brave.

And while the Blundergaffe cromps down
On those who breathe the fearish truth,
Across the land from field to town
His drak mistakes are streuth.

But will the Blundergaffe be slain?
Or will his chokey reign live on?
Will they ever break the chain?
Or is the chain too strong?

‘Twas quickly that the Blundergaffe,
Did raise its slithy head when hacks
Made great again its orange schnaff
On fake news paperquacks.

The Blundergaffe appeared in The Fantasy Issue of Popshot

Florianne Humphrey is a journalist, writer and workshop facilitator who has written two novels, a play and a collection of short stories, one of which was shortlisted for the 2018 Bridport Prize.

The 28th issue of Popshot Quarterly is now on sale. Cover illustration by Sylvia Stecher.

The Earth Issue is a collection of vivid writing about the power of our planet, its creativity and our connection to the soil. This engaging selection of short fiction features animal gods, billionaires who escape pandemics on private islands, bodies that sprout flowers, ghosts, and unearthed mysteries. This issue features an exclusive poem by guest author David Harsent.

Words by Miriam Spinrath, Lotte van der Krol, David Harsent, Ty Landers, Natalie Hunter, Daniel McLeod, A C Bevan, Sam Payne, Katie Oliver, Ross Duggleby, Clio Velentza, Emma Mary Hulonce, Robert Bilinski, Michael Ihming Jones, Gregory Dally, Alison Patrick, John Christopher Johnson, Zoe Marzo, Paula Turner, Natascha Starr, Lesley Benzie, Laurence Sullivan, Denni Turp, Claire Kotecki, Ruth Grearson.

Illustrations by Aydan Hasanova, Buba Viedma, Ciaran Murphy, Claudia Salgueiro, Connie Noble, Emilie Muszczak, Fran Hu, Grace Lanksbury, Harriet Lyall, Hattie Clark, Julia Barnes, Kathryn Martin, Laura Parker, Lorenza Cotellessa, Monika Stachowiak, Mulletman, Neil Webb, Olga Zalite, Rebecca Dennis, Roshi Rouzbehani, Sancia Rose, Shaun Lynch, Sylvia Stecher.

As we are unable to offer single purchase print copies of Popshot by post at the moment, and as it is less available in bookshops due to the Covid-19 pandemic, here are some other ways you can read Popshot:

By subscribing to our print edition you can read all four issues published throughout the year from £20. A printed copy of the magazine will be delivered direct your home each quarter—and you will also get access to our full digital archive. Click here for more information.

The digital edition of Popshot is available for reading on tablets and desktop and you will receive free access to the complete magazine archive with your subscription. Click here for the app, here to read Popshot via ISSUU, or here to read via Readly.

For a limited time only you can take out a trial subscription of two issues for just £7.50.

Update: Submissions for the 29th issue of Popshot Quarterly are now closed.

It’s that time again Popshot people! We are now accepting submissions for the next magazine on a theme of…“Freedom”.

UPDATE 1/06/2020 SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED. PLEASE DO NOT SEND IN WORK

We have just finished putting together the Earth issue (thank you to all who submitted, the magazine will thump through letterboxes and appear on newsstands at the end of next week), allowing us to open the doors for new submissions.

Our next theme is ‘freedom’ and we are interested in writing that looks broadly at what it means to be free, hard-won freedoms, how the current climate of lockdown and global pandemic might curb freedom and what individuals can do to achieve freedoms when they are incarcerated or living in unfavourable power dynamics.

Writers might want to look at freedoms big and small: what history tells us about human freedom and what to strive for; the freedom to be oneself, how to claw back freedoms in a relationship or family dynamic. Are the freedoms we want truly freeing? Or do we go on to further restrict ourselves? Your stories and poems can shoot us into the future, look at freedom from afar or teach us the lessons from the past we need to learn now.

Successful submissions must display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, social commentary, honesty and thrilling storytelling. We welcome all genres and writing styles so long as they follow our guidelines for submission (for more on which, click here).

Submissions for the Autumn issue are open until 9am GMT on Monday, 1 June 2020.

The Freedom issue will be published in August 2020.

Guidelines for submission:

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum. Entries over the word count will not be considered.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent (during lockdown this might be more difficult, but here are a few other ways you can safely find it). You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Freedom – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.

At Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Earth issue, which will be on sale from 7 May.

Drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

To ensure that you never miss a future issue of the print magazine, subscribe from just £20 for 4 issues.

During the difficult circumstances of coronavirus and lockdown, we want our readers to know that Popshot is still being published and you can still read it digitally or receive it to your door.

Dear readers,

We wanted to write to you at this difficult time to say we hope you are keeping safe and to reassure you that the next issue of Popshot Quarterly, The Earth Issue, is currently being put together in this brave new world of remote working. We think it is going to be a beautiful and rather prescient look at how we can all care for one another and our environment better going forward.

As we are unable to offer single purchase print copies of Popshot by post at the moment, and as it becomes less available in bookshops, here are some other ways you can read Popshot:

By subscribing to our print edition you can read all four issues published throughout the year from £20. A printed copy of the magazine will be delivered direct your home each quarter—and you will also get access to our full digital archive. Click here for more information.

The digital edition of Popshot is available for reading on tablets and desktop and you will receive free access to the complete magazine archive with your subscription. Click here for the app, here to read Popshot via ISSUU, or here to read via Readly.

For a limited time only you can take out a trial subscription of two issues for just £7.50.

We thank you for your support at this time and want to hear from you on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook with any questions or concerns. Please tag us in your #lockdownreading or #lockdownwriting recommendations and we’ll pass those onto our community.

The Mystery Issue is currently on sale and we will be publishing The Earth Issue in May.

Best wishes,

Matilda Battersby

Popshot Editor

Amy Barnes’ flash fiction explores the surprising ramifications of a young girl eating watermelon. Illustration by Rachel Presky.

If you eat a watermelon, a baby will grow in your belly. That’s what mama always told me.

I avoided eating watermelon until that one really hot day at the summer carnival. Bobby Jenkins and I went skinny dipping in Sander’s Pond and afterward we sat half-naked by the water’s edge and ate slices of watermelon until our fingers were red and we were both wearing less than we arrived in. We were both sweating by the time we got done swimming and snacking.

I remembered my mama’s warning when it was too late. I swallowed one slimy black seed. I felt it land with a plop in my stomach. I asked Bobby to try and suck it out of me and he tried but we both knew it was all over.

By the time I went back to school, my stomach was the size of a cantaloupe, stretched summer peach-y skin that hadn’t been burnt by the constant Alabama sun. I tried pushing it down and hiding it under sweatshirts when everyone else was stripped down to tank tops and shorts.

Just as mama’s garden spit out piles of pumpkins, my belly reached gourd stage. She loaded pumpkins up in her wheelbarrow and me into her wood-panelled station wagon.

Dr. Smith had a voice and bedside manner that matched his name. Bland. Ordinary. Plain. He touched my belly and set off some kind of sparky tweed-induced friction. I jumped back in the stirrups that weren’t made for horseback riding. Mama clutched her not-pearls.

“Sit still,” she told me, as if I were a child and not carrying a sweet watermelon under my skin.

Dr. Smith turned to my mother. “She’s about four months along. Probably due around Easter.”

Mama burst into tears. I didn’t know why. Having watermelons in the off-season was something rich people did. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying this watermelon that long though. It was getting heavy. My back hurt like when I helped bring in the corn crops.

“Watermelons in early spring are for rich people, mama. It’s a good thing.”

“Who did this?” she hissed at me like my brother’s bearded lizard that lived in a cage by his bed.

“I did. By the East pond. We ate almost a whole watermelon after we went swimming.”

“Who is we? Never mind. Let’s go.”

She grabbed me by the arm and drug me off the paper-covered doctor chair, throwing my jumble sale sweatshirt and stretchy pants and Wednesday underpants at me. I ate a lot of watermelon that year, sucking down each slice and spitting out the seeds into the grass.

Four months later, I couldn’t wear my Jordache jeans or even my gym glass sweatpants. Mama took me to the hospital. I gripped my tight, full belly the whole way wailing along with the ambulance siren.

“Do you like watermelon?” I asked the men in white coats and women in white hats.

Blood red juice dripped across my belly when they sliced it open-smile-style. I heard the watermelon crying as they cut off its vines from inside my belly.

“Can I have a slice, mama?” She smiled as shook her head and called for the nurse lady.

I named that watermelon Trudy and she played by Sander’s Pond with me as I read books and did math.

I never ate watermelon or cantaloupe again.

This piece by Amy Barnes appeared in The Mystery Issue of Popshot Quarterly.

This beautiful poem by Ash Dean was written when he was caring for his terminally ill great-grandmother. Illustration by Grace Lanksbury.

To me, she was always all wrinkles,

As frail as eggshell and embellished with lace.

My lasting image is of her beaming face

When she opened the door

But the more I age the less I can ignore

Another scene projecting in my head

Of her sitting still in a hospital bed

And the first time her smile ever struck me

As forced and stuck.

She reached out for my hand like a child and froze,

Staring vacantly past me as I nervously smiled.

Her mouth began to gape

As if waiting for something deep to escape

So her tongue could prise it from her stomach.

“I’m scared Ashley, I don’t want to die,

What will happen to me?”

And I could see that with all her humility

She could not allow herself the comfort of eternal grace

But just a simple space

Awaiting her.

Tearful, she waited for me to stir.

I could only think

How someone so open and joyful had forever led me towards a glow

And how in this togetherness still

I follow where her feelings go.

“I’m scared too,

I don’t want to lose you.

I don’t know what comes after life,

No one does,

So we call it death

And attach to it things to cling on to.

But I don’t want you to worry yourself.

Embrace love.

Embrace all the happiness you have had

And carry it through every moment until your last.

What is yours in the last can never be lost.”

Delicate, we rested, heavy with feeling,

Sharing not words

But the thin protection of our being.

This poem featured in The Mystery Issue of Popshot Quarterly.

Get your heart pumping with this clever flash fiction by Laura Besley. Illustration by Kevin Deneufchatel.

Dave carries his girlfriend in the left-hand breast pocket of his shirt, thinking – for he is a thoughtful man – that she’ll find the steady rhythm of his heart comforting.

In the early days, she used to pummel him with her dainty fists, little bursts of energy banging out messages he couldn’t decipher. Instead, he pretended it was her heartbeat; blindly seeking his own comfort.

As the days grow shorter and colder, they live in silence. His heartbeat is muffled by knitted layers. She sleeps most of the day, fists clenched, but still; hugging her knees to her body for warmth.

This piece appeared in The Mystery issue of Popshot Quarterly.

The author of A Double Life and The Most Difficult Thing speaks to Popshot editor Matilda Battersby. Illustration by Richard Allen.

Charlotte Philby has the ideal surname for a writer of spy novels. Her grandfather was Kim Philby, a British intelligence officer and a double agent for the Soviet Union, a member of the Cambridge Five spy ring which passed information to the Russians during World War Two and the Cold War.

Charlotte worked for many years as a newspaper journalist, features writer for magazines and also founded an online magazine about parenthood, having gone freelance after having her second child.

She has since turned her pen to novels and has partly taken inspiration from her grandfather’s story to look at the impact of lies and espionage on families and relationships, rather than just on the state. Her first novel The Most Difficult Thing was published in hardback last year and is soon to be published in paperback under the alternative title Part of the Family. Her second novel A Double Life, hits book shops this July.

She agreed to be the guest author for The Mystery Issue of Popshot, writing a short story that doubles (appropriately!) as the opening of her forthcoming novel.

1. Did you always want to write novels and how different was it taking the plunge from writing journalism to writing fiction?

I have wanted to write novels for as long as I can remember, and wrote my first (in first-draft form only) nine years ago, whilst on my first maternity leave from my job as a newspaper journalist. The day I went back to work after eight months away, scrawling passages of a detective story while the baby slept, I typed The End and ill-advisedly pinged it off to a few agents in an extremely shoddy form (think six different fonts and scenes that cut off halfway through…) Strangely, each agent refused to take it on. I came close with a couple of them who suggested I have another go and then resubmit but ultimately I really lost my confidence for a while. Then in 2017, when my third baby was one and I’d recently folded the business I was running to go freelance, I decided to do an online creative writing course and the idea for my first published novel – something quite different to the one I’d tried doing before – finally came clear. Writing that was quite different to writing book two as I had no idea it would be published so it was more for my enjoyment rather than the sense that someone would end up reading it.

My old creative writing teacher, the poet Martina Evans, once memorably told me that being a journalist was the worst thing you could do if you want to write fiction because it teaches you to write according to subscribed methods and constraints. She was totally right. That said, my training as a reporter on a national paper where you might be required to churn out 2000 words a day was incredibly useful in terms of my productivity. It also means I’m very used to being edited and rather than being precious about my work, I value the judgement of others. In journalism, it is your duty to tell someone else’s story in a way that is fair and impartial. Ultimately you become the custodian of someone else’s truth, with what and how much is said dictated to a degree by the agenda of the organisation you’re writing for. Often you’re necessarily limited by what is known or what fits your allotted word-count or what, for legal reasons, can be said. I think in some ways I was a terrible reporter because I hate being strictly confined to facts; I’m so much more interested in imagining between the lines, exploring the story that isn’t being told.

2. Can you please describe your writing routine when it comes to approaching a new idea for a novel? Are you a planner or someone who flies by the seat of their pants?

I think I’m both. I struggled with managing the sheer volume of information and words with my first book, and for a while used Scrivener to enable myself to edit more easily. But then I found it a real ball-ache when it came to transferring the manuscript to Word to share edits with my editor (I’m a terrible luddite). So, before embarking on book two I covered one of the walls in my office with cork tiles. When planning that book (and similarly with book three which I’m currently 70k words into), I typed up my synopsis then broke it down into scenes, before writing each of these by hand onto post-it notes (pink and yellow, respectively, for each of my protagonists) and tacking them to the wall. I could then move them around and see what worked, in a more manageable, visual way. Inevitably, both books have morphed into something completely different since those clear and well-intentioned beginnings. At 70k words into my third, I’m now wondering where the hell it is going. It’s part of the excitement and the terror that keeps me going.

3. I read in an interview you did with the Guardian that your grandfather’s disappearance from your father’s life partly inspired your debut. Can you talk about that a little bit and about how it might also have informed A Double Life?

I’m really interested in the way we think about spies and people who dupe or betray the people around them. Historically, when we think about men like my grandfather, Kim, we always couch his betrayal in terms of the country and the men he worked with. No-one gives heed to the fact that he also had five children and a wife at home, who were equally duped. Once I started having children of my own, I thought about what it would take for a woman to leave her family, and what that would look like.

Both my debut, The Most Difficult Thing, and A Double Life open with a woman walking out on her family in a very high-stakes scenario. Although very different stories, both books ultimately pivot around the conflict between a woman’s commitment to a cause/job when in constant opposition to her family commitments, as well as the intense internal struggle and paranoia that must accompany the deceit involved in living such a double life.

4. Women are often merely part of the body count in spy thrillers. How important is it to you to have high flying, powerful female protagonists?

I think it’s really important that women are depicted as equally active players in these stories alongside men, as opposed to being relegated to the passive role of lover or victim, as is traditionally the case in spy thrillers. But equally, while I want to portray complex and strong women, I don’t want to glamourise the world of espionage. I think it’s important that we see regardless of who you are and how important or powerful you believe yourself to be, once you’re sucked into this life it is bigger than you and it is murky and you will always be distrusted, used and, ultimately, be considered dispensable.

It’s also important to point out that my books, while dealing with international crime and aspects of espionage, are very much focused on the people and the lives that are affected in the process, exploring the whys as much as the hows. It’s a delicate balance between domestic noir and spy thriller that (I hope!) has as much heart as it has intense claustrophobia and duplicity. 

5. A Double Life, a short story taken from the beginning of a novel of the same name and printed in Popshot, is brilliantly evocative of the intense stress that carrying secrets must put an individual under, especially when strong emotional ties tear them in two different directions. I’m very excited to read the rest of the novel. Can you tell us (without spoilers) what we might expect?

So, each of these three books (of which A Double Life is the second – the third is out next year) are stand-alone novels, but they all also connect and inform one another. A Double Life moves between the story of Gabriela Shaw, a senior negotiator in the Foreign Office and a mother-of-two, and Isobel Mason, a wayward young local reporter who stumbles upon a terrible crime on Hampstead Heath on the way back from a squat party. Billed as a fast-paced thriller, the book eventually weaves the two women’s lives together through the crime they’re both in different ways connected to, culminating in a dramatic dénouement that links back to my first novel – but there is no need to read the first one in order to read the second!

Charlotte Philby’s novel, A Double Life, will be published in July 2020 by Borough Press, and is available for preorder now.

We are no longer accepting short fiction and poetry for our 28th issue on the theme of ‘earth’. Send in your writing before 9am GMT on Monday 2 March 2020.

UPDATE: SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED

It’s that time again Popshot people! We are now accepting submissions for the next magazine on a theme of…“Earth”.

We have just finished putting together the Mystery issue (thank you to all who submitted, the magazine will hit newsstands at the end of next week), allowing us to open the doors for new submissions.

Our next theme is ‘earth’ and we are interested in writing that looks broadly at our planet, the soil from which all things spring, theories around and the history or mythology of creation from primordial soup to Earth Mothers that come from different ends of the planet, like Gaia and Papatūanuku.

Writers might want to look at the fight to save our planet from global warming, or the difference (fictions, even) in the interpretations or lack thereof of the crisis we are facing. At a time when some world leaders are denying that there is a problem with what humans are doing to the earth, what might the outcomes be? Your stories and poems can shoot us into the future, look at the earth from afar or teach us the lessons we need to learn now. They might have a human angle, or they may look at the role of our planet from the perspective of the plants and wildlife who also inhabit it.

Successful submissions must display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, social commentary, honesty and thrilling storytelling. We welcome all genres and writing styles so long as they follow our guidelines for submission (for more on which, click here).

Submissions for the Summer issue are open until 9am GMT on Monday, 2 March 2020.

The Earth issue will be published in May 2020.

Guidelines for submission:

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum. Entries over the word count will not be considered.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent. You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Earth – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.

At Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Mystery issue, which will be on sale from 6 February.

Drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

In Jessica Squier’s brilliant short story we learn that the toss of the coin may not always bring random consequences, especially when love and friendship are in play. Illustration by Shane Cluskey.

“You are your own worst enemy,” I say.

He nods sadly.  “I know I am. But what can I do about it?”

Here we are again. It’s Friday night and I’m in the pub with Ben trying to sort out his messy relationship problems. He’s been married to Helen for around twelve years and shagging his PA, Amy, for the last two years. 

Some people just have everything handed to them on a plate and Ben is one of those people, all courtesy of Daddy and Mummy. Top notch private school, university and, after that, he went straight into the family media business at management level.

Whereas I – well let’s just say I didn’t have it so easy. Not that I’m Oliver Twist or anything. I certainly never felt underprivileged until I met Ben. I’m his oldest friend. Not age-wise but in length of loyal service. 

We met about twenty years ago in the first seminar of our economics degree at university. He was good fun to be around in those days. I mean, he’s always been a bit of an arsehole, but he used to be charming with it.

Not that I’m ungrateful for what he’s done for me over the years. The holidays, the odd loan to tide me over and he even let me stay in his spare room for a few months when I was going through my divorce. It was then that I got to know Helen a lot better. To say that she is too good for Ben is an understatement. 

I’m sure he loves her, in his own way. I get the impression that she knows about some of his dalliances, but not the full extent.

I’m sure she doesn’t know about the current one. 

Amy is in her mid-twenties, pretty and bubbly, and completely lacking in morals, so I can see the attraction. She has definitely proved more resilient than her predecessors.  Maybe because she comes from the same kind of privileged background as Ben, she knows how to play him at his own game. She’s got him running after her and the pressure is starting to have an impact. That tell-tale stress vein is constantly pulsing in his forehead nowadays.

He’s always been attractive to women, and not just because he’s rich and good looking – in a baby-faced kind of way. He’s perfected this kind of bumbling, apologetic, ‘I can’t tie my own shoelaces’ persona. All of this, combined with his desperate need to be liked, seems to be potent stuff for the opposite sex.

I’ve tried to refuse to be his permanent alibi, but then he puts a massive guilt trip on me. There have been some tricky moments when Helen has come close to finding out. Clearly it’s time for a different approach. It’s crunch time.

“Why don’t we toss a coin on it?” I say, taking a ten pence piece out of my pocket and holding it between my finger and thumb. “Heads, you go with Amy. Tails, you stay with Helen and try to make it work.”

His eyebrows scrunch together and he stares at me like I’ve completely lost the plot. But I stay poker-faced. 

“I can’t do that, mate,” he says. His face is blurry-red with drink. 

“Suit yourself.” I fold the coin into my palm.  “I’m not going to lie for you anymore or sit in the pub listening to you whinging. This is the end of the road for us.” 

For a moment, I think it really is game over, but then he puts his hand to his chin and nods his head a few times, thinking it through.

“All right,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s do it.”

My heart is thumping as I throw the coin in the air.  It lands like a dead weight on the wooden floor by my feet.  I can almost hear the thud.

We peer down, both sweaty and excited. 

“Heads. It’s Amy,” I say, picking up the coin.

A rush of air comes out of Ben’s mouth, and he leans back in his chair, hands on top of his head. For an uncomfortably long time, he’s wide eyed, open mouthed, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Can it really be that easy?” he says eventually.

I shrug.  “It’s up to you.”

He stands up, spreads his arms wide, and bellows: “The gods of chance have spoken. Who am I to go against them?”

The lads who are playing pool nearby turn to look at us and start laughing, thinking we are a couple of weird old gits, no doubt.  Then Ben hugs me tight. When he lets go, I can see tears in his eyes. “Thanks, mate.  You’re a really good friend.”

“I think we need some more alcohol,” I say. “Maybe a glass of brandy this time?”

He shakes his head. “I need to go. Get the wheels moving, I suppose.”

I watch him walk out of the pub, phone in hand, jacket slung over his shoulder. I’m basically gambling on the fact that he will never admit to anyone that he threw his twelve year marriage away on the flip of a coin.

Whatever happens, this is the end of our friendship. 

It was surprisingly easy to buy the doubled headed ten pence piece online. You can get them from loads of places these days. I knew he’d never bother to check it, but I still made sure he was really drunk before trying it. 

Nothing’s guaranteed, mind you. I will need to position myself carefully as far as Helen is concerned. Beautiful, lovely, kind-hearted to the point of being gullible, Helen. I’ve already established myself as her dependable ‘shoulder to cry on’.

I’m itching to send her a text right now, but I need to keep my wits about me.

All I can do is wait and see how it unfolds.

Playing The Game appears in The Chance Issue of Popshot Quarterly.

This poem by May Blythe is about how an unexpected, unlooked for encounter can bring about a dramatic change in perspective and trajectory. Illustration by Dóra Kisteleki.

I thought I’d built a fine nest,
A place of security,
But I’d forged myself a cage,
Stifled my own liberty.

Each twig carefully chosen,
Defences plaited and twirled,
More and more interwoven,
A shield for me from the world.

For years I was contented,
To dwell above and apart,
I watched Life and lives unfold,
With a distant detached heart.

By chance one day you glimpsed me,
I shrunk from your drawing eyes,
My refuge in the shadows,
Afraid of the boundless skies.

You prised a chink in my walls,
And reached inside with your hand,
You gently coaxed me to you,
My unravelling began.

Now though I am without you,
I soar with the sun and stars,
No longer Life’s spectator,
Joining with joy in her dance.

‘Nest’ by May Blythe featured in The Chance Issue of Popshot Quarterly.

This poem by Criselda Cayetano featured in The Chance Issue of Popshot Quarterly. Illustration by Wendy Denissen.

Most Terrifying Thought

the possibilities of the lives that we can live are endless

the people we can meet in a lifetime, uncountable

the consequences of every choice we make, unfathomable

the dreams that we may dream for ourselves, limitless

except, for those who have set their hearts on a single entity:

a person, an idea, a purpose, or a dream – there is no other

your heart has stubbornly set itself on the idea of marrying him,

a love so irreplaceable and unforgettable

that you would forego the excitement of a life

full of adventure, a life ought to be reimagined constantly

that your happiness lies on one out of a billion

that if it fails, you may never get it back

this is the most terrifying thought, a danger to one’s sanity

to devote your entire existence to that which you may lose forever

__________
Criselda Cayetano, 26, grew up in the Philippines but moved to Tokyo in 2015 to work for a Japanese IT company. “Although I use Japanese at work, I am most fluent in English, and poetry is a way for me to express myself in a country where my inner thoughts and feelings are often lost in translation,” she says.

In every issue of Popshot Quarterly we include quotes related to the theme by big names in the world of literature. Illustration by Jason Lyons

For The Chance Issue we asked illustrator Jason Lyon to respond to the following words by Ovid, a Roman poet who lived during the time of Augustus, but whose words are as true today as they would have been two thousand years ago.

“Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be fish,” – Ovid, Heroides

We think you’ll agree that Lyon’s landscape of leaping humpback whales and forests being subsumed by rising tides, does the poet’s beautiful words proud.

You will find The Chance Issue of Popshot Quarterly in WHSmiths, book stores and online today.

This incisively witty short story by Rowena Fishwick examines mermaids, puberty, girlhood and motherhood. Illustration by Ran Zheng

It started a little before my fourteenth birthday. The day was hot and I lay in the shade, close to the river, sweating as I turned the pages of a steamy paperback. Aches throbbed like tiny punctures up my back and thighs. Every so often those aches burst into pain. When that happened I screwed my eyes shut. The black words burned in my head, transforming into insects that crawled around and around until I was sick and dizzy.

“You’re meant to be playing with me,” Hannah said, and I groaned. She’d found my hiding place again. “You can’t just laze around reading all summer.”

The pain passed. I rolled onto my side.

“I can if I want to. Besides, I’m too old for all that.”

“You’re mean.”

“And you’re a numbskull.”

“You’re not to use curse words. I’ll tell.”

“Numbskull isn’t swearing.” I shifted my hips, trying to get comfortable. Then the aches exploded. I cried out. “Shit in hell.”

“That was a bad word.”

I rolled onto my front. “Not as bad as –“ Pain raked my thighs. “– Jesus fuck.”

I sucked in my breath. My fingernails clawed the grass. I tried to look at Hannah, but she was a fog of orange hair and green cotton.

I curled myself up, panting. Perhaps if I made myself smaller the pain would also shrink. But it didn’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Hannah asked, warily, as if this was a practical joke.

“You stupid little bitch.” I spat the words onto the grass. “Just get away. Or I’ll… I’ll…” I howled.

When I looked again, Hannah had gone. I couldn’t care. Pain trumped everything.

My hand brushed my leg, where the burning was worst. I felt something hard and cold. Gradually, I managed to turn my head and peer down. That’s when I saw the scales. They’d broken out all down my legs. Shimmery green scales that rippled when I moved. I scratched one of them, picking until I felt blood. Then my lower body began to convulse. I was being ripped open. Ragged screams tore from my throat. They must have taken my last trace of energy, because I blacked out with them still ringing in my ears.

*

“Lydia?”

I opened my eyes. My shade had been carried away, so I lay right in the glare of the hot, bright sun.

“Lydia.”

“What?”

“You need to be in the water,” Hannah said.

I tried to speak again, but I was parched. Like a dried up snake skin, crackling into dust. But at least the pain had stopped.

“Come on.”

Hannah stooped and jammed her hands under my armpits. I shifted away. Or tried to. Something was wrong with my legs. I looked down and saw the tail. Startled, I tried to get away from it, but the tail moved with me. That’s when I realised. It was my tail and it reached all the way up to my belly button.

“We need to get you in the river.”

I gaped at her. Wasn’t she fazed that I was now a mermaid?

She tried to drag me towards the water. Her mouth puffed air on my face. Sweat glued her hair. But it wasn’t working.

“You’re too heavy,” she said.

“I’m not fat. It’s all tail.”

Somehow, between us, I made it to the bank. The grass was cooler there. Moisture soaked into my pores. I imagined those pores like grasping mouths sucking at the water, desperate for every last particle. Hannah shoved me, rather abruptly, and I rolled into the water.

The river greeted me with a hard smack.

*

“What’s it like?” Hannah asked. She was sitting cross-legged on the grass, making a daisy chain. There was something picturesque about her, like a child in a Victorian painting. I, on the other hand, looked like an entirely different kind of painting.

“Can you talk underwater?”

“No.” I turned the page of my book, not because I was reading but because maybe she’d think I was and shut-up. Hours had passed and her enthusiasm grated. I lay sprawled on the bank, my elbows propped in the dirt, my tail frolicking on the water.

“How do you…you know… go to the toilet?”

“Through my mouth. Not everyone talks shit metaphorically, you know.”

“Gross.”

“You think I have all the answers? You think I turn into a mermaid and suddenly know how it all works?”

“It’s all rather…” She gazed at my tail, her eyes getting misty. “Magical.”

“You mean fucked up.”

“I’ll tell about that one.”

I laughed.

“You think she’ll care about my language? Look at me. I’m a fucking mermaid.”

Hannah slipped the daisy chain onto her head. Wilted petals landed in her tangled hair. “We have to tell her.”

“Are you mad?” I said. “When Dad married Mum she was so scandalised she didn’t speak for over a month. And that was only because she was Eastern European. The shock of this would probably give her a heart attack.”

My lips twisted into a smile.

“On second thoughts. You’re right. Go fetch her.”

Hannah brushed the remaining daisy heads off her lap and hurried up the lawn, towards our house. When she was gone I tossed my book aside.

Something moved on the water and I froze. Boats rarely went past, except on their way to the annual regatta, and that wasn’t for another week. In the past we’d picnicked on the grass and watched them go by. Mum would sunbathe in a black playsuit, cut so low that when she rolled over it flashed her nipple. But this afternoon there was no boat.

The movement was my own tail, writhing like a serpent on the water.

*

Grandma strode up the lawn towards me. Her skirt clung to the opaque stockings she always wore, no matter how hot it became. She was a plain woman. Meaning there was an absence about her, both of beauty and ugliness. She was born the year Queen Victoria died, which made her almost sixty that summer, but she looked a solid fifty. Photographs of her as a child revealed she’d always looked a solid fifty.

As she came closer, my smile faded, because Grandma wasn’t shocked. She gave my tail a moue of disdain, the same as when she’d caught me smoking. I half-expected her to blame this, as she had that, on my watching too many American pictures.

“So,“ she said. “It’s happened. The change.”

“It’s hardly like I’ve got my period.”

Her eyes hardened. “Period is a common word.”

I laughed and my tail twitched.

“She said it would.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

“She knew about…this?”

Grandma looked down at me. “Of course. She was one, too.”

I shuffled, wanting to stand because I was the same height as her now, and could meet her gaze. But, of course, that was when I had legs.

“That’s a lie. She was human.”

“Sometimes. Then, once a month, this happened.”

“So this isn’t permanent?”

My body was baked and I longed to go back in the water. My eyes turned to the river, as if they could feel it watching me, calling to me.

“I expect it will last a few days.”

“Did Dad know?”

She snorted. “One advantage to him being in the army, he was home so seldom we could hide it from him. As we’ll be able to hide this. Your poor father had no idea. He thought she was some kind of goddess. Ever since he found her living by the Danube River after the war. Wouldn’t hear a word against her. But I knew. The first time I saw her, I knew she was trouble. Of course it wasn’t until you came that I realised what sort of trouble.”

Memories of Mum flickered across my mind. Her ink-black hair, those intense eyes, and her laugh. She was always laughing. For a while, after she left, I’d hear that laughter in the house and search for her. As if she was playing another game of hide-and-seek and I’d discover her crouched in a wardrobe or under the stairs. It took a long time to accept the house was empty and the laughter was only a memory.

“I was with her when you were born. I saw your tail.”

“I was born with a tail?”

“She said all you lot have tails in the womb, only it’s usually gone by the time you’re born. You were a month early, so it hadn’t… Anyway, she told me everything then. About herself and the curse. And what would happen to you.”

“And you never thought to tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

I glared at the river. “What about Hannah?”

“She didn’t have a tail. Of course she wasn’t premature. We’ll have to wait and see, but she’s always favoured your father. I have hopes she’ll be normal.”

Normal. The word resounded in my head. I would never be normal. That was when it truly hit me. I was a mermaid. An actual fucking mermaid.

“What happened to Mum?“ I asked. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She just up and left. It was the only decent thing she ever did. We’re all better off without her.” She straightened her back. “No-one can ever find out about this. You understand?”

I nodded. I understood all too well. Her mouth twitched at the corners. Not a smile. Grandma never smiled. The only one on record happened when Mrs Thompson’s roses were ruined by aphids, and she lost her reigning championship at the annual flower show. There was certainly no smile now. She turned and walked away, and I watched her getting smaller and smaller. Except it felt like I was the one who was shrinking. Disappearing into this new body. And there was a loneliness so staggering that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

*

A year passed. A year that was a fog of changing, waiting to change, and trying to block out the knowledge I would change with alcohol and parties.

“You’ve become someone else,” Hannah said to me.

“Give the girl a round of applause. Course I’m not myself. I’m a fucking mermaid a quarter of the time.”

“It doesn’t mean you can’t act like a lady.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Hannah had stopped flinching at my language. At most she’d give me a withering glance. It was worse when the change was due. Along with the aches came an uncontrollable rage. She’d learnt to keep away from me then, after the time I threw her copy of Anderson’s Fairy Tales at her head because I’d caught her reading ‘The Sodding Little Mermaid’ for the fifteenth time.

At least the rage gave me a clue the change was coming. It was worse when it arrived unexpectedly, as it did one summer evening.

I was partying by the river with a group of boys. So wasted I didn’t notice the jerks starting in my body. It was only when I began to convulse that I knew I had to get away. Somehow I made it under the shadow of some trees. They must have heard my screams, but by that time I was too lost in the change to care.

It was morning when I came around. I must have got inside the river before I blacked out, because its water surrounded my body. A flurry of fish charged towards me, some slapping my arms as they hurried off into the murk. Something was happening. Vibrations pulsed through the ground. But I was still drunk and the change had exhausted me. I couldn’t find the energy to move.

A boat passed overhead, blocking out the sun. Waves followed it, rocking me so my arms scraped grit. Then there was another boat. And another. I remembered: the regatta. I had to get away.

But something was tugging my head. I reached to prise it away, but it wouldn’t budge. It got harder, firmer. I looked up at my long, billowing hair, and realised what had happened. It was caught in a propeller.

Everything became panic. Bubbles billowed around me as I tried to yank myself free. My hair was winding tighter, tighter, and I was dragged closer and closer to those blades. The boat gave a stutter. The propeller stopped. Then, with a kick, it started again, harder than before, and I closed my eyes knowing what would happen to me.

Then my hair was loose. Something – someone – was in the water with me. The boat moved away, pieces of my hair trailing behind. I reached up and felt where it had been cut from my skull. Then I looked at the woman beside me. And her tail.

We swam to a quiet part of the river.

“You look different,” I said, when we broke the surface.

She laughed. Then said something in a language I didn’t understand. The words tangled one on top of the other.

“Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been in England for a long time. I was saying that you look different, too.”

“Where have you been?”

I watched her smooth down her hair. She was still beautiful. Her naked breasts bobbed on the water and her skin had a silverfish glow.

“I came back when I thought you’d need me.”

“Well, you’re a year too late.”

“A year? So this isn’t your first change? Ah, well I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound very sorry.”

She sighed. “Well, I couldn’t have known you’d be an early developer. I didn’t have my first change until I was fifteen.”

She sounded so blasé I wanted to scream at her. Tell her about the torment of the past year. The time I tried to slice my tail off with a kitchen knife, when I started to change at school and barely made it to our street before my tail sprouted, and the times I let boys fuck me just to prove to myself I was still human.

“Didn’t you think of coming back for any other reason?”

“What else would you need me for?”

“You’re my mother. How could you leave?”

“I’m a wanderer. A free spirit. I told your dad this when we married, but he thought I’d change.” She picked at a cuticle. “Do you have to interrogate me, Lydia? You sound just like that old crone. I’m beginning to wonder why I came back. Although it’s clear you’re making a mess of this whole thing. Drinking when the change is due. Have you no sense?”

“I apologise.”

She didn’t hear the sarcasm, or chose not to. “We have a reputation to uphold. Mermaids are meant to be beautiful, enigmatic. Not drunk and bedraggled. You need to be more like me, Lydia.”

“You think I want to be like you?”

“Well,“ she blinked at me, her eyes puzzled. ”You are.”

“So you’re going to stay?”

“Of course not. You’re coming with me.”

“What about Hannah?”

“She isn’t a mermaid. At least not yet.”

“Don’t you even want to see her?”

“Why?”

“Have you always been this fucking selfish?”

She thought about the question.

After a while she said: “I suppose so. Now, are you coming?”

I stared at her. She grew bored and let her eyes drift around. Water lapped against her breasts, sunlight poured over her flawless skin. She reminded me of a fortune-teller I’d once seen at the carnival. Reading a bad fortune with as much emotion as she might read a shopping-list. My thoughts turned to Hannah, and how different things could have been if someone had prepared me for all this.

“No,” I said. “I have to stay.”

“Very well.”

“But you’ll come back?”

She tossed her head.

“I don’t see why. But, if you wish, I’ll try to sometime. Just remember to stay away from drink. Oh, and jellyfish. I know that from experience.”

Then she ducked under the water and swam away.

A few days later I changed back. It was evening and starlight sprinkled the black sky. Hannah always left me dry clothes by the bank and this time it was a peculiar concoction that made me look like Peter Pan.

The house was quiet, but a light flickered in the living-room where Grandma was watching TV. And I wondered if she’d been sitting up for me. If she worried about me during my absences.

“So you’re back,” she said and turned to look at me. “You’ve seen her, then?”

I knew who she meant.

“Yes.” Grandma snorted.

“And how was she?”

“She was…” What could I say? Selfish? Charming? Thoughtless? Beautiful?

She gave a dry laugh, as if she’d read my thoughts.

“She always was.”

I left her there and went up to the bedroom I shared with Hannah. She was asleep, moonlight touching her freckled face. Her Anderson’s Fairy Tales was face down on the table and, turning it over, I saw it displayed ‘The Little Mermaid.’ She stirred and her eyes blearily opened.

“You know this isn’t a fairy-tale,” I said.

“Then what is it?” she asked, her voice croaky. “What’s it like? You never tell me.”

“It’s…” Her eyes watched me, waiting. How could I begin to explain? It was pain, it was fear, it was loneliness. Yet, in the past few days, it had become something else as well. It was the power of breathing underwater. It was moments of pure freedom. Freedom from the constraints of being human, being a girl, being young. It was… I slammed the book shut.

“Fucked up,” I said, and smiled.

This story featured in The Fantasy Issue of Popshot Quarterly.

The Chance Issue of Popshot features a poem written by award-winning author Joe Dunthorne who first made his name with debut novel Submarine and whose first collection of poetry, O Positive, was published this year.

What inspires and drives you to write?

Curiosity, mostly. For me, the biggest joy of writing is in not knowing where I’m going. I love the feeling of following your mind into itself, of seeing what lives inside you.

You write poetry, short stories, novels and screenplays – how do you know (or at what point in the creative process) what format your story or idea is going to take?

Usually each story suggests its ideal form. In my experience, poetry is good at pinning a single moment under a microscope. Short stories tend to suit more experimental structures, weirder voices. Novels are often more about depth of character. Although there are obviously endless exceptions. Sometimes I change a story into a poem then end up hiding it somewhere in a novel. Whatever feels right.

Your poem “The Spins” (featured in the Chance Issue) brilliantly evokes the contradictions of the festive season — wanting to see family and loving them, but the madness and emotion that prolonged proximity and forced jollity can engender. What do you and your family do at Christmas and how do you avoid getting the spins?

We are usually quite a harmonious – or conflict-averse – family. We tend to all get together in Wales or Scotland and go for walks, eat food and play board games. The most notable family Christmas argument was between my older sisters. They fundamentally disagreed about how best to cook the scrambled eggs. It may sound as though the stakes were quite low but it became the prism through which they saw each others souls.

In terms of avoiding the spins, I think that getting out of the house is essential. I would recommend contact with non-humans. Feeding birds. Hugging dogs. Nodding to cows and sheep. And of course the other important rule is: never play Monopoly.

Can you describe your writing process?

I’m a morning writer so I get up as early as I can and try to write something, anything, while my brain is still fuzzy and dreamy. Recently, I’ve gotten into using a typewriter for these early morning poems and flash fictions. There’s magic in the way the typewriter publishes your work as you write it. Every keystroke goes to print. There’s no going back. Plus, it makes a cheerful ding noise when you get to the end of the line. What could be more encouraging than that?

What is the novel or collection of poetry you wish you had written?

Oh, there are so many. Perhaps Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower – surely one of the best short story collections ever written.

What are you writing right now?

I’m writing poems and short stories and just experimenting. I recently started sketching a graphic novel about a man’s co-dependent relationship with his talking verruca.

Joe Dunthorne’s poetry collection O Positive is published by Faber & Faber (£10.99)

Illustration by Wendy Wong

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Aaron Menzel was inspired to write short story “Patched”, featured in The Escape Issue, after undergoing laser eye surgery. Illustration by Matthew Brazier

“How much longer?”

“Not much, Mrs Asvang. One more incision needs to be made.”

“It’s just my husband —”

“He’ll be fine, Mrs Asvang. Please, all excessive facial movement must be avoided.”

Rita saw the drops fall from the bottle before they splashed across her eye, eating away at her vision, blurring sharp lines into disorder. The clink of tools, and then the pressure, like a thumb pushed against a puffed-up cheek, as the scalpel made a final slice into her cornea. A spritz of water and the dead skin skimmed away, the operating room came into focus. The nurse smiled and removed the padded bars that held her head in place.

Rita sat up. On the wall, painted in gold, she read, “If you see this, thank the doctor!” and she handed her bear to the nurse as she was helped off the table. “You’ll have a thirty-minute period of rest while the adhesive contacts settle. Just relax and keep those eyes closed.”

“And my husband. Can you tell him, tell Silas —”

“He’ll be informed of your success Mrs Asvang. Breathe and remember not to touch those eyes. They’re fragile for the first few hours.”

After more numbing drops to ease the swelling, Rita followed the nurse out to the lobby. Silas leaned against the counter, his features blurred in the dim light, but she knew all the angles and points of her husband.

“You’re late. Are your eyes OK? You gonna need additional surgeries?”

“I’m sorry, Silas. But look! I’m — ”

“Were there complications?”

“Oh. I don’t think so. The doctor had to be careful with the contact bandages. I’m fine. I can see! No glasses!”

“And your prescription won’t change? No more frames? No more lenses?”

“Your vision will be spotty for the first few days,” said the nurse as she held out a bag of supplies to Rita. “Make sure to wear the sunglass and keep the eyes hydrated.”

“Ok. Well, good.” Silas took the bag from the nurse. “Good, well…I’m glad then. Instructions are in here?” The nurse nodded. “Fantastic. We’d better be getting home. Missed most of the morning as it is.”

“Goodbye!” Rita called as Silas guided her towards the front door. “And thank you!” The nurse waved, and Rita marvelled at how, even in the low light, the bare bulbs caused halos and flares to dance and weave around the nurse as the door shut behind her.

Rita pressed her face to the window during the drive home. Everything came in and out of focus, like someone was adjusting knobs on the side of her head. She could see the texture on the cars as they passed – then it faded into smooth patches of colour. And as she strained to capture every detail, she felt the itch of the adhesive contact.

Rita opened the bag and felt for the bottle of drops, twisted off the lid and squirted a few bits of relief directly onto the contact. She struggled to close each eye as the drops absorbed, each lid springing up over the bulge swelling from the socket.

“You’re not touching your eyes, are you?” Silas asked as he sped through a yellow.

“No, just drops. I’m being careful. The lenses feel like they’re on fire and the lids won’t stay down. Too much swelling I suppose.”

“Is that normal? That can’t be normal. If we have to get another surgery to —”

“I’m sure it’s —”

“Please, don’t interrupt me. If we have to have another surgery, we’ll be getting it for free. They’re not going to cheat me out of three grand, I’ll tell you that.” He trailed off as they pulled into the driveway. Rita made sure that her sunglasses were snug against her face, then followed Silas into the house, watching how the shadows snatched and dripped off his jacket as the sun dropped behind the hills.

The burning began around midnight. With each blink, Rita’s eyelids scratched at the protective covering, threatening to rip it away from the delicate cornea. The tears had dried up hours ago, and as she shook the bottle of drops, she knew she had to be at least a third of the way through. This couldn’t be normal. The brochure had described nothing like the pain she felt, but the surgery had to be a success even if she made it one on her own. Slowing her mind, she inhaled and forced the lids shut a fraction more with each exhalation, until she saw nothing but black and sleep took over.

***

“Oh God, Rita! Rita!” Rita’s head bounced against the pillow as Silas shook her, waking her from her dream.

“What? What is it?”

“Oh God. Rita, your eyes they —”

“My eyes? Are they OK? What’s wrong?”

“I thought you were dead! You were sleeping with them open!”

“Oh.”

“You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.” Rita felt for the drops on the nightstand. Everything in the bedroom was a fuzzy caricature. The framed portrait above the dresser had turned into a blend of emerald and scarlet, the lamp a static pillar of yellow. She grasped the bottle, turned towards Silas, and immediately had to suppress laughter. The eyedrops had settled on the lenses and magnified Silas’s nose, turning it into a bulbous plug below his eyes. His mouth ran into a red blur as she blinked away the tears, and his chin looked horribly long.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Silas. Nothing. It just feels good to get the moisture in.” Rita refrained from describing what she saw. Silas could have a sense of humour, but not so much in the morning. Plus, the sting of her eyes had taken over her thoughts.

“Well I’m glad you’re feeling better, but my heart is pounding. What a way to wake up.”

Together they made the bed and set about tidying up. Rita had read that light housework was acceptable, and most recipients of lasek could be back to reading by the end of the second day. The sharp pains from the night before had disappeared, but a dull ache flared with each

blink and Saturday passed as it usually did. Rita finished dishes, taking breaks only for lunch and more drops, and Silas worked on the computer before leaving for groceries.

Capitalising on the silence, Rita sank into the sofa and dialled up Lucy, her sister, chatting about her job, her husband, everything but the lasek. Silas had been adamant about not mentioning the surgery until they knew it would be a success. “You read all about these catastrophic failures. Wouldn’t it be horrendous to tell your family you’re going to get your eyes fixed only for you to be blinded? No. I say wait. Then it can be a surprise!” But as Rita hung up she felt a twinge of doubt. While her sister did have a few blemishes on her record — her first impression of Silas being one of them — she tended to have a keen sense of when something wasn’t right.

Rita wished she could call her sister over and have her take a look, but as she thought about it more, she figured Lucy would simply google her symptoms, which is one thing Rita had yet to do. But why google when a professional could be consulted? Rita rummaged through her purse and found the card she needed. She dialled and pressed the phone to her ear, counting the rings until:

“Transect Lasek. Opening eyes seven days a week, this is Angela how may I help you?”

“Hi, Angela. This is Rita Asvang. I was in yesterday and I just had a few questions about the procedure.”

“Or course. Ask away!”

“It’s my eyes — of course it’s my eyes —they really hurt. I’ve used up most of my drops and they aren’t getting better. It feels like my contact bandages might be irritated?”

“The first bottle of drops is almost used up?”

“…the second.”

“The second. Goodness. Well, sounds like you’re in pain. I’d recommend coming in first thing tomorrow. We’ve got one spot open. Can I make you an appointment?”

Rita bit at her fingernails, trimming the centres to a point. “That’d be wonderful, but I can’t say for sure. Can I check with my husband and call back?” She held her breath, listening as Angela clicked away on her keyboard.

“I’m sorry, Ms Asvang, but we close in the next fifteen. I can leave a memo for the morning staff, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll be seen. If you really are in pain I’d recommend booking now.”

“Right, right.” Rita switched the phone to her left shoulder and moved to the nails on her right hand. “It’s just that, well, I’d better wait. I’ll call again tomorrow. Thank you, Angela. You’ve been extremely helpful.” She clicked the phone off and rested it against her temple. I should’ve booked. What if I can’t get in? It’s OK. Silas, he always books, he’ll figure this out. But these are my eyes, not his! I don’t want to make him needlessly nervous…

She glanced at the clock. Silas had been gone for thirty minutes. Surely, he wouldn’t be back before six. That left her fifteen minutes. Holding one hand against the wall, she guided herself to the study, letting the texture of the wallpaper play across her fingertips. The computer booted up quickly, but it took her three tries to login. Silas was always changing his password, and he sometimes forgot to tell her. Clicking on the browser, Rita squinted as she typed, opening each search in a new tab and blinking away the pain as she scanned each source. According to the forums, some patients did experience severe discomfort when infection set in, and one particular user described in great detail how the infection had spread to the entire eye. An archived post recounted how the independent removal of the protective contact had alleviated most of the pain, but that it had to be done very carefully. In some instances, bits of dust or grit could become trapped behind the bandages, making the healing process last longer than it should.

The sound of Silas pulling into the driveway startled Rita into closing each tab. Powering down the computer she turned off the light and rolled in the computer chair just as Silas entered through the garage. He kicked off his shoes and stood at the end of the long hallway, bags of groceries dripping with rainwater. He set them on the ground and walked towards his wife.

“Were you in the office?”

“Yes, just for a bit. I had to check a few things. Silas, I called —”

He brushed past and turned on the office light, placing his hand on the top of the tower. “You used the computer. How did you get on?”

“What? You told me the password. Earlier this week when I had to work on taxes. Silas, I need to talk to you about my eyes.”

Silas glared, his hair plastered in tendrils to his pale forehead, then booted the computer back up. “Rita, you shouldn’t be using the computer. You need to wait before your eyes fully heal or we’ll be right back on the operating table.” Rita watched as Silas clicked on the computer icon, the tiny grey cog, and then the icon marked privacy. “Plus, you said yourself that your eyes were a little sore today. Using a screen can’t be helping that, right?”

“I don’t know Silas —”

“Don’t use that tone.”

“I was thinking of you. I didn’t want you to worry, so I thought it best if I searched myself.”

“You thought wrong, Rita. I want to make sure everything is going according to plan, and right now it doesn’t sound like the plan is on track. So how about you go back into the kitchen and take a seat. We can keep all of the bright lights off for now. I’ll light a candle. How about that? It’ll save on our electric bill at least.”

A candle sounded like a good idea. Her eyes felt more inflamed than ever, even focusing on Silas as his fingers twitched over the keyboard proved taxing. Plus, the bottle of eyedrops were dangerously close to empty. Silas finished in the office, grabbed some leftovers from the fridge and soon they were sitting across from each other, spooning in mouthfuls of dinner in the candlelight.

The single flame cast pulses of light across their faces, and Rita’s stomach turned each time she glanced up from her food. The flickers played tricks on her husbands face, lengthening his chin and hiding his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks no longer looked blonde, but black, and his nose twisted with each flare of the candle. She forced food down and the silence held, but as the wick grew shorter and their plates became cleared, the pain in Rita’s eyes became unbearable.

She glanced at the bulge in the pocket of her jeans. Silas reached across the table, but she pulled away, his fingers snatching at her shirtsleeve. “Shouldn’t you be saving those for emergencies? I spotted a bottle in the bathroom garbage. That’s your second, isn’t it?”

“Silas, I think this is an emergency. The smoke. My eyes. I can’t even close them. I think something might be wrong. Something with the contacts. I called —”

“You called? Called who? Your sister, probably. You’d better not say your mother.”

“I called the clinic. I spoke to a nurse. She thinks I should come in.”

“No. you’re fine. The contacts are fine. You need to be patient.”

“The contacts aren’t fine. I read online that grit can get stuck — ”

“The internet is full of idiots, Rita. Come on, you’re a smart girl.”

Am I, though? “Silas,” Rita knew she couldn’t cry, the ducts were swelled shut, “Silas I think this may be serious.” She felt her left hand twitch towards her forehead, but she fought to keep it at her side. “Just a few more drops, then I’ll get an early bedtime. It could be better in the morning, but I can’t stand it right now.”

She could feel each microscopic change in the air as she raised her gaze to look into the eyes of her husband. The contacts had shifted, she knew they had, because now Silas looked split, his flannel shirt cut down the middle, with one half tailored and trim, the other looking fit to burst. Silas’ hand shot out and squeezed Rita’s wrist, then Rita pulled away and took out the drops.

But the bottle was empty. Rita reached towards her eyes but Silas smacked her hand away. She threw the bottle at Silas and pushed back her chair, running towards the bathroom, ignoring his calls as she fled.

Turning on the tap, she bent over the sink and splashed handfuls of water directly into her eyes, the cool liquid a relief she had never known before. She blinked again and again, the lenses bunching up beneath the eyelids as she shook her head over the sink.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” screamed Silas through the closed door, his voice distorted over the rush of water, but Rita had already dislodged the right lens and the left one soon followed. Holding them in the palm of her hand they looked like fish scales, filmy and soft, and she let water from the tap carry them down the drain. She closed her eyes. The eyelids felt hot against her fingers, but the burning had finally stopped, and as she opened her eyes she saw her face, clear and sharp in the mirror. She leaned in and inspected each red-rimmed iris. They didn’t look damaged. Silas’s screaming had stopped.

Rita opened the door.

She stepped out into the hallway and heard movement on the steps. Then the snick of the deadbolt sounded and as she listened to the creek of the stairs, she prepared herself for what she knew she’d see.

Silas was gone, but what had replaced him came towards her. Its tongue lolled out the side of its mouth, dangling towards the tip of its pointed chin. Humped shoulders distended the fabric, threatening to burst through the flannel, and eyes set deep into the face shone with feverish intensity. It had discarded its socks and now overgrown nails cut into the hardwood floor. Rita watched its stomach rise and fall. She felt for the wall and began to back down the hallway.

“I see you now.”

The thing stared.

“I think I can see everything now. My eyes are new. And better than I ever thought possible.”

The thing crept forward, its nails clicking on the floor.

“Stay there. You need to stay there. I’m leaving. I’ve made up my mind.”

Another step, another step, it lunged.

And Rita ran. Sprinting into the bathroom she slammed the door, twisting the cheap lock into place. She threw open the window just as the thing began to ram against the wood, but she was up and over the lip of the ledge before the first cracks appeared above the knob. The roof was slick with rain, but Rita scooted towards the gutter and then down onto the slanted strip overhanging the entryway. She jumped, and the drop stung her knees, but she rolled with the impact, coming up covered in grass clippings and mud. Rain misted her bare arms. She turned to face the window to find the thing looking back as the twilight slipped away.

Patched is from The Escape Issue – Issue 24. Order your copy here

We are now accepting short fiction and poetry for our 27th issue on the theme of ‘mystery’. Send in your writing before 9am GMT on Monday 2 December 2019.

UPDATED 2 DECEMBER 2019: SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED

It’s that time again Popshot people! We are now accepting submissions for the next magazine on a theme of…

“Mystery”.

We have just finished putting together the Chance issue (thank you to all who submitted, the magazine will hit newsstands at the end of next week), allowing us to open the doors for new submissions.

Our next theme is ‘mystery’ and we are interested in writing that sets up or solves a conundrum or points to the enigmatic in something ordinary or beautiful.

Writers might want to look beyond the confines of genre, where mystery is central to crime novels and “whodunnits”.  Although we love the satisfaction of having a problem or murder neatly solved, we also want to see writing that is surprising, literary and pushes the boundaries of our expectations when it comes to mystery, perhaps delving into the absurd as well as the more tangible unravellings that happen with any good yarn. 

Successful submissions must display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, social commentary, honesty and thrilling storytelling. We welcome all genres and writing styles so long as they follow our guidelines for submission (for more on which, click here).

Submissions for the Spring issue are open until 9am GMT on Monday, 2 December.

The Mystery issue will be published in February 2020.

Guidelines for submission:

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum. Entries over the word count will not be considered.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent. You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Mystery – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.

At Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Fantasy issue, which will be on sale from 8 August.

Drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Illustration by Seb Westcott

Is there a baby elephant in your writing room? Farhana Khalique’s flash fiction describes the weighted down feeling of stalled creativity. Illustration by Jake Williams

Baby Elephant is trying to sit in my lap again.

I groan and uncross my legs and she half rests, watching me.

I run my hands over her parchment skin, a palimpsest of grey. Her watermelon head is as hot as desire.

I tickle her parachute ears.

We sit like this on the shadowed plains of my room.

She won’t sleep.

Instead, she gets up and trumpets at the moon, threatens thunder, tiny tusks tear pin-pricks in the sky.

But I’m stuck.

She’s the one who pulls me out. She dips her trunk and sprays me with water, nearly drowns me, before she brings me back.

Get on with it! say the whites of her eyes. She ignores my shivers. She stamps her feet, spanks my hands and blows in my ears, until I pick up my pen.

Only then, she retreats to the sofa, her breath cools and her eyelids smoulder.

Even when she dreams, her tail swishes and sweeps the letters across the margins, onto the lines and into words.

I grab her floating ghost and colour her pink, a candy floss paper weight, a sugar-spun raincloud. The sweet heaviness of her feet rumbles across her airy playpen.

The pages will grow slowly, like her. Moodily, like her. But one day, those legs could be tree trunks, a forest.

For now, her smiles warm the seeds in my brain. And something takes root.

This story featured in The Fantasy Issue of Popshot Magazine.

Luciana Francis’s beautiful poem ‘To The Garden’ likens new parenthood to nurturing a garden. Illustration by Sophie Parsons.

the last word I said before they raised you
to the lights was “stay” then with a touch I bridged the space
I said “welcome to the world”

a world I have barely paved with random steps scraps of paper
and cockles dug out from unsuspecting shores

alone with a bud nipped at the root of me
the only cry I longed for was yours the first
once you were ousted from your kingdom my parent material

nested in the quiet of a white room about to sleep
to the sound of your heart a reverse of roles so to speak
the sudden lights and my feral fear roared “get him out alive!”

the years that come and go
have left me with a beginning
my body now a tree battered by a hasty dawn but happy

that we got out

you from me and me from that Winter when
cloaked by the rain that ran down the face of our window
I did not know yet of our garden

or the roses that would return or the seeds that scatter
in spite of her departure how they go on giving away
their core tiny hearts that break open for Spring

oh the years have come and gone and much is left behind
all Love is scarborne and you
a single blossom to outnumber all tears

This poem appeared in The Escape Issue of Popshot Magazine.

The author of the Game of Thrones books’ definition of ‘fantasy’ featured in the current issue of Popshot magazine. Illustration by Harry Woodgate.

“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real… for a moment at least… that long magic moment before we wake. Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli.

Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?” — George RR Martin.

What does fantasy mean to you?

The Fantasy Issue of Popshot is available now from WHSmiths, book shops and online.

We are no longer accepting submissions for the 26th issue of Popshot. Illustration by Martina Messori.

Well, you had your chance. And we very much hope you took it — and submitted your work to the “chance” issue of Popshot magazine.

This week at Popshot Towers we will be reading through all the submissions, getting in touch with the best illustrators for each story and thinking about how the next magazine can be its punchiest best.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to submit their writing to us. If you don’t hear from us for a while, don’t worry. We will contact authors and poets chosen for inclusion in October.

The Chance issue will be published in early November. Meanwhile, copies of the Fantasy issue of Popshot can be currently found on newsstands in WHSmiths, book shops and online. Why not grab a copy or subscribe so you never miss an issue?

The Fantasy Issue of Popshot includes flash fiction by the author of bestselling novel ‘The Farm’. Illustration by Ewelina Rynkiewicz

Joanne Ramos, whose debut novel The Farm, about a surrogacy service for the super wealthy has been gracing bestseller lists, agreed to be Popshot’s guest author for The Fantasy Issue. She contributed a beautiful flash fiction story in which she imagines the earth’s response to human profligacy and environmental destruction (buy it in WHSmiths, in book shops and online!).

Here she speaks to editor Matilda Battersby about the writing process, her 20 year hiatus from writing and producing a bestselling debut in her forties.

Firstly, thank you for the story you contributed to Popshot. Can you give us some insight into the starting point and your inspiration?

I wrote this piece while on holiday on Fire Island, a barrier island not too far from New York City, where I live. Because there are no curtains on the windows in my room, the sun wakes me early, usually well before six. I like to take our dog for a walk on the beach. It’s a beautiful time to be up—the day pink-gold and new and fragile-seeming, the sand unblemished, the only sound the surf. At this hour, I’m usually alone on the beach, and it can feel like I’m the only person in the world. And then, as my dog and I stroll at the ocean’s edge, we encounter the first empty beer can, then a bunch of deflated helium balloons still bound together with sparkly ribbon, then water-logged plastic bags and water bottles — the junk washed up by the waves overnight; the markers of a high-consumption/high-disposal society. 

I started thinking about the earth, and how too often we take her loveliness and bounty for granted. I wondered what she would do if she got fed up with us. The image that flashed in my head was not fire and brimstone, earthquake and flood — but fruit. Grotesquely enlarged fruit. Because in my mind, the earth would have a sense of humour. From there, I started to write this short piece.

Congratulations on the success of your first novel, The Farm. A lot of Popshot readers are often writers themselves — can you please briefly describe your journey to becoming a published author?

I’ve loved stories and writing since I was a kid. Some of my earliest memories are of copying down, word-for-word, the stories in the board books my parents bought me and stapling these sheets of plagiarised text together into “books”! Life took me in a different direction, and by the time I finally decided to give fiction-writing a real go, I was in my forties. I hadn’t written fiction since college—a twenty-year hiatus.

The ideas behind the book had been stewing in my head for decades, though—ones rooted in my experiences, and the people I’ve gotten to know, as a Filipina immigrant in Wisconsin, a financial-aid student at Princeton, a woman in the male-dominated world of high finance, and a mother of three in the era of helicopter parenting. Finding a compelling story that could hold these ideas was the hard part. It was a process of trial and error and writing in the dark. Saved in my laptop are the many aborted short stories, “first chapters” and flash-fiction pieces that I produced in that year and a half of stumbling and experimenting before I landed on the idea for The Farm.

The idea of a surrogacy facility came to me after reading a very short article in the newspaper about commercial surrogacy in India. From there, the what ifs began bubbling: what if I made the surrogacy facility a luxury one? What if the surrogate mothers were needy and the clients were uber-rich?

From this point, it took me another three and a half years to write and edit the book. I tentatively sent the manuscript to a handful of agents in mid-December of 2017 in hopes of finding someone to represent me. Within a couple of days, I had my first offer; others followed quickly. And things only accelerated from there! The past year and a half has been a whirlwind and, quite literally, a childhood dream come true.

What is your writing routine – do you write every day? For how long? Are you a planner or do you find your way through the narrative over lots of drafts?

I have three children, and they were still very young when I committed myself to writing a book six years ago. This means my writing time was confined to the hours they were at school. I made myself sit down to work—or, at least, stare at the computer screen and think—for two to three hours every weekday morning before attending to my “hausfrau” duties. Some weeks, due to a sickness (mine or one of my kids) or a family holiday or volunteering at school, I couldn’t write as much as I’d like. Even then, I tried very hard to snatch some time, even just half an hour, to write. I somehow felt back then that if I didn’t keep my foot in that door, it would close and I would revert back to wishing I’d written a book rather than doing the hard work of writing one!

As far as my writing process: I’m not an outliner nor a planner. I seem to begin with an image or phrase that resonates with me, or an idea, and the writing unfolds. I love the process of discovery; I’m not sure I ever could outline in detail, because I like not knowing — in writing and in many other aspects of life. I’m not a creature of habit, and I like to be surprised.

I think this is also one reason I wrote the book from four different perspectives. I liked finding out how different characters would see the same experiences—and writing four very different characters, with different backstories and voices, kept me interested and “discovering” as well.

I tend to re-write as I go along, so when I finished the book it was in decent shape. I still went back and edited the book in full three times. In part, this is because I got to know my characters and the plot by writing them—and so the first chapters didn’t always reflect what I’d learned by the end of the book.

Read Joanne Ramos’s story ‘The Earth’ in The Fantasy Issue of Popshot.

The Popshot editors are pleased to introduce the latest instalment of our journal, The Fantasy Issue!

We asked our contributors to write about their wildest dreams; to examine whether fantasy is delusion, creativity or a fool’s paradise.

For The Fantasy issue we sought to nod briefly to “Fantasy” with a capital F, while also representing wider interpretations that go beyond genre; to take in dreams, desires and the human ability to build our own realities however far fetched. This issue includes dark, funny and revealing fantasies, from online dating with a murderous twist, to midnight trysts with Elvis, foot fetishes, prophets and mermaids hitting puberty.

Our guest author is Joanne Ramos whose debut novel The Farm, about a surrogacy service for the super wealthy, has been gracing bestseller lists. In her flash fiction story, So Beautiful, exclusively published in Popshot, she gives voice to the earth — who is, it transpires, rather fed up with mankind.

Whatever your fantasies, we hope you enjoy reading this issue.

Words by Andrea Holck, Beth Lincoln, Jen Lua Allan, Ursula Brunetti, Rowena Fishwick, Daniel Whigham, Sy Brand, Jill Munro, Nanci Gilliver, Michael Dmytruk, LA Pocock, Aarushi Shetty, Carl “Papa” Palmer, James Sapsard, Steven Borg, Florianne Humphrey, Farhana Khalique, Lindy Newns, John Graham Bailey, Emma Levin, Joanne Ramos, Jessica Kashdan-Brown, Anastasia Gammon, Stephen Daultrey, Emma Hulonce, Angela Arnold.

Illustrations by Eric Chow, Cindy Fan, Jake Williams, Esther Lalanne, Ran Zheng, Kell Kitsch, Abi Stevens, Mitt Roshin, Omar Morgan, Olga Kawacińska, Liah Paterson, Denise Gallagher, Rebecca Ashdown, Sophie Standing, Lorna Jameson, Charlotte Fu, Renzo Razzetto, Lottie Liggins, Vanessa Lovegrove, Anna Knopf, Matthew Brazier, Harry Woodgate, Shauna Mckeon, Jack Snelling, Bistra Masseva, Ewelina Rynkiewicz.

Orders will be dispatched within two working days.

UK / £6 + p&p
BUY NOW

EUROPE / £6 + p&p
BUY NOW

WORLD / £6 + p&p
BUY NOW

We are now accepting short fiction and poetry for our 26th issue on the theme of ‘chance’. Send in your writing before 9am GMT on Monday 2 September.

The Chance Issue

UPDATE: SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED

We have just finished putting together the Fantasy issue (thank you to all who submitted, the magazine will hit newsstands next week), allowing us to open the doors for new submissions. Our next theme is ‘chance’ and all the potential ramifications of taking a chance — as well as those of its bedfellows coincidence and opportunism.

Writers might want to examine what happens when you take a chance, the positive and negative outcomes of doing something extraordinary through luck or coincidence, chance encounters, impossible coincidences, the “fates” aligning to hand over an opportunity. There’s an old creative writing rule of thumb: “Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of trouble are cheating.” Do you agree? What would you do with your characters given the chance?

Successful submissions must display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, social commentary, honesty and thrilling storytelling. We welcome all genres and writing styles.

Submissions for the Winter issue are open until 9am GMT on Monday, 2 September.

The Chance issue will be published in November 2019.

Guidelines for submission:

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum. Entries over the word count will not be considered.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent. You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Chance – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.

At Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Fantasy issue, which will be on sale from 8 August.

Drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Illustration by Shauna Mckeon

This flash fiction by Luke Larkin which featured in The Nostalgia Issue of Popshot was inspired by his father’s cassette tapes. Illustration by Toby Morison.

Dad lived in a time capsule because Mom wouldn’t let him in the house. It was an old Buick station wagon, the kind with a rear-facing backseat so that you could ride face-to-face with the other drivers and wave at them, then flip the bird if they didn’t wave back. Only a handful of seatbelts still worked, and you had to crank the windows down yourself. He kept polaroids of us in the glove compartment, outdated maps of old family trips on the dash, a box of cassettes in the middle row. He had no concept of obsolete.

One night in the summer, he dropped by just after dark and honked until Mom stormed through the screen door and sniped him dead with her one good eye. I flew past her across the lawn, wet with sprinkler dew, and dove through the passenger seat window, not even bothering with the door handle. We went for soft serve, then found a hotdog stand and ordered two with everything on them. He asked how school was going and I just said, “It sure is going,” and he nodded. I asked how work was, though I knew by the piles of dirty clothes in cardboard boxes in the trunk of the station wagon that it wasn’t going well. I asked when he would come home, and he said he was home right now, wasn’t he? I said permanently. When are you home permanently? And he said when your mom wants me permanently.

Then we just drove. Through the neon of the city and onto the empty eight lane highway and eventually into the mountains where the station wagon sputtered along the moonlit switchbacks. When the radio signal cut out, I dragged the box of cassettes into my lap and flicked through them the same way Mom flicked through her card-box of recipes, written in swooping cursive on index cards. The Eagles, Fettuccine Carbonara, Springsteen, Bacon-wrapped Scallops. My finger landed on a tape without any markings cradled in a fluorescent green plastic case. What’s this one? I asked.

Dad glanced over and his expression flickered between possible responses. His brow raised and his lower lip drew back, ready to click into either a grimace or a smirk. Eventually, he chose the smirk. Wedding tape, he said, and I popped it into the deck before he could say anything more.

Waves crashed on a beach somewhere, steady and calm, before a pulsing synthesiser introduced a sparse drum. Annie Lennox sang Mom’s name over and over as the synth swelled and chimed and Dad just kept his eyes on the road and I kept my eyes on him as he held his left hand in his lap and stroked a gold band with his thumb. As hard as I tried to conjure images of her strong hands and slender fingers, in that moment I couldn’t remember if Mom still wore hers.

This piece of flash fiction by Joshua Preston reflects on the experience of moving and making a life, or lives, with a loved one. Illustration by Jan Siemen.

Stretching its long legs and shaking the sleep from its eyes, our home decided to move. This of course surprised us. You jumped out of bed and ran to hold shut the rattling cupboards. I went around collecting the paintings from the walls and stacked in safe layers the history of our bad taste. As the landscape changed, we watched the prairie give way to skyline to skyline to skyline as our home sprinted from one city to another.

Trinkets from a dozen travels vanished. Shelves toppled over. Books-I-promised-to-read flew out windows and doors. We lost the cat somewhere in Pennsylvania. Things come and go, and we cannot save everything—though you still sometimes talk about that missing sweater.

For years our home kept its pace, and we spent many nights wondering what it was searching for. We never found an answer, but eventually, our home slowed from its youthful sprint to a walk. What we learned from watching the lives of others is that some homes run until they are tired, others until they break. I wish we had that coffee table, and I still feel bad about the cat, but I think we have done well. We are no longer where we started, but we are still here, and how good it has been hanging on for dear life with you.

This poem by John Reinhart is about an unusual character who will stop at nothing to find love. Illustration by Sam Dunn

I tried inverting

tried changing my skin

grew scales

grew limbs

removed the tail

tucked back tentacles

stuck my eyes to my head

opaqued my outer layer

groomed toenails

moved to a marsh nearer to her

even ate her boyfriend

wore his clothes

to no avail

This poem was published in The Romance Issue of Popshot Magazine

This piece of flash fiction by Alice Spotorno was inspired by a wooden Viking that stands at the entrance to her local park. Illustration by Charlotte Price

Erik lives in the woods just down the road. Proudly erect, he stands guard by the steps that descend from the muddy, windswept fields into his realm of moss, mushrooms and utter placidity. Tranquil sounds of pine needles dripping to the ground, soft chattering, and the occasional twitchy nose. Birdsong and children in fair weather, squelching puddles and roaring rain in winter. In other words, hell.

A long cut slashes Erik’s helm and his left eye. In his hands, a weather-beaten shield bears a date: MMXIII. That was the year he was carved. Day in, day out, Erik dreams of days long gone. The trickle of dog piss on his legs reminds him of the sea beating against his shins, as he prepared to land with his brothers-in-arms on undiscovered shores, senses tingling and alert at the prospect of battle. When snow falls and covers his head with a soft mantle, he remembers the feeling of velvet drapes brushing on the tip of his nose, and the sweet sweaty smell of a squealing maiden in his arms.

Long has he endured this curse. Once, during a raid, he was captured by a witch. Matted tangled curls and swoops of golden metal circling her upstretched arms, she enunciated foreign words and his spirit was trapped. Erik the Viking was no more, and became Erik the Pine.
Children now clamber along his back, their tiny fidgety hands clinging onto him as the fastenings of his armour once did. Sometimes a deer brushes against him in the dead of night, all watery eyes and bristly fur. How he used to enjoy hunting, the thrill of the chase, heart drumming and mouth salivating in anticipation. A thousand years and more he has been wooden, and yet he still remembers the taste of roasted meat. A thousand years and more, and he is no closer to escape than on the first day.

What Erik yearns for most, more than companionship, more than human touch (he gets plenty of that these days with the kids, though he misses the tickling patter of birds and squirrels from when he used to be a live tree), more than sailing and pillaging and raping, is fire. The golden aura cast by a flickering torch on stone walls, the pool of yellow against the sky from a flaming village, the searing heat of flame against crackling flesh, dripping fat onto the embers.

One night, he sees a spark and his hope flares up like kindling in the hearth. It flickers and dances, dies out; then reappears. Chittering and loutish laughter accompany it this time. In the depths of the woods, somewhere, a group of younglings have lit a bonfire. He can taste the smoke in the air. Steadily, the glow grows larger. When had the last rain been? Summer was on the horizon, he knew that much.

Soon, he found himself praising Odin for the gift of human stupidity, for the sense of untouchable immortality that lives within the young. As the sounds of fire swell around him, a sense of panic takes over the ordinarily peaceful park. Had Erik had lungs, he would have sighed in relief. After all, he relished panic, the adrenaline that came with it. Thundering past him, a group of teenagers run for the field, eyes alight with terror. Had Erik had facial muscles, he would have smiled. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. Despite the wooden fibres of his body – or perhaps because of them – he feels alive.

All around him creatures flee. The night is orange, and fierce. Erik can see it now, eating its way across the path, rapidly engulfing everything. Glee, hunger, lust swell over him as the fire finally envelopes his stunted shape. Then comes the pain. Welcoming this change from the sedated apathy, Erik relishes every scream of his nerves, every crackle and pop, as he goes up in flames.
Ash. Firefighters step everywhere, extinguishing the last pockets of smouldering vegetation, walking across a moonscape of death and blackness. Dismay. Villagers come to observe the disaster, their hearts sinking.

A gust of wind, then more to follow. In a whirlpool of white dust, Erik takes flight, soaring above the blackened stumps of what was his prison for a thousand years and more. Making his way beyond the glistening sea across the rainbow pathway to where he belongs, Erik’s consciousness finally begins to dissolve. The curse is lifted, and he can re-join his companions at last in the halls of Valhalla to share stories of glories past and await together the battle to come, after a thousand years and more.

The Wooden Viking is from The Escape Issue – Issue 24. Order your copy here

The poet Hollie McNish, whose exclusive new poem features in The Escape Issue of Popshot, speaks to editor Matilda Battersby about writing and parenthood

Hollie McNish’s viscerally honest memoir and poetry collection about becoming a mother, Nobody Told Me, won her the Ted Hughes Award for new work in poetry 2016.  The 34-year-old spoken word performer has since published another poetry collection, Plum, and her YouTube videos have been watched by millions.

Popshot was one of the first journals to publish Hollie’s work years ago, which was why when we invited her to submit an unpublished poem to the current issue she agreed to readily. We were amazed to receive “Magic Show”, a brilliant, funny poem about the awkwardness of children’s parties — and wishing that orange squash was absinthe. The poem is accompanied by a beautiful illustration by Esther Lalanne (above). 

MB: Thank you for submitting “Magic Show” to The Escape Issue of Popshot magazine. I think any parent  (or anyone who has been to a bad party) can empathise. Was there a particular children’s party or experience that inspired it?

HM: I feel really guilty about this poem! There wasn’t one bad party in particular that inspired it, just lots of different ones thrown together. Parents spend so much time just sitting around watching kids being active and having fun. I guess that’s part and parcel, but I find the constant politeness around parents you don’t know quite hard. I’ve realised I’m quite filthy minded and I’m not good with polite party conversation. I feel the same at adult parties where everyone stands around talking about their jobs while drinking wine. I think I prefer kids parties to those ones.

MB: We publish mostly emerging writers in Popshot. Do you have any advice for new poets and authors? Something you wish someone had said to you in those early days?

HM: I’m not sure. I didn’t aim to be a writer. I started doing poetry mainly through live readings. I was getting into development admin work when the poetry happened. I guess I’d say enjoy it. And, I’d suggest reading as much as possible. If you want to write, read and read first. Or listen to audio books and poetry collections. Oh, and don’t put anything on YouTube until you’ve done some live readings. Real people are much nicer than people online can be.

MB: You’re touring at the moment. How important is it to you to perform poetry and what does the response to live readings give you?

HM: I really like meeting people at book signings after the gigs. Personally, I love going to live music concerts. Live things are always special. Not necessarily better, just different. I also think curling up with a book on your own is bliss. But there’s something nice about listening to a band or poet in a crowd. I don’t love performing. I get nervous and feel sick a lot. But I love meeting people after the gigs. It’s the only part of my job where I’m not on my own!

MB: Parenthood is a major theme in your work. Personally, I found Nobody Told Me a really helpful antidote to preachy parenting books as a new mum. As your daughter grows up, how is it impacting on your work, and in particular, the shift from absolute dependency when they’re babies to becoming independent and strident little people?

HM: It’s great. That’s it. I think the first year of being a parent is so fucking difficult. I go away now and my daughter can come or not come and is fine either way. I learn a lot from her now. But I’m more careful about what I’d share now, in terms of writing about her. I feel I’ve shared enough already!

Hollie McNish’s poem “Magic Show” features in The Escape Issue of Popshot magazine.

Illustration by Esther Lalanne.

Charlotte Spires explores the idea that we romanticise strangers, even those lovers we once knew so well who have since become strangers. Illustration by Karolina Burdon

Strangers

There are strangers in the beginning:

those who untuck the neatness from your edges,

propel

you forward into the warmth

reminiscent of an old friend’s

familiar grip.

Then, there are strangers at the end:

those silhouettes of a person

gutted

from the presence of your life,

who took the tucked away parts of yourself

with them.

This poem by Charlotte Spires featured in The Romance Issue of Popshot magazine.

Alexander Weinstein’s unsettling speculative fiction piece, Saying Goodbye to Yang, taken from his short story collection, Children Of The New World, and published in Popshot in 2016, is to become a feature film

The short story “Saying Goodbye to Yang”, which featured in Popshot magazine way back in 2016, is set to become a film starring Colin Farrell.

Alexander Weinstein’s short story, taken from his collection, Children Of The New World, follows a father and daughter as they try to save the life of a family member who is also a robot.

The film, titled After Yang, was adapted for the screen by the South Korea-born Kogonada (Columbus) and will be helmed by him also.

At Popshot Towers we are thrilled to read about a story that started on our pages and is set for the silver screen!

The Escape Issue is a collection of vivid writing about getting away; from real danger and metaphorical prisons. Our writers wrest free from relationships, time and life-threatening situations. The stories and poems included feature escaped jaguars, flamenco classes, magic mushroom tea and monsters.

Words by Daniel Shand, Jonathan Greenhause, Hollie McNish, Imie Kent-Muller, Phillip Mitchell, Mantz Yorke, Hannah January, Suzanne Morrison, Amanda Huggins, Shelley Weiner, Grainne Tobin, Pam Kress-Dunn, Aaron Menzel, Jo Matthews, Barry O’Farrell, Annabelle Markwick-Staff, Maria Castro Dominguez, Jack Williams, Luciana Francis, Flora Jardine, Colleen Baran.

Illustrations by Alexandra Dzhiganskaya, Bistra Masseva, Charlotte Price, Cleonique Hilsaca, Dionne Kitching, Esther Lalane, Jade Moore, Janie Anderson, Jasmijn Evans, Jen Leem-Bruggen, Jodie Welsh, Kelly Romanaldi, Marta Cubeddu, Marta D’Asaro, Martina Messori, Matthew Brazier, Olivia Waller, Renzo Razzetto, Sam Hinton, Sara Thielker-Bowles, Sophie Parsons, Tess Smith-Roberts, Tobi Frank, Vector That Fox, Yiqing Zhang.

Orders will be dispatched within two working days.

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The Popshot editors are pleased to introduce the latest instalment of our journal, The Escape Issue!

We asked our contributors for writing about escape in all its forms, from disappearing to warmer climates to slipping out of terrifying, difficult or mundane situations.

The submissions we received were of an extremely high standard. This was brilliant, but it made our job difficult to select the short stories, flash fiction and poetry for inclusion – thank you to everyone who sent in their work.

In The Escape Issue our writers wrest free from relationships, physical constraints, wriggling out of time and life-threatening situations. The stories and poems included feature escaped jaguars, flamenco classes, magic mushroom tea and monsters.

Whether you’re reading the magazine on the beach, during the commute, or over coffee on a Sunday morning, we hope you enjoy escaping into Popshot.

Words by Daniel Shand, Jonathan Greenhause, Hollie McNish, Imie Kent-Muller, Phillip Mitchell, Mantz Yorke, Hannah January, Suzanne Morrison, Amanda Huggins, Shelley Weiner, Grainne Tobin, Pam Kress-Dunn, Aaron Menzel, Jo Matthews, Barry O’Farrell, Annabelle Markwick-Staff, Maria Castro Dominguez, Jack Williams, Luciana Francis, Flora Jardine, Colleen Baran.

Illustrations by Alexandra Dzhiganskaya, Bistra Masseva, Charlotte Price, Cleonique Hilsaca, Dionne Kitching, Esther Lalane, Jade Moore, Janie Anderson, Jasmijn Evans, Jen Leem-Bruggen, Jodie Welsh, Kelly Romanaldi, Marta Cubeddu, Marta D’Asaro, Martina Messori, Matthew Brazier, Olivia Waller, Renzo Razzetto, Sam Hinton, Sara Thielker-Bowles, Sophie Parsons, Tess Smith-Roberts, Tobi Frank, Vector That Fox, Yiqing Zhang.

Orders will be dispatched within two working days.

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The Fantasy Issue

At Popshot we are asking for submissions of poetry, flash and short stories on the theme of fantasy.

The next issue will be about fantasy, so we are asking for work that reflects your wildest dreams.

Let your imagination run away with you, delve into genre and examine whether fantasy is delusion, creativity or a fool’s paradise. Everything and anything is permissible, from the impossible to the improbable to the downright strange. We want your darkest, funniest or most bonkers fantasies.

We know that fantasy as a genre often features dragons, magic, kingdoms and mythological beings. All these are welcome – but so, too, are more left-of-field interpretations. Successful submissions will display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, social commentary, honesty and thrilling storytelling.

UPDATE: SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED

Submissions for the Autumn issue are open until 9am GMT on Monday, June 3.

The Fantasy Issue will be published in August 2019.

Guidelines for submission:

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum. Entries over the word count will not be considered.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent. You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Fantasy – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.

At Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Escape issue, which goes on sale May 9.

Drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Illustration by Kelly Romanaldi

Flash fiction by Brian Winters. Illustration by Dave Cutler

Lee was already into his second cup of decaf when he saw Caryl pull his pick-up into the Black Bear Diner parking lot. He folded up the Visalia Times and watched Caryl lock the truck door after getting his cowboy hat. There was that mutual nod of acknowledgment as Caryl walked in behind a family whose bleary-eyed children did not look to be in a travelling mood.
“I’m guessing you read the same thing I did this morning,” Caryl said as he seated himself.
“That I did.”
“So, they’re saying they have nothing in regard to leads.”
“Who is they?”
“The cops. In New Mexico. I thought you said you read it.”
“Right, right. I did. Okay.”
“They have nothing to work with. When I was on the phone with them the other day, they were getting ready to talk to investigators and behavioural specialist people.”
Lee started fidgeting with the coffee creamers. “That sounds like it,” he said nodding. “To analyse him. To come up with speculations then draw conclusions. That figures.”
Both men paused as a waitress brought coffee. Outside, they could see the pale morning light shine on the Southern Sierra Nevada mountains.
“So, for right now, it’s anybody’s guess as to why Merle might have done this and where he disappeared to.”
“Aw, that’s just nonsense. Why else would someone park a U-Haul on the side of the 81 highway, pull out all the things that tied him to life—his coffee machine, his two-thousand-dollar big screen, the diplomas, his custom suits, his iPhone and iPad, the laptop, all that stuff—and just dump them onto the highway, then strip down to nothing, toss whatever it was he had on into some improvised bonfire, then walk bare-assed out into the open desert, looking for a hole to live in like some kind of hermit?”
“Yeah, well, we know the answer to that one, don’t we?”
That was Caryl, unwrapping the silverware from his napkin.
“What I want to know is how this didn’t happen sooner.”
That was Lee, questioning the complexity of a man’s patience with the world.

Saint Merle of the Desert is from The Identity Issue – Issue 23. Order your copy here

Short story by Ryan Shoemaker, whose short story collection is titled ‘Beyond the Lights’

For dinner, make Lisa’s favourites: the Southwestern kale and black bean salad and the organic chicken soup recipes I found on Pinterest. But thoughtfully leave out the black beans since Lisa complained that they made her gassy during her early-morning hot yoga class.

Heart rate: 81 bpm

Set the table with the wine glasses we use only for Thanksgiving and the silver candelabra with hanging crystal hearts I bought on sale last week at Bed Bath & Beyond.  

Heart rate: 86 bpm

All through dinner, give Lisa smouldering, seductive looks from across the table, even when Piper smears chewed kale on the wall and Caleb farts loudly while picking Craisins from the Southwestern salad with his fingers.  

Heart rate: 74 bpm

Wash the dishes, scour the countertops and stove. Spend an extra five minutes scrubbing the spinach and chia seed residue from Lisa’s Vitamix Turboblend 4500.

Heart rate: 91 bpm

Bathe the children, get them in jammies, read a bedtime story about an ambitious rooster that dreams of becoming a trapeze artist. Tuck the kiddies into bed and sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” five times until they fall into a peaceful slumber.

Heart rate: 94 bpm

Stand in our bedroom doorway as Lisa changes into satin boxers and a tight tank top. Casually mention the healthy dinner, spotless kitchen, bathed children, and extra-clean Vitamix Turboblend 4500. Wait for Lisa to offer a sexual reward for the many well-done domestic tasks. When Lisa offers nothing, take a more direct route: ask Lisa if tonight is convenient for sexual relations. Remind Lisa it’s been two weeks since our last coupling on October 20th.

Heart rate: 96 bpm

Do a vigorous fist pump in the hallway after Lisa checks her phone for any morning meetings, glances at her watch, and then consents to sexual relations.

Heart rate: 98 bpm

Prepare for our amorous encounter: brush and floss teeth, apply Acqua di Gio to neck and earlobes, scrub my private parts vigorously with a hot washrag in case Lisa feels wild tonight, like last February when she drank too many margaritas at her book club and actually suggested that we make love that night on our bedroom floor.

Heart rate: 87 bpm

Lie on the bed and wait as Lisa finishes the final chapter of Vampire Chronicles: Volume 1. Give more smouldering, seductive looks and hope that Lisa sees the enormous bulge protruding from my flannel jammies.  

Heart rate: 66 bpm

Listen patiently as Lisa recounts the entire plot of Vampire Chronicles: Volume 1. Nod eagerly and hope my energetic head-shaking disperses the cologne and puts Lisa in a sexy mood.  

Heart rate: 83 bpm

Strip off my flannel jammies and fold them neatly before setting them on the nightstand. Nibble Lisa’s earlobes. Massage her left butt cheek.

Heart rate: 101 bpm

Jump out of the bed quickly when Lisa gives a loud, nonsexual gasp because she might have heard a strange noise in the kitchen.

Heart rate: 114 bpm

Tiptop naked through the house clutching Piper’s tee-ball bat. Check the door locks. Peek through the living room drapes and see two cats, bathed in milky moonlight, humping on the front lawn. Stand there a moment and envy the humping cats.

Heart rate: 110 bpm

Return to the room to assure Lisa that all is well, and then wait patiently as she finishes the first chapter of Vampire Chronicles: Volume 2.  

Heart rate: 74 bpm

Massage Lisa’s breasts and trill playfully into her ear about how I can’t wait to read the entire Vampire Chronicles series — after I finish scrapbooking our summer vacation to Disneyworld and Gatorland.  

Heart rate: 99 bpm

Quickly dismount Lisa when the bedroom door swings open and Caleb’s standing there. Walk Caleb to his room and promise pony rides, inflatable castles, a large Slurpee, and a bag of Sour Patch Kids if he’ll just stay the hell in bed. When Caleb asks why I’m naked, say very nonchalantly that daddy fell out of his clothes.  

Heart rate: 109 bpm

Return to Lisa’s breasts, but wait as she taps out a concerned text to a coworker about the subpar quinoa and arugula salad both ordered for lunch. Look at a picture of the salad on Instagram and agree with Lisa that, indeed, some of the arugula looks rather wilted.

Heart rate: 66 bpm

Kiss Lisa passionately on the lips. Lick her right earlobe. Moan as Lisa uses her fingernails to firmly massage a small spot over my left shoulder blade.  Feel that Lisa must really be turned on because usually she’s never into foreplay.

Heart rate: 105 bpm

Suddenly realise that Lisa’s picking at a large blackhead on my back! Listen patiently as Lisa criticises the Suave Refreshing Splash Shower Gel I’ve used since college and then extols her Chanel Coco Bath Bar for its pleasing fragrance and invigorating moisturisers. Promise Lisa that I will take better care of my skin by drinking more water, applying sunscreen daily, and using a body soap with natural oils.     

Heart rate: 65 bpm

Lightly bite Lisa’s elbow as I affectionately rub her kneecaps, but stop when Lisa realizes that she forgot to take her birth control pill. Listen attentively as she says that there’s no way in hell she’s ever going to put on all that baby weight again and wear those hideous maternity pants with the elastic waistband.

Heart rate: 103 bpm

Sprint to the bathroom for Lisa’s pill and a glass of water.

Heart rate: 113 bpm

Return to the bedroom to find Lisa wearing her Brookstone sleeping mask and snoring loudly.

Heart rate: 89 bpm

Walk to the bathroom and rummage under the sink until I find the worn 2011 Victoria’s Secret Fall Fashion Catalog that I stashed in a box of old washrags and luffa sponges. Turn to the “Satin Indulgences” section with the busty brunette who looks like Anne Hathaway in The Dark Knight Rises. Imagine Catwoman/Anne Hathaway straddling the Batcycle in tight black leather and that sexy feline mask.

Heart rate: 104 bpm

Suddenly notice the full-colour, two-page living room spread in the open Crate and Barrel catalogue that I was browsing during my morning bowel movement. My heart begins to pound and my face flushes with the sight of all that gorgeous furniture, the buxom Rochelle leather sofa, the creamy decorative pillows, and the beautifully erect Tribeca floor lamp. Close my eyes. Bite my lip. Fantasise about what it would be like to caress the sofa’s supple full-grain leather and the pillows’ luscious silken thread, to turn that Tribeca floor lamp on.  

Heart rate: 150 bpm

A Stay-at-Home Dad... is from The Identity Issue – Issue 23. Order your copy here

By Barbara DeCoursey Roy. This poem was inspired by an abandoned baby handed into the hospital where she works one Christmas

Deposited in a cardboard box on the doorstep of St Jerome’s

three days before Christmas, found by an ex-cop

who packed a service revolver to six o’clock Mass,

I was named Noel by nurses at Children’s Hospital.

A full head of black hair, eyes like un-pitted

olives, skin untraceable to any specific ethnicity,

I was the “Christmas Baby,” usurper of headlines

about record snowfalls and record homicides.

My adopted white family changed my name to Taylor,

after the teenage pop star. I was to be

“Little Miss Universe,” but had a taste for Shakespeare

and salsa dancing, loved to roller blade with the guys,

and hated wearing makeup. Came out to my family

after safely navigating law school. Lawyering worse

than pretending to be straight, but I learned how to

dress for success, and close an argument.

I do performance art now. My Latina wife and I make

babies. Never thought our parents would accept

black and brown grandchildren, but they are goofy

about Frida, Enrique, and Shaquille.

Watching my children blow bubbles in the tub,

I remember (or almost) how I came upon the world.

Cigar smoke mixed with doughnuts; his paws

like sandpaper; a red siren on the blue-veined dawn.

My Brilliant Career is from The Identity Issue – Issue 23. Order your copy here

By Anne Walsh Donnelly, a poet from the West of Ireland. Illustration by Aurélie Garnier.

Sheila

burns the queen cakes Mam told him to make

so she won’t ask him again.

He sneaks into the tractor cab and gives Dad his sweetest smile

so he’ll bring him to check the cattle in the far field.

He buys a cowboy suit with his first Holy Communion money

tired of asking Mam to give him one for his birthday.

He risks a beating from Dad when he runs through the bog

in the white sandals Mam bought him to wear to Sunday Mass.

He cries when his chest grows tennis balls

and makes his Man United jersey lumpy.

He has sex with men. And women. Drinks beer in the college bar

unzips his jeans and shoves the empty bottle into his empty groin.

He goes home after Dad dies, to help Mam with the farm.

She tells him she thanks God every day for giving her a girl

He gets a part-time job teaching physics in his alma mater

falls in love with the school principal and his three-piece suits.

He tames his hair with a straightener, paints his nails with blush polish

that smells like turpentine and smears crimson gloop on his lips.

He teeters down the aisle in heels, wears a raw sick wedding dress

that makes him look like he’s perched on a cloud.

He gives birth to three girls. Husband presents him

with a diamond eternity ring. Sheila still burns queen cakes.

Sheila is from The Identity Issue – Issue 23. Order your copy here

Sherry Morris is a UK-based writer from America’s heartland. This story was inspired by her love of facial hair. Illustration by Robbie Cathro

The men who come and sit in my chair never ask what I do with their hair.

Why would they?

And why would they care what I do with their hair?

There’s no need to share, reveal the thrill that’s laid bare.

That’s between me and their hair.

When the bell over the door rings, signalling another customer, my own bell begins to tingle.

Today, it’s Justin — tall, lean, pretty Justin with his well-toned biceps.

He comes with unwashed hair and five-day scruff that’s thick and lush.  

He could wash his own hair. He could shave his own face.

They all could. But they leave it for me. It’s the way I want it.

Perhaps a few have sensed my bond with hair. Appreciated, speculated, even celebrated

The secret that I keep.

Justin knows the routine. He sits in my chair, watches me stare at his hair through the mirror.

When our eyes meet, I give him my best naughty smile. We are alone. It is the end of the day.

I can’t resist licking my lips.

‘Shall we begin?’ I ask, though it’s not really a question.

Justin nods. There’s little need for talk.

These men who bring me their hair come dirty, scruffy; they want me to make them clean, tidy.

Scratch that surface, dig deeper. It’s salvation they seek.

Is that the secret they keep? Everybody has one.

I don’t cut hair much anymore. Only if there’s need or someone new.

I have enough clients now to concentrate on what I crave — the hot towel shave.

I adore all hair, but facial hair is revered, worshipped, adored.

It’s what makes a man a man.

I trim moustaches, shape beards, groom goatees. I’m thrilled they’re all the rage.

I clip and snip. Collect all the bits that fall from their face.

And the ones who desire to be clean, I help them achieve their means.

I take it all off, no questions asked. I’m here to serve and please.

Both them and me.

Now it’s Justin with the devilish grin on his face.  

We’re back in the barber’s chair after washing his hair.

I place the cape around the nape of his neck. Let the first hot towel gently steam his face.

While I wait, quick strokes on the leather strop ensure my razor’s sharp.

I exfoliate —  massage gel into his skin, lace my fingers under his chin.

Feel his coarse stubble rise in my hands. My heartbeat quickens. Soon it will be mine.

The second hot towel is scented with lavender. And when I’m feeling generous, sandalwood.

I fold and twist the cloth with care around his face, pat his cheeks. Know the bristles are softening, The pores opening, the skin relaxing. Apply thick foam and in a flash the straight-edge is gliding Along the contours of his face.

My own face comes close to his as I work.

It’d be so easy to lean over and plant a kiss, caress a cheek.

But I am a professional.

I stroke up the neck, his Adam’s apple. I want the closest possible shave. And all possible hair.

I wipe and rinse the blade with care. Then bite my lip as my excitement builds.

When he goes, when Justin or Joe or Tommy leaves me fresh-faced and smooth, I close up shop.

Gather the stubble, those bristles, that hair.  

It doesn’t matter it’s from different men with different colours and different lengths.

It’s mine now.

At home, on my own, my real work begins. I apply a thin layer of Vaseline to my face.

Then hair. When I see myself in the mirror I exhale. Smile.

Closer to complete, to the secret that I keep.

I experiment with different styles late into the night.

Then I shave myself back to reality.

‘One day,’ I say.

I dare not dream more.

Those men who sit in my chair and give me their hair appreciate the special care they receive.

Never knowing my salvation lies partly in their hair.

The Barber is from The Identity Issue – Issue 23. Order your copy here

The Identity Issue is packed full of the very best prose and poetry exploring how race, nationality, gender, sexuality, family, workplace and friendship impact on who we are as individuals. It cuts deep, with stories about everything from teens turning into pigs, to falling into criminality, and a mysterious display of artistic talent by an old woman with Alzheimer’s. The carefully selected fiction and poetry is brought to life by thoughtful, bespoke illustrations.

Words by Brenda Dzangare, Sarah Conklin, Paige Pfeifer, Rikki Santer, Anne Walsh Donnelly, N Minnick, Hilary Otto, Gray Crosbie, Barney Evans, Terry Allen, Teddy Devitt, Barbara DeCoursey Roy, Christian Butler-Zanetti, Sherry Morris, Claire Polders, Brian Winters, Asmaa Jama, Lauren Busser, Priyanka Sacheti, Bev Clark, Amlanjyoti Goswami, Gillian Walker, Andrew Dicker, Anthony Howcroft, Andrew Lloyd-Jones, Ryan Shoemaker, JL Higgs, Jamil Jan Kochai.

Illustrations by Alexandra Espana, Andy Carter, Antonis Papamichael, Aurelie Garnier, Bren Luke, Cat Finnie, Charlotte Edey, Daniel Pagan, Dave Cutler, Daria Skrybchenko, Erin McCluskey, Gianluca Natale, Gus Scott, Joanna Layla, Jen Leem-Bruggen, Leah Brideaux, Matthew Brazier, Matt Chinworth, Partners in Crime, Robbie Cathro, Renzo Razzetto, Sue Gent.

Orders will be dispatched within two working days.

UK / £6 + p&p
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At Popshot Towers, we are delighted to introduce the arrival of our 23rd edition, The Identity Issue

Identity has been the subject of art since the earliest humans daubed pigment on cave walls. It never gets old, however many thousands of years we have been exploring it. Fiction can deliver a universal identity: a portrait of human nature we can all recognise ourselves within.

This was the starting point for the 23rd issue of Popshot. Within this, we specifically wanted to explore how race, nationality, gender, sexuality, family, workplace and friendship impacts on who we are as individuals.

We received hundreds of insightful, engaging and original submissions of poetry, flash fiction and short stories. The Identity Issue is packed full of the very best of an impressive bunch — prose and poetry with important, wide-reaching and compelling messages.

It cuts deep, with stories about everything from teens turning into pigs, to falling into criminality, and a mysterious display of artistic talent by an old woman with Alzheimer’s. The carefully selected fiction and poetry is brought to life by thoughtful, bespoke illustrations.

This issue is about all of us. We hope you enjoy reading.

Words by Brenda Dzangare, Sarah Conklin, Paige Pfeifer, Rikki Santer, Anne Walsh Donnelly, N Minnick, Hilary Otto, Gray Crosbie, Barney Evans, Terry Allen, Teddy Devitt, Barbara DeCoursey Roy, Christian Butler-Zanetti, Sherry Morris, Claire Polders, Brian Winters, Asmaa Jama, Lauren Busser, Priyanka Sacheti, Bev Clark, Amlanjyoti Goswami, Gillian Walker, Andrew Dicker, Anthony Howcroft, Andrew Lloyd-Jones, Ryan Shoemaker, JL Higgs, Jamil Jan Kochai.

Illustrations by Alexandra Espana, Andy Carter, Antonis Papamichael, Aurelie Garnier, Bren Luke, Cat Finnie, Charlotte Edey, Daniel Pagan, Dave Cutler, Daria Skrybchenko, Erin McCluskey, Gianluca Natale, Gus Scott, Joanna Layla, Jen Leem-Bruggen, Leah Brideaux, Matthew Brazier, Matt Chinworth, Partners in Crime, Robbie Cathro, Renzo Razzetto, Sue Gent.

The Escape Issue

At Popshot we are asking for submissions of poetry, flash and short stories on the theme of escape.

SUBMISSIONS FOR THIS ISSUE ARE NOW CLOSED

The next issue will be about escape in all its forms, from disappearing to warmer climates to escaping terrifying, difficult or mundane situations. If you’ve written about fleeing real life to find meaning or release, escaping from a bad relationship, family expectations, emotions or from a prison that is real or metaphorical, we’d like to read it.

Writers might want to think about themes around running away, absconding (from the law or something less tangible?), and breaking out from confinement or control of any kind. Successful submissions must display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, social commentary, honesty and thrilling storytelling. We welcome all genres.

Submissions for the Summer issue are open until 9am GMT on Monday, March 4.

The Escape Issue will be published in May 2019.

Guidelines for submission:

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum. Entries over the word count will not be considered.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent. You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Escape – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.

At Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Identity issue, which goes on sale February 7.

Drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Illustration by Jen Leem-Bruggen

Continue…

The Nostalgia issue is our rose-tinted compilation of finely-crafted poetry and prose that looks back in anger, fondness, love and regret; a shoebox full of literary memories, which includes cassette tapes and cruel parents, ice cream and infidelity, rollercoasters and Richard Curtis. Our cover is designed by Jan Siemen.

Words by Mikki Aronoff, Jo Brandon, Isabella Garces, Kevin Graham, James Hatton, Deborah Herman, Jenny Hockey, Isobel Jane, Kavita Jindal, Oeil Jumratsilpa, Jessica Kashdan-Brown, Anna Kisby, Luke Larkin, Geoff Lavender, Harvey Moldon, Peter Mullineaux, ER Murray, Anna Nazarova-Evans, Charlotte Newman, Roanne O’Neil, Michelle Penn, Arianna Reiche, Katharine Rhodes, Belinda Rimmer, Julie-Ann Rowell, Gabrielle Turner, Alan Ward, Clint Wastling, Christopher Woods and Su Yin Yap.

Illustrations by Leah Brideaux, Andy Carter, Eric Chow, Mirko Cresta, Marta D’Asaro, James Fenwick, Evangeline Gallagher, Sara Gironi Carnevale, Ollie Hoff, Zach Meyer, Toby Morison, Cody Muir, Jacob Myrick, Napal Naps, Cebine Nieuwenhuize, Michael Parkin, Suzie Patrick, Renzo Razzetto, Claire Scully, Jan Siemen, Stereohype, Vector That Fox and Millie Woodcock.

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The Identity Issue

The editors of Popshot are looking for submissions on the theme of identity.

Writers are invited to examine how the self is formed or undermined, how society may shape identity and the lengths individuals might go to in order to find their “true” selves.

Race, gender, sexuality, professional and family identity are ripe subjects for this theme. You might approach it with a big, sweeping idea or choose a single, expansive observation.

Successful submissions must display excellent writing, creative flair and originality. We are looking for a mixture of humour, cutting social commentary, painful honesty and thrilling storytelling. All genres are welcome.

We are currently wrapping up the Nostalgia issue, which goes on sale November 16.

The Identity Issue is out in February 2019.

Guidelines for submissions

• Poems: 12 to 40 lines
• Short stories: 1,000 to 3,000 words
• Flash fiction: 100 to 1,000 words

Three entries maximum.

Submissions for Spring are open until 9am GMT on Tuesday, December 4.

To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent. You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers.

To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. Identity – Poetry). We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.  

Any questions, do drop us a line at hello@popshotpopshot.com

And please do follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Illustration by Sara Gironi Carnevale

Our twenty-first issue features a heavenly selection of short stories, flash fiction and poetry exploring fantastical tales, lofty aims and dark shudderings, accompanied by bright and surreal illustrations. Inside, we’ll find a thriller set in the Deep South, a chilling story about a man who can sense only his right side and, curiously, several molluscs. Our star story is by Lydia Ruffles, just as her new novel, Colour Me In, stretches into the daylight. Our cover is by Vector That Fox.

Words by Sandra Arnold, Alice Ash, Claire Booker, Rachel Bower, Jo Brandon, Helen Cox, Clive Culverhouse, Leslie Dianne, Michelle Marie Earl, Joe Giordano, Alice Harrison, Sophie Hartl, James Hatton, Jenny Holden, Sef Hughes, Audrey Molloy, Ben Norris, Helen Rear, John Reinhart, David Romanda, Lydia Ruffles, Emma Tilly, Jeremy Adam Smith, Jack Somers, Lauren Vevers, Liedewij Vogelzang.

Illustrations by Adamastor Studio, Andrew Bastow, Matthew Brazier, Charlie Davis, Will Drayson, Paulina Eichhorn, James Fenwick, Cat Finnie, Stefan Große Halbuer, Ollie Hoff, Ruth Kingsbury, Joanna Layla, Alice Mollon, Rachel Joy Price, Elisa Puglielli, Renzo Razzetto, So Santos, Alexandru Savescu, Kyle Scott, Josep Serra and Vector That Fox.

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Our twentieth issue features a delight of short stories, flash fiction and poetry exploring truth and half-truths, lies and revelations, accompanied by bold and visionary illustrations. Inside, we’ll find a sizzling short story about a woman who delights in exposing secrets, a playful narrative about a resting home for actors and a searing poem in which a woman discovers her boyfriend is having an affair. We are also honoured to include a short story by Man Booker Prize Ben Okri.

Words by Nick Athanasiou, Jo Burns, Cathy Cullis, Adam Day, Jaydn DeWald, Bruce Louis Dodson, Jane Frank, Anna Ghislenaand, Oindrila Gupta, William Hillier, D. A. Hosek, Ian Inglis, Leland James, Sophie Lay, Ben Okri, David Romanda, Xe M. Sánchez, Jayne Stanton, Ruth Steadman, Teresa Stenson, Ross Thompson, Patrick Warner and Sophie Watson.

Illustrations by María Castelló Solbes, Rosemary Clunie, Joseph Crisp, Marta D’Asaro, Sibel Ekemen, Alexandra España, Sara Gironi Carnevale, Stefan Große Halbuer, Bren Luke, Daria Kirpach, Junghyeon Kwon, Jude Labuca, Zach Meyer, Cody Muir, Alexandru Savescu, Eleanor Shakespeare, Jan Siemen, Daria Skrybchenko, Silvia Stecher and Vector That Fox.

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Our eighteenth issue comprises illustrated short stories, flash fiction and poetry celebrating illuminating experiences and enlightened ideas. Inside, we’ll find a playful take on the light and dark of fairy-tales, a meditation on love that burns like a fuel and the heartfelt tragedy of a woman who grows lighter and lighter…

Words by A. M. Kennedy, Andrew Hanson, Bria Purdy, C. S. Mee, Chon Luoi, Ethan Chapman, Hannah Thompson, James Hatton, Jeremy Punter, Karen Dennison, L. P. Lee, Laboni Islam, Nicholas McGaughey, Oeil Jumratsilpa, Rhys Timson, S. A. Leavesley, Steve Harrison and Steven Pelcman.

Illustrations by Aurelie Garner, Ashley Floreal, Bren Luke, Burcin Pervin, Daniel Garcia, Daria Skrybchenko, Fabio Delvo, Guillermo Ortego, Jai Kamat, Joe Gough, Jude Labuca, Meneese Wall, Mirko Cresta, Nick Taylor, Thomas Pullin, Vector That Fox and Zach Meyer.

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Set in post-war America, Ty Landers’ short story tells the tale of an outcast who became a local hero. Illustrated by Masoud Keshmiri.

Sebastian Shull was seven feet tall and fresh off the bus from Chicago when John Moran hired him to deliver death notices to the women of Burr, Maine. He arrived in town with nothing but a change of clothes and the black mark of being 4-F (physically unacceptable for military service) hanging over his head. After Pearl Harbor, every able-bodied man either volunteered or was drafted. Shull tried, but the Army wouldn’t take him due to his height. Everyone at the processing station marvelled at his frame and posed for awkward photos with him, but after the flashbulbs popped, Shull was given the bad news: the U.S. Army didn’t take any man under five feet or over six feet six inches. He was told he’d probably be a fine soldier, but the Army didn’t have pants that would fit him.

Taking the job with Moran at the Post Office was something he wanted to do even though he had no other options. Moran warned him of the job’s difficulties. He ran a hand through his thinning white fluff of hair and said, ‘Son, this war is going to be the worst one ever.’ He pointed an arthritic finger at a messenger bag sitting in the corner. ‘That bag is full of yellow envelopes from the War Department. In every one of ‘em is the worst news these families are ever going to get. Sayin’ husbands are dead. Sons. Fathers.’ His voice got low and hoarse. ‘Somebody’s got to tell ‘em…I just can’t do it.’

Shull told Moran that not being able to fight was eating him and not contributing would define him. He said he felt like a big man, at a big time in history, left behind to do small things. The statement was so sincere it convinced Moran to give him the job.

Burr was a glowing little village jammed between sweeping pine forests and craggy rock coastlines. When Shull first saw it, he thought the sea and the trees and the quaint little buildings buried in snow looked as if they had been stitched out of felt. It looked warm but fake, like a fictional place drawn for a Christmas card.

Yankee hospitality in small towns like Burr typically called for extravagant welcomes with introductions, invitations to churches, and parades of casseroles for new community members. Shull received nothing. His life became a numbing procession of somber incidents. Moran was right, the war was bad and by the fall of 1944, Shull had visited almost every family in town. He was ignored, avoided, and ostracized to the point where his only human contact became work chatter with Moran and death talks with newly minted widows.

Moran had given him a motorcycle to make his deliveries; a black Harley Davidson WLA with a sidecar and the word ‘MAIL’ painted on its gas tank in blocky white letters. Shull started exploring the logging roads that wound through the woods and skirted the coastline. The detours gave Shull time to clear his head and play over the day’s deliveries in his mind. What he might say. How he might say it. These trips helped, but he still hadn’t adjusted to the job. It was never easy to deliver bad news and Shull did it all day long. On the way back into town, the logging road ran past the Kissing Tree, a local landmark that overlooked Burr’s rugged coastline. It was a popular place to bring your sweetheart and every couple in town made a pilgrimage there at some point. Shull liked to stop there because you could see the lighthouse up the coast, and stopping delayed the next delivery.

Shull shut the bike off, stretched out his long legs, and watched the sea bleed into the grey sky. It was quiet except for the sound of waves hitting the rocks below, but today it didn’t feel private or secluded. Shull scanned the trees around him and saw a young man in a combat uniform standing in the underbrush. Shull jumped at the sight of him.

‘You scared the hell out of me buddy,’ Shull said.

The young man had a peculiar, surprised look on his face. Red and yellow leaves whipped around him in the breeze coming off the ocean. ‘Can you see me?’ the young man asked, stepping timidly into the clearing.

‘Um…yes, I can see you.’ He seemed lost and it made Shull uneasy.

‘Are you Shull?’ the young man asked.

‘I am. Do we know each other?’

‘No. I’m Jack Speck. I was told to meet you here and that you would see me.’

The name was familiar but he couldn’t place it. ‘I don’t understand,’ Shull said. ‘Were we supposed to meet here?’

‘You got a letter in that bag that’s going to my wife.’

The name clicked. It was on one of today’s yellow envelopes, his first delivery.

‘Speck? Mary Speck?’ Shull asked.

Jack Speck nodded. ‘When you give her that letter, could you give her these?’ He eased over and handed Shull a clutch of pink Mayflowers. ‘Those are her favourite. It’s a thing we have between us. Tell her they’re from me and she’ll know.’

Shull sat quietly. The leaves blowing around them and the waves along the coastline were the only sounds.

‘I had to bring the flowers with me.’ Jack Speck looked over his shoulder, back into the woods, as if someone had called his name and told him to wrap things up. ‘They don’t bloom right now.’ Then he was gone.

Shull walked into the road looking for traces of Jack Speck, but there was nothing. He would have believed he imagined it all if he hadn’t still been holding the Mayflowers. He placed them gently into the messenger bag and rode away from the Kissing Tree as fast as the motorcycle would carry him.

Mary Speck was stacking stove-lengths in a tidy pile when the motorcycle pulled up. She had seen the tall stranger criss-crossing the streets and back roads of Burr but hoped they would never meet. He was thin and disheveled, beaten by the wind, hair tousled, black suit rumpled. She watched him unwrap his legs from the bike and considered calling out to him, telling him not to bother getting off. Seeing him there was the message. He could have just lingered at the curb and she would have known her husband was dead.

Shull walked up the gravel driveway and stood quietly for a moment, waiting to see if she would scream at him like some did. ‘Mrs Speck?’

‘I guess you’re here to tell me I’m not Mrs Speck anymore?’

‘Yes ma’am.’ He handed her the yellow envelope.

‘I knew it was going to happen today,’ she said. ‘I dreamed about him last night and it felt off. In the dream he just watched me. It wasn’t normal.’ She blinked back tears. ‘I guess it was him. Not just a dream. I guess maybe he came to me.’

There was a heavy silence between them. Only the sharp edge of the wind disrupted the stillness.

‘He came to me too.’ Shull lifted the Mayflowers out of the bag. ‘Just about an hour ago, up by the Kissing Tree.’

Her eyes widened. She reached a tentative hand out and took the flowers.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘Your husband.’ His eyes dropped like a child waiting to be scolded for lying. ‘From Jack. You should go up to the Kissing Tree yourself. Maybe you’ll see him too.’

She studied his face and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she believed him. ‘Maybe I will mister…?’

‘Shull.’ He stuck out a huge hand and she shook it. ‘Sebastian Shull.’

‘You know,’ she said as she stuck her nose in the flowers, ‘the women in town say you’re death himself, riding around on that awful black motorbike, delivering plagues on us.’

Shull nodded and kept his eyes low.

‘I don’t think so.’ She smiled and a fat tear raced down her cheek. ‘Only Jack knew how much I loved these. They don’t bloom right now, you know? Won’t for months. Thank you for this kindness.’ She took one of his hands and kissed the top of it. ‘Come round for supper some time. You’re too thin.’ She turned and went into the house. Shull left her to grieve.

Shull began taking the motorcycle down the logging road regularly. The encounter with Jack Speck opened a door. In the unseen world, behind the living world, the men of Burr began to gather, waiting to leave messages with the man on the black bike. After Jack Speck, Shull saw Tom Cranston leaning against a white pine just before he delivered a yellow envelope to Tom’s wife. Tom wanted Shull to tell her he had been killed when the soldier next to him pulled the pin of a hand grenade and threw the pin, not the grenade, into a cave where three Japanese soldiers were hiding. ‘Tell her Mickey was a good man, he just got flustered. She’ll appreciate knowing. She’s that kind of woman.’

Angela Cranston had turned out to be exactly that type of woman. She even laughed and said, ‘Tom would have thought that was hilarious. He has a great sense of humour. Or…he had one.’

He began seeing more of the men of Burr as the war dragged on. He saw eyes at night in the great pine forest. Faces began to pop out at him from the windows of homes, from shops closed up for the night, from the darkened beams of the railroad overpass bridge, and always near the Kissing Tree. All of them wanted to send messages and Shull obliged. A verse of White Christmas with altered lyrics from Hugh Jaeger for his wife Nora, or a message from Carl Graham for his beautiful, blonde wife Jeanne saying that he knew she was sleeping with a college boy and he would see both of them in hell.

Many left wedding rings or other items that had taken on talismanic qualities. Some left instructions to stashes of money and some left nothing but words, in the tender clarity of men who had lost everything and realised the immeasurable value of a good wife. Shull never objected, no matter how strange or difficult the request, and continued to toil in obscurity until the day he wrecked the motorcycle by taking an icy turn and crashing into the sandwich board in front of Callahan’s Diner. He broke a leg and was forced to convalesce on a cot in the basement of the Post Office.

When Mary Speck heard about the accident, she made him a casserole. She sat with him, making sure he ate, then relayed the woeful details of his living situation to Angela Cranston. Angela brought four men from her church to the Post Office and moved Shull out of the cold basement and into her house, where she kept a huge fire going and buried the big man under a mountain of comfy blankets. Jeanne Graham even came round and sat by Shull’s bedside, reading to him and pretending it wasn’t an inconvenience, although Shull suspected she did it as some sort of unnecessary penitence.

Shull left Angela Cranston’s house against her wishes after a few weeks, feeling he had become a burden and not wanting to inconvenience her further. She caught him hobbling out the door and said, ‘You’re still lame, you should stay awhile longer.’

‘I appreciate what you ladies have done for me, Ms Cranston.’ She had told him to call her Angela hundreds of times but he couldn’t and never would.

‘We appreciate what you did for us.’ His cheeks flushed and he wouldn’t look at her. ‘You don’t understand because you feel like you’re letting everyone down by not being over there with them.’

‘A man should…’

‘A man should work with the tools he’s given,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘You did that. You might not be carrying a gun, or storming any beaches, but you’re carrying messages and giving some of us a chance to say goodbye. You’re like a piece of string between two tin cans. Not the sender or the receiver of the message, but an essential component that makes the whole mechanism function.’

Shull didn’t know what to say. He smiled and hugged her, then limped out into the morning light and walked into town. Everyone he passed tipped a hat or gave a friendly hello.

The motorcycle was fixed, the war ended, and the men came home. Some on planes, some on boats, and some in boxes. The Kissing Tree became a place where the women of Burr could go to find peace. Something lingered there and subtle voices could be heard playing at the edges of the salty sea breezes. It was a place to go and be close to things that were lost. The town started having picnics and dances there, and eventually it was turned into a park. The Ladies Auxiliary to the Veterans of Foreign Wars raised funds and framed the park’s edges with a lovely black wrought iron fence. They had a handsome set of benches installed on either side of the Kissing Tree, inscribed with the names of the men of Burr who hadn’t come home. And in the corner of the park, overlooking the lighthouse and the sea, and the sky, they placed a black marble pillar. It was seven feet tall and bore the inscription: ‘The string that carried a message across a great distance.’

A potent poem by Gavin Bryce, written after the difficult and potentially dangerous birth of his son. Illustration by Ashley Mackenzie.

She was cornered by a stowaway
in the root of her body
hell-bent on splitting her
like a Russian doll.

Nothing she could do
so closely nailed to her flesh and blood
but flap bodily on the hospital bed
against the blasts of pain.

Seizures gutted out breath,
unhooked her eyes from their lines of sight,
jolted joints in vicious puppetry.

She pleaded in a stranger’s voice,
and all the while the experts
enchanted her with rituals and reliefs
to drive the little devil into daylight

but he twisted stubbornly,
would not be parted.

In the end they slit a smile
across her lower abdomen
and hauled the bunched-up baby out
who unfurled his limbs furiously
and bit the air with war cries
like a demon caught.