Popshot Magazine Spring 2019

Identity is ineluctable. It is what makes us who we are. Yet, the search for it can span lifetimes. Humans are fluctuating, impermanent and permeable creatures. It may be possible to tease out why, who or what made us, or aspects of who we are, at a point in time. But then we move on again, morphing into our next iteration. That’s one argument, anyway. Others may not believe that we are the products of our genetics, our environments and circumstances; but that our identity is innate and separate from our bodies and experiences. Either way, the frustration or hurt that comes from having our identity misunderstood, overlooked or maligned cannot be overstated. Authenticity and being accepted by loved-ones in that honest form is, arguably, the route to happiness. Fiction…

99 Nights in Logar is a coming-of-age novel set in Afghanistan written by Jamil Jan Kochai. Here the author reflects on his parents’ birth place, the village of Logar where his story is set, and examines how it has shaped his personal and written identity. When I was six years old, I visited my parents’ home village in Mohammad Agha District, Logar Province, Afghanistan. Since then Logar has dominated my literary imagination. All of my parents’ most beautiful and tragic memories centred upon that village. It was where all their stories began. In this way, Logar was almost the genesis of my storytelling imagination. Over the years, while living in the States, I found myself constantly thinking about the small village where so many of my relatives were born and…

Move a step, I stop to watchMove mine you stop to watchTwo fools obsessed on watching one another Crazy we are, both of usPride our peacock crownsBoastful and showyYet nothing of our own sweatUp and down we move our chests like lizardsTwo fools obsessed on watching one another Try and settle a goal we never are to achieveChasing the wrong solution to our problemsPower of words without deedsAnd without deeds no goal to achieveTwo fools obsessed on watching each other I’m after fire, so is my companionWe both think we are wise and yet foolsPretend to be watchful and yet foolishness is what we doCrazy and mindless our deeds areTwo fools obsessed on watching one another I’m a black knight and my companion a whiteOn the same chase board we…

The boy is changing. Our youngest, he’s at that age. I should have seen it coming. I’ve been dodging the issue, I think. I should have known. Conversations over breakfast have been getting strained. The boy responds to my remarks with short, guttural sounds and I sit there, trying not to pull a face. He used to speak so well. Now the words slither from his gullet. His lips hang there like dead slugs. He’s lost all control of his throat, his larynx. This morning I ate a hurried breakfast in the seat of my car rather than sit at the table with him. It can’t go on. I’m trying. Last night I came home with a newly purchased game of Cluedo under my arm. We played into the evening,…

Because I come to you for changeand I come to you to release: beggingbut I can’t release without changeand I lie to protect what you knowthough you know It all. I keep trying to get you to open doors,I won’t take my hands off of: controlling. So I ask for healing: pleading. To find it in a placeof where I want to bebuilding homes on troubled sands and rough watersbut you salvage rubble and microscopic treasures: all mighty. So I ask for peace, again, and peace comes with healingand healing comes with changeand change, I found in a placeon holy groundsoiled spirits, and faith in you: the church.…

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 celebratedThe secret that I keep.Justin knows the routine.He sits in my chair, watches me stare…