S h o r t S t o r i e s / F l a s h F i c t i o n / Po e t r y
POPS H OT QUARTERLY THE ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF NEW WRITING
Exclusive poem by Shadow Skye author Joseph Elliott
THE GROWTH ISSUE Issue 32 – Summer 2021
“Even a child with normal feet was in love with the world after he had got a new pair of shoes.” – F l a n n e r y O 'C on n or, E v er y t h i n g T h a t Ri s e s Mu s t C onv e rge : Storie s
G ROWT H | Illu stration by Gu s Scott
THE OPENER Fla sh fic tion by Mar issa Higgins Illu stration by Alex Hahn
Bobby tossed the stuffed chihuahua between his bare hands, suboxone in his right coat pocket and a picture of Alyssa at two months in his left. Should have worn gloves, he knew. Cape Cod winters tug the cold out of bones. The bus depot, of course, wasn’t heated. What if I can’t find you in the parking lot, he said over the phone when they arranged the meeting. Just stay in one place, Alyssa’s grandmother said, and then she named it. Sharon added: You’ll recognise your blood. The call went clipped like that: Yeah, he was still at the halfway house, working, wanting to see Alyssa. No, he wasn’t paid on the books or sure about child support. He didn’t have any other kids. Yeah, he was sure. Sharon and his kid pulled up and Bobby tightened his stomach lips colon toes fingers throat knees jaw. He put the stuffed animal behind his back. He watched Sharon get out and fiddle with the backseat. When Alyssa dropped her feet into the snow, Bobby dropped the chihuahua. He said, Oh, shit. Then Alyssa was upon him. She said, Hey. They did not hug. As he shook the snow from the toy, he watched her watch him. This is for you, Bobby said. And hey, yourself. I’m not allowed to have a dog, she said, brown eyes a story in themselves. Bobby knew better than to point it out, but the kid really looked nothing like him. Carved from clouds, not smoke. This one is good, he said all slow. Because it’s not real, you know? Yeah, she said, solemn. I know. Father and daughter didn’t talk again until the three of them were seated in a booth. The place was packed for lunch hour, all pop radio and pitchy kids. Sharon chatted for them; she caught Bobby up on Alyssa’s flute lessons, three times a week, which Bobby thought sounded like a lot, but shit if he knew. Bobby nodded nodded nodded and sat straight straight straight. His posture was a knot, he admitted it, but he wanted Sharon to see him as different than the last time. He had been fucked up, yeah. He and Alyssa’s mum were screaming pretty bad. Some shit got broken. Neighbours were pissed about the noise and all, and Bobby couldn’t even tell them to fuck off, on account of them being right. Spine straight, Bobby housed his pizza and was glad to see Alyssa ate like him, big bites, teeth worked as weapons, oil all over the damn place. And why not, he thought, watching his kid suck grease from each of her ten fingers. Why not.
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DESK FLOWER S Shor t stor y by Alys Key Illu stration by Katie Scarlett Gr iffin
Only when an aloe vera the size of a garden shed burst through the roof did anyone realise what was going on. The office block was empty and unremarkable, another mass of concrete and doubleglazing; not the kind of place we expected to see popping open like a squeezed spot. Kara and I lived over the road, seven storeys up in a boxy new-build flat. I was sitting on our balcony when I heard the loud crack and looked up from my laptop just in time to watch as the big green fronds erupted through, tossing rubble to every corner of the roof. The aloe vera was springy, with leaves like the foam noodles they use to teach kids how to swim. Other people had seen it, too. We met them as we crossed the street to take a closer look, growing until there was a little crowd of us. Everyone hummed with a tripping excitement, the energy of leaving our flats for the first time that day or week. I put my face up close to the ground floor window. Inside, there was a reception area overrun with plants, all the usual office varieties: papery spider plants on the verge of death; ornamental trees nobody could identify or cared about; orchids in plastic wrappers. Only, these were three or four times their normal size, roots splitting open pots and spilling soil onto the marble floor. I took a photo of a fern with its spine curved against the ceiling, like someone trying to crawl into a child's playhouse. I worked on the balcony a lot back then, while my hours ballooned around me. Remote working had seemed at first like a chance to cut out the fat of weekdays. Without commuting and birthday whip-rounds and meetings, I thought I might even finish early. Then the markets crashed and I spent the best part of my days on the phone with shareholders. By evening, there would still be edits for the annual report left to do, or arrangements for
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AT THE BRAIN SALON Fla sh fic tion by Er in Coppin Illu stration by Andrea Šafaríková
Let’s push past brown roots and dandruff to the skull. We’ll crack it open easy-like, and peel back the meninges, slow and careful, slower still. There it is now, there it is: the precious brain, all electric threads that pulse and twist. I can tell you haven’t been here for a while. There’s some overgrowth and some of this has died…why don’t we tidy up a little, make it easier to think, you know. To be. Take a breath and let it out. The tiny frantic hair-like thoughts will just brush off: day-to-day concerns, the to-dos and shopping lists only serve to clutter up the place. Some are more like figs in summer: twist them and release. This thought, for instance: ripe for plucking out. It served its purpose long ago. I wind the fibre round my finger and…you see? You didn’t even feel it. I can take them out in handfuls. There’s so much here that you don’t need: old beliefs, bad memories. Just keep breathing. Slower now. Once we clear this out, there’ll be more room for growth. I’ll add some tonic to this section, this part that needs a boost to bring it back to life. We’re getting down to fundamentals now. Sever this association from your childhood with the tiniest of snips, and look, that whole section now is free. When you leave, you’ll shake your head and it will feel healthier and so much lighter. There’s a snarl there in the instincts that worries me a bit. I’ll give a little tug and loosen up the knot…huh. It looks like something’s stuck in there. I keep forgetting you can’t see this sparking and misfiring. Oh honey, no, I’m sorry. Sometimes this can be a bit too much. Let me go and get my boss. You hang on, now. You just breathe. She says we’re best to take the whole lot out and soak it in the light-bath. Soften up the area with balm, and draw the poison out. This is the five-star treatment, on the house, the refurb brain-lift everybody wants. It’s okay, sweetheart. You can cry. Just let it go. I promise this is worth it.
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Popshot is a beautifully illustrated quarterly magazine showcasing imaginative short stories, flash fiction and poetry by the best new writers. The Growth Issue is a collection of vivid writing, exploring the different ways we can flourish and change. It cuts deep, exploring the pathos of failure to grow, the agony of adolescence, the hilarity of abandoned house plants that become monsters, and tenderness towards the green shoots of life.
www.popshotpopshot.com £6
SUMMER 2021