Popshot Magazine Spring 2018

You let out a collective sigh when we revealed romance to be the theme of this issue. ‘Really?’, read one email, swiftly followed by 14 love poems, evidently written in happier times. ‘Everyone knows that great art comes from misery,’ grumbled another. We can’t blame you for being cynical. In an age of Weinstein and Tinder, romance is going through a rough patch. Harassment and hook-ups have joined a messy list of love’s enemies: from obsession to betrayal. But let us hope that rumours of its death are greatly exaggerated. Do we not all experience a thrill at the start of a relationship, encapsulating the promise, the yearning and the excitement that this one will be different? This one, its mysteries yet to unfold, will bring us completeness, if not…

Maggie took two fluorescent drinks, served in hollowed out pineapples by a girl in a hula outfit, and sucked on all eight protruding straws at once. She could see, from where she stood, behind a large waxed plant at the end of the bar, that no one else had taken the dress code literally. Maggie cursed herself in language too foul to repeat. It was the sort of mistake she was making a lot, just lately, and she did not know why. ‘Oh dear, you’ve taken things a little far, haven’t you?’ said a woman in a little black cocktail dress, a zebra mask over her eyes. Maggie turned and sighed. ‘How was I to know, when told to dress as my favourite beast, for a party at the zoo,…

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 of 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…

Whenever my sister mentioned his name it was always preceded by an ‘Ooh’. ‘Ooh Dylan,’ she would say at even my first reference to him, but we had survived a year together, and one apart, and I was hoping that this would now put an end to the ‘Oohs’. We were reunited for the summer at Josie’s party. It had been a hard few months. All the false smiles at interviews and the mindless pleasantries had somehow been pulling at my essential being. A fragment of the poem I remembered from my A-level English class had been floating around in my subconscious of late and, in the mornings while brushing my teeth, the words ‘not waving but drowning’ would turn over and over. The poet’s name was Stevie–something. And I…

This is a book about Love.To make the first recording, please place your hand on the book. This is a book about Love.It contains one recording. To experience, select Playback.To store your own feelings about Love, select Record. This is a book... about LoveIt contains fifty-five recordings. You can browse by theme, or select Shuffle.To store your own blissful experiences, select Record. This, is a book about Love.It contains three thousand, one hundred and– oh my! The way your fingers play acrossmy inputs, I… I can tell you’re experienced. Fill me with your deepest thoughts; I’ll takethem all, and love you more. Ooh! Touch me again… You dark horse! You didn’t tell meyou were an Administrator! I’ve never had someone so deep in my menus... What’s that?Reset?Are you sure? I…

He saw her across the park. Like he did every day. And every day prior to this one, she’d ignored him. But today was going to be different. He’d been practising with his friend in the Turkish shop. The key pronunciation was putting the emphasis on the second syllable. She approached. Her face hard, beautiful. The tracksuit soft, trashy. His heart racing. ‘Don’t blow it, Romeo!’ His mate’s laughter ringing round his head. It’s now or never. ‘Günaydin,’ he said. She smiled. A big, beautiful, genuine smile. And walked past. He’d done it! He’d said ‘Good morning’. Thank you, Ali. What’ll I say tomorrow? Now or Never will be published in instalments on popshotpopshot.com…