Indholdsfortegnelse for Spring 2018 i Popshot Magazine

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…

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…

it is midnight and the moon is full or it is noon the moon is full. it is always midnightor noon and the moon is always full of something and we feel it tiding at your deskthe typewriter has started to play with itself again beating no into the paper like amechanical heart tattooing blood around the body 60-100 words a minute on kissing amouth any mouth or a neck a shoulder blade or the indelicate joints covered in skin andhunger because this beast is always hungry and you remember her hair her dress hersmell but not her name because beatrice because thisbe because all need tastes the samein the dark; you love the way that juliet loves a dagger and the water loves ophelia andwhen the rain no longer…

The note was abandoned with care, beneath the key on the table by the door. An event witnessed only by the three ceramic monkeys; each recount diminished, incomplete. The photo album lay open on the sofa, beside a tissue box. Late afternoon sun descending heavily upon empty caption on bare page, gazing towards vacant space above: ‘Our Sunset, New Beginnings!’ Ticking second hand echoing hollow through the flat; sweeping, measuring. Unfilled drawers remain waiting. Imprints left by her suitcase wheels disappearing silently from the carpet. Breeze stealing through a lone open window, stirring the note, then leaving it still.…

I fell in love with a man whose language I didn’t understand but thought I did. He and I would spend hours in cafés, drinking coffee and smoking, and he must have told me all kinds of interesting things about his past and his childhood, but I had no idea what he was saying. I probably caught about one out of every thirty words. By the time I realised this, it was too late to admit it. So I just sat there and smiled and looked into his eyes and nodded, and the more I nodded, the more difficult it became to admit the truth. In the end I never did admit it, and to this day I haven’t got a clue about his past or his childhood. But when…

My name is Pierre Lasalle. I am old now, but when I was a younger man I was a teacher at the primary school in Douarnenez on our west coast. Before I am in my grave, I want to record the sad yet remarkable story of Georges Derain. Georges was born in September 1884 into a poor farming family in a small village about ten kilometres to the east of Douarnenez. Doubtless, dear reader, you will know our pretty town and port on the coast of Brittany. You may even have heard of our fishing fleet, well-known for the multicoloured decoration of the boats. The departure of the little ships from the harbour at dawn, lit from behind by a low-lying eastern sun, cannot fail to bring a glow of…

6 — App Dating with Julius Caesar is the literary result of Jake Attree’s Tinder experiences. Jake lives in Hove, East Sussex and works in advertising 8 — Rip Her to Shreds is from Emily Hill’s dark and witty debut short story collection, Bad Romance, published by Unbound, telling stories of defiant single women. Emily is a journalist, and former commissioning editor of The Spectator 15 — A Receipt for our Romance is the unlikely product of Jade Cuttle’s stint as a litter-picker. Jade has performed her poetry on BBC Radio 3, won competitions run by BBC Proms and Foyle Young Poets, and is a BBC Introducing supported poetic songwriter. She lives in Paris and York 16 — In Hanging onto a Moving Home, Joshua Preston reflects on the experience…

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…

When I first met Carol she was burning a doll’s house and throwing little people into the fire. I heard the smoke alarm and knocked on the door her apartment. All I heard was: ‘All right, all right.’ Tendrils of smoke were curling under the door, so I tried to kick it down. I was in pretty poor shape, and it barely gave. In the end, she opened it anyway. There was ash in her hair. She looked like a bride who’d persisted despite the wedding catching fire. Seeing me, she laughed. It was a conflicted sound – warm, but not untroubled. I rushed past into the kitchen and found the doll’s house on a table, half alight. The roof had caved in and flames licked at it, like a…

At first I thought it was black and white, and so it was, but they fused and grey’s no good to anyone. I told her I had no say in the matter. She asked if I believed in free will. I said well, yes, of course I did. But, of course, came out sounding like curse, and she laughed, and said curse and course over and again. I had a drink from her glass, which wasn’t usually a good move, but I knew it was better than raising my voice, which, as I saw it, was the only other choice right then and right there. She shook her head, and asked if that was it. Was I all done? For a second – well, probably longer – I wasn’t sure…

Karolina Burdon karolinaburdon.com Mirko Càmia mirkocamia.com Robbie Cathro robbiecathro.com Matt Chinworth chinworthillustration.com Matt Harrison Clough mattharrisonclough.com John Cei Douglas johnceidouglas.com Joseph Crisp crispyjart.co.uk Giuseppe Di Lernia giuseppedilernia.com Sam Dunn sam-dunn.com Ryan Garcia ryangarcia.ca Sara Gironi Carnevale saragironicarnevale.com Katherine Lam katherinelam.com Bren Luke brenluke.tumblr.com Junghyeon Kwon behance.net/junghyeon Zach Meyer zachmeyerillustration.com Nik Neves nikilustrador.com Michael Parkin parkinparkin.com Partners in Crime partnersincrime.studio Egle Plytnikaite egle.plytnikaite.com Daria Skrybchenko dskrybchenko.com Jan Siemen jansiemen.de Emily Wren emilywrenillustration.com Vector That Fox vectorthatfox.co.uk…

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…

Have gone to Mother’s. Your dinner is not in the fridge. Some of it is in your left slipper behind the front door. Some is wrapped up in your Manchester United scarf – sorry about the match tomorrow. The spinach is in the box with your beard trimmer. Two of the potatoes are in the drawer where you keep the paperwork for the Melissa Etheridge Appreciation Society. I’ve forgotten where the others are, but no doubt you’ll tread on them in the near future. I just managed to get the fried egg – sunny side up, well-salted, just the way you like it – into the DVD drive of your laptop. I have distributed the homemade apple pie and custard your mother brought you last week among your LPs (see…

Jeremy Russell flipped the memory stick between his thumb and forefinger. For several hours it had sat untouched on his desk, filling up the place with whispering danger. He’d decided over dinner to plug it in that evening, or destroy it for good. The letter arrived not long after the funeral, when Jeremy learned for the first time that his wife had signed up to a company specialising in what it called the ‘digital legacy’, a service which promised to ensure your story lived on when you could not. That she’d kept it secret was not surprising, neither was how she found the money to pay the fee, which he’d since learned was extortionate. Until her death, he’d been totally ignorant of their finances; she had handled everything, and he…

They sat at the table, facing each other with the revolver between them, a lone bullet left in the chamber. The door was barricaded but did little to mask the sound of the thundering footsteps on the floor below; the crash of chairs and smash of bottles. It was only a matter of time until the fuzz found them. Charlie dipped his fedora lower, the brim half-covering his blue eyes. They were deep-set, marred with exhaustion. His gaze never left hers, the depth of the sorrow and regret painful to witness. Another crash. This was closer, the sound bouncing up the rickety staircase and pulsing against the back of the door. She swept out of her seat and moved to the shaky barricade, her hands resting on the thick liquor…