Indholdsfortegnelse for Autumn 2019 i Popshot Magazine

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

EDITORIAL

ISSUE 25 — FANTASY AUTUMN 2019 There are no limits on fantasy. Yet, in literature it is so heavily steeped in genre it’s impossible not to think of warring kingdoms, dragons, unicorns, witches and other supernatural tropes. Fantasy with a capital F involves epic narrative journeys, like Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones. They are sprawling, complicated stories and yet it is easy to suspend disbelief because their worlds are built with such detail and nuance — and because so much is recognisable to the reader thanks to the diktats of genre. I sometimes wonder if the clear but unwritten rules aid or inhibit fantasy writers? For this issue we sought to nod briefly to genre while also representing wider interpretations of fantasy; to take in dreams, desires…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

THE WITCH AND THE WOODS

There were once two lovers who were forbidden by their families to see each other. Every night, while their families slept, the lovers met in the woods outside of town. They did not know they were being watched. A witch lived in the woods. She watched the lovers meet day after day and heard them talk of their love for one another, of how they longed to always be together there in the woods, never to be separated again. The witch came up with a plan. The lovers were scared when the witch first appeared. But when she told them she knew a way they could be together forever they listened. The two lovers gave themselves willingly to the witch and to the woods. The witch turned the lovers into…

2 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

XANDER WEARS A LOVELY LEATHER JACKET…

And when he excuses himself to the bathroom, I lean over the table, discreetly ingesting the woody eau de parfum ingrained in the fabric of its neck. Xander carries the most amazing aromas, ones that linger in the senses, all subtle and suggestive. What I’d give to never let them fade. I ask myself, what does Xander think of me? Xander has beautiful skin. Sitting opposite him in the amber glow of candlelight, I marvel at its near-flawlessness, full and vanilla and plump — not unlike the cheesecake set out before us, creamy textures in abundance. Just as tasty, too. And inside my head, the question flutters again, does Xander like me? I find Xander’s wit charming, his gentle, personable nature puts me at ease. He jokes about the strange…

3 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

BABY ELEPHANT

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…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

SO BEAUTIFUL

When the earth decided she had had enough, she did not erupt in furious volcanoes, nor shatter into ten thousand jagged shards of land — though doing so would have been satisfying. Instead, she seethed far below the surface so that no one at first noticed. No one human, that is. The animals of the ground knew. They were driven to the earth’s surface by the turbulence below — a roiling undetectable by machines, man’s scientific knowledge describing only a limited band of reality, something that humans, in their blinkered arrogance, failed to see time and again. From Mumbai to New York the streets were overrun with rats. In the fields and plains of Canada and Australia, it was a pestilence of rabbits. In Africa, swarms of honey badger and…

3 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

SOME OTHER TIME

Clock struck three so slowly, gran, maybeto suck me in – slowly, slowly–like the long pasta? And listen: clockgoes with a tickety-tocklimp that’s tremendously HUGE, gran. Have you noticed?Gran? All you ever say is Hush, meaningsit? still? meaning waittill time gives us words again?making me boilvery quietly, sit heart-in-mouthshrunk, my blood a stutterand thunder tooDo you knowyour clock has lost two of its teeth? Your time-diddling secretsnever slip out of your mouth – do they, gran?Still that clock knocksat my heart and ticks off its riddlesone after the frightening other. I know, your timenever rages! I know: it sticks, stopsaltogether, scratchesits nose like you do, gran,before it hands over a PILE of seconds – howthey stomp giant boots! – then holds on hard to its breath. It strikes its sixexactly…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

ELEGY ON THE UNDERGROUND

It was my home but now someone else sleeps in his bed. She keeps cats. She does his ironing. He wouldn’t let me keep a cat. He said he was allergic. I am allergic to the Northern Line. At night, there’s sometimes sick on the floor. It’s always on the Northern Line that there’s a person on the track. The train stops in the hot tunnels. The lights go dim. We wait. Last week, when my train was gridlocked near King's Cross, I saw a gigantic cat prowl past the window. It shone like an opal, fur showering sparks in the darkness. I am seeing things now, I thought, and tried to see where it had gone, but the train moved on. There was a poem above the window in…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

MY LOVE

Lay your head on my stomach my love,kiss my hips, then bite to the bone.Glide your hands up my thighsthen at their meeting plant the most beautiful roseand leave it there to die.Rip out my heartwith your blunt fingertips;then suck out all of the blooduntil it is just a rotten apple.Put your lips on mineuntil all my breath goes into you.Put me to sleep with a beautiful melodyand poisoned cranberry juice.Take my skin in your lovely handsand rip it off piece by piece,pull my veins and tie them in pretty bows.Then leave me alone to bleed,before you dare say you love me.…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

THE MAN WHO BROKE THE FETISH ENGINE

“The police rang,” she says. “We’ve had a break-in at the Menagerie.” She coughs. “One casualty.” When I arrive, the police are still photographing the scene, and setting up those white tents you see on telly. Wearing paper suits and protective masks they struggle with the tent poles – the scene resembling something between an alien invasion, and the set-up of a local parish barbeque. I park beneath the canvas banner which advertises the Menagerie to the motorway. It promises “EVERY VICE A MAN CAN THINK OF (AND FOUR THAT HE CAN’T).” I make a mental note to update the sign. Thanks to a fruitful shopping trip in Roswell, we now boast a full seven attractions beyond the veil of human comprehension and a coffee machine. Although it’s nearing midnight,…

3 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

FAMILIAR

Her movement is like liquid,Strides taken with prestige and pride.She’s a gymnast or maybe a ballet dancer,Oh, how those steps are quiet and graceful!And when she wraps herself around me,her warmth is all that I need,It is familiar to me. Beware, don’t look into her eyes,They draw you in…into a galaxy,You won’t be able to look away.They sparkle in the blackness of the night.Allow her to see farther than my sight,And when she leads me onto my path,The journey seems familiar to me. When she mews in her timid tune,Like a violin played with a sturdy bow!An enchantment encircles our cove.I am stupefied in her sole coven,To her sound is my gradual echo.This spell that we chant together,It is familiar to me.…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?

The road Angela saw in her dreams was fresh enough to sink your heels in, slick liquorice tarmac licking the horizon like a long black tongue, forked at the end. There were no workmen in her dreams, no dull machinery; instead the road swept down the main street in a viscous tide, pushing Mrs Gardner and the vicar into the dull shop windows, lapping tar against the sides of the Post Office. In reality she was sure she’d heard from someone that they were thinking of putting it a mile to the east, opposite the church, so the ancient Red Centurion pub could get the extra traffic. When she ran her hand over the road it was cool and smooth like the back of a snake. It bucked up into…

7 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

NAUGHT BUT THE WIND

When light hangs lowAnd leaves are stillAnd the starry brookRushes over the hillNo shoes no cloakShe walks the landAnd keeps her craftIn her hands Cow parsley and rowanBlackthorn and mayShe keeps entwinedAs night takes dayThe rain comes downSheets of blue glassHer feet turn brownTreading through grass Her child, her childLives in the nightShe cannot see himWhen it’s lightThe air runs coldThe barn owl fliesThe trees rush underThe woolly skies She buries the spell,Beneath a stoneAnd waits till she’sNo longer aloneCold hands in hersThe wind blows nearThe pale moonlightHides in her hair They walked togetherAnd sing their songPast moor and fenTill night is doneWhen sun comes upHe’ll disappearAnd naught but the windFor her to hear…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

NOAH’S FANTASY ARK

Noah Said, “Today I’ll build a fantasy arkI’ll set sail from the humdrumI’ll get a glitter ball that shines like stars,I’ll try to disguise reality with a dream.I’ve worn reality like a coat that’s too tight,So now I’ll burst it open at the seams.I’ll line up the animals two by twoAnd shout doors open for the party zoo.” And if reality taps me on the back?And says, “I once knew you well,When you kept yourself aliveDoing the old nine to five,Dodging floods and doing good.Get yourself together manCan’t you see this simply isn’t done!,The zebras are having too much fun.Tone down the glitterTurn down the lightsWind down the soundsOr the monkeys will take fright.So put this fantasy thing to bed,Heed the words I’ve said.” Noah replied, “Well this thing that’s…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

IN AMERICA

Most of all, I didn’t like that you had to take an aeroplane to get there. The fact it was so far away. There were other things I didn’t like. I didn’t like the guns. The wild teenage shootings or the star-spangled stadiums with hooting Republicans. I didn’t like the mass consumption, the pig farms, the brutal distribution of wealth, and I didn’t like the fatness, the extra large portions and the people who had curtains of flesh swaying heavily like strung hams beneath their arms. The sickly movies about boys next door and girls losing their virginity in ruffled prom dresses. I didn’t like the politics either, the whole circus of ego and the tan man’s face, the whites of his eyes leaking into two pale pockets below. I…

14 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

SHARING MY MUSE

her description of what I sawis what I would have saidif only I could singher depiction of joyous aweas of a song insteadof what my own words bring whispers in verse for me to hearin words I could not saybut yet I understooddense fogs dispersed to see so clearmy thoughts in disarrayjust as I sensed they would her tempos teach my sense of timewith pause and gentle flowsof rhythms in my heartsuspenses reach intense sublimeanticipation growsfor what she’ll next impart left to peruse this written thoughtthat she has relatedto the student she chosesharing my muse through what she broughtthat she has dictatedfor her scribe to compose…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

SINGED

Dale comes swinging in through the double doors in a cloud of smoke and I tell you, I’ve had long-burnt chips in the oven that’ve smelled better than that. So I ask him, “Dale, how’d it go in there?” and he says, “Oh dandy, Chris, just fine. Like a furnace as always, but just fine.” I can see his goggles have gone and he’s covered in soot, but his hood’s still on and he’s all suited up, so it must have been an okay run. I stick the air conditioning on high. Dale hands me his metal box and takes off his gloves, and I offer him the fat-nozzle hose and turn on the tap for him. “You save the girl?” I ask. He’s got a face full of water…

3 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

THIS IS…UNEXPECTED

I don’t wish to disrupt yourunenviable, frenetic schedule.you are beauty beyondimagination and I love you.will you marry me?why are you standing therelooking so surprised?we can watch sunsets andboxed sets togetherin a daze of nights andsweet bountiful afternoons.we will travel the worldclimb mountains andvolcanoes again.I will hold you gentlyamid the confusions ofthis impatient worldand our kisseswill nevermore be secret.we will sip from the sameglass, share the samethought, lick the same plate.oh hello, just asking your wifeif she’d like another drink,a divorce from mundaneunnecessity and a secondbeautiful baby with me.…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

ENDNOTES

8 – Aarushi Shetty is a magazine subeditor from India, whose love of English brought her to England where she is currently studying for an MA. 10 – Jill Munro's first poetry collection was published in 2015. She won the Fair Acre Press Pamphlet Competition and the Hawthornden Fellowship in 2018. 12 – Anastasia Gammon is a writer from Cornwall, England. Her work has appeared in Cornish Short Stories: A Collection of Contemporary Cornish Writing and a number of places online. 14 – Beth Lincoln is a writer from Durham. A Penguin Random House WriteNow 2017 mentee, she is writing a novel and a short story collection. 18 – Andrea Holck is an American-born writer and teacher based in London. She would like us to make it clear that her…

3 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

MAN FROM LA PAZ

Last night I knitted a Bolivian.Or was it a Peruvian?It doesn’t really matter.It was proper knittingnot the peg-peg-pegof hooking a French dollybut the click-clackof metal needles in thepurl-one-row, knit-one-rowof Bolivian stocking stitchery. I started with the tip of his hat −snaked stripes, Ikat squaresover flap-covered earsmade him a squashed nose,button-hole slits for eyes,a pinch-pursed mouth,a centre-parted maneand further downhis poncho grew, flowedlong and woolly wildas pinks and silvers met Inca gold.Skinny brown legs dangledfrom my needles until shoelessI cast him off. Later I found him sitting on my bedplaying his Bolivian pan flute,pressing warm fingers to mydropped stitch holes.He paused his music, licked his fuzzy lips,murmured Desnudarme, desnudarme…as we began to unravel.…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

SIDE GIG

A woman with an internet connection can find financial redemption at almost any time. I, a woman, an artist, do not have the energy resources for a full-time job. I do part-time work in a library shelving books and such, but the pay is not enough to cover the rent for my studio. So when money is tight (which is all the fucking time) I take on additional work. I find it mostly on Craigslist. Mostly using the library computer, and mostly during my working hours. It's not because I don’t have a phone, I do. It’s just that the job’s not exactly titillating, so I make up chores to do on the computer when what I’m really doing is getting paid to look for other ways to get paid.…

7 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

THE BLUNDERGAFFE

‘Twas quickly that the Blundergaffe,Did raise its slithy head when hacksMade great again its orange schnaffOn fake news paperquacks. Beware the Blundergaffe, my girl!,The tongue that whips, the claws that grab,Beware the crooked hounds who hurlTheir knives at those who blab. He took his pingity in handAnd on the keys he clacky clicked,Eyes of ire for those who withstandHe bleurged his blubbattack. And ping! And ping! His crashing voiceSent flooshing through the data waves,While the slathering hounds rejoiceAnd the withstood stay brave. And while the Blundergaffe cromps downOn those who breathe the fearish truth,Across the land from field to townHis 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…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

FOR THE SPLENDOUR WITH WHICH SHE SHINES

They had told me that Aoife was having trouble finding a flatmate; no-one wants to live with a prophet. The Gumtree ad was harmless enough: she didn’t mention anything about cleanliness or noise, but had strong opinions about Hildegard of Bingen. My own Venn diagram — a remnant from my Catholic school days — was probably the reason she accepted my application. She held the interview in her front room, the blinds shuttered despite the honeyed light outside. Crows rattled and scraped in the old townhouse eaves. The scent of incense lingered. A roving map of stars was projected onto the wall behind her, so that her face was constantly charted in constellations. Her eyes were the first thing I noticed: a shade of brown so light they appeared amber.…

12 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

MODEL FACES

Swords can carve them; slice and dice them,Make a mess of that pretty face,War can grind them, wine and dine them,Make a meal of that dangling bait. Age can wear them; torment and tear them,Court the contours of every crevice,Time can trace them, trail and tame them,Drain the vanity from the artifice. Disease can deform them; doom and destroy them,Warp features beyond means,Mutations can dwarf them, maul unmourn them,Beset a beast of betrayed genes. Obsession can wither them; leech and lesion them,Leave such scars as lip imprints,Smooches will sand them, erode and corrode them,Entrench an ugliness beyond its remits. Yet beauty can brighten them; beseech and blind them,Reveal a warrior resolve within,Beauty can restore them, womb and warm them,And beauty faces the heart within.…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

GUARDING THE BRIDGE

Jävla Kuk! My feet and my legs they hurt. My cytokerotin will be rotting in this water. Standing here up to my Kna’s {shna}, I mean knees, for the past twelve hours is too much. The stones dig into my soles and drive me to helvete. This bridge is too low, it crashes against my head if I stand up and as I turn the walls scrape my nose. Why is it always me? I know really; I’m the only one that is not a posh boy. It’s the price they make me pay for belonging. Just because I went to a state gymnasium while they were sent to private schools. Attending Epsom or Uppingham, paid for by rich parents, does not make them superior. My friends warned about coming…

2 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

THE WIND FEELS LOSS

We do not build shelter from wood alone. The trees of the Herdlands are small and lonely, and their boles are like the spinal bones of cattle if they were browned and brittled and twisted up in a stack. Not good for woodwork. We must flay the stallion and the mare and stretch their dried skins over the frame of the yurt. Even in this small way, our survival is built on sacrifice. A Crownlander will tell you a man owes no debt to Mother and Father, for the choice of being was not his own. We cannot accept that lesson here. Here we see the Mother return home bloodied after surrendering the day’s hunt to wolves and the Father lose a runaway colt after tracking it across the barren…

9 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

THE CHANGE

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…

14 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

ORCHARD

Here we pileall the cold earthat the base of the sapling. Small black mounds, like baby graves,neat, tidy,palmed down firmwith our warm hands. The trembling green stalksbetween our fingers,our hunched shoulders working in rhythmas we press,press hard on the dark soil. …and we repeat the thing. Another seedlingslender, shaking, thirsting,into the cold ground. And again, and again, and hope, and again… and hope that they will survive,survive like the smallest suspicion of a breathof a wishin a whisper. Exhausted you stand,arms up-stretched, to overlook the land. Tiny trees in rows,receding to the distance,each one as tall,as another unborn child.…

1 min

Popshot Magazine|Autumn 2019

ILLUSTRATORS

Abi Stevens abistevens.com Anna Knopf annaknopf.com Bistra Masseva bistramasseva.com Charlotte Fu charlotte-fu.com Cindy Fan cind.ca Denise Gallagher denisegallagher.com Eric Chow ericchow.co.uk Esther Lalanne estherlalanne.com Ewelina Rynkiewicz ewelilo.com Harry Woodgate harrywoodgate.com Jack Snelling jacksnelling.co.uk Jake Williams jakewilliams.co.uk Kell Kitsch kellkitsch.com Liah Paterson liahpaterson.com Lorna Jameson lornajameson.co.uk Lottie Liggins lottieliggins.com Matthew Brazier brazierillustration.co.uk Mitt Roshin mittroshin.com Olga Kawacin´ska olgakawa.com Omar Morgan omarillustrates.com Ran Zheng ranzhengart.com Rebecca Ashdown rebeccaashdown.me Renzo Razzetto renzorazzetto.tumblr.com Shauna Mckeon illustratedbyshauna.com Sophie Standing sophiestandingillustration.com Vanessa Lovegrove vanessalovegrove.co.uk WE NEED YOU The beautiful illustrations that make Popshot really pop are produced by a team of creatives every issue. If you’d like your illustrations to appear in the magazine please get in touch with a link to your portfolio. illustration@popshotpopshot.com…

1 min