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
PO PS H OT QUARTERLY
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THE ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF NEW WRITING
BIGGEST EVER ISSUE 30 poems and stories to savour
T H E N O S TA L G I A I S S U E Issue 22 - Winter 2018
We are torn b e t w e e n no s tal gia for t h e fa m i l i a r an d an ur g e fo r t h e fore i gn an d s t ra n g e - C a r so n M cCul l er s
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N OS TA LG IA | Illu stration by Zach Meyer
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THE CYCLONE , CONE Y ISLAND Poem by Julie-Ann Rowell Illu stration by Michael Parkin
It survived, hurray, we all rejoice, that clackety old structure of speed, slight by today’s standards, but still chain lift, compact twister, wooden, G-force 3.75 (is that bad?) stood up to the hurricane blowing right through the old switchback’s ups and downs that have churned many a gut, brought a stream of smiles and tears to the public – I mean us. We are they, the ones that ride, the ones that watch its little train hug the rail. It has nearly been a goner before, out of date, out of luck, kids moved on to other dares, but saved by the people of New York who know a good thing when they see it. I only wish I could say I’d ridden it.
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DID YOU KNOW Poem by Jessica Ka shdan-Brown Illu stration by Claire Sc ully
That he worked here, at the ESA? Justo asks and I say yes, because even if I never knew the letters for Those sun-soaked buildings under Spanish skies I remember the photos of newly-built rockets All those strange machines igniting and The time we gathered around a too-small screen To watch the parachute land in a desert that was not ours No Sahara or Egyptian plane, no dunes or sands whose grains we knew But the jasper mist of Titan – and my father told us He did that Now Justo leads us round the foyer and shows me That yes is an answer I should not give without knowing What words like Huygens and Cassini meant That every piece of a rocket is made by someone new That years of my grandad lay between those grooves Where he sat at the desk by the door That he had been good with the small bits, the fine details That when he arrived, they called him the Englishman And swore at him in Spanish That he had sworn back And now they always greet each other that way There is a photo of him still there on the wall He used to have dark hair, no beard, a charming smile They say he used it often Sometimes he still leaves the flat to go and visit them Even though he’s retired now He always brings a bottle of Spanish Rioja They drink it on nights when the sky is dark So they can look up, and laugh at the stars
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THE VIE WER DOESN ’ T SEE THE WORLD, SHE IS A PART OF IT Fla sh fic tion by Anna Na zarova-Evans Illu stration by Sara Gironi Car ne vale
The first sign was when he rang at five o’clock on Monday morning, hiccupping whilst explaining that the turning came out of nowhere, that he couldn’t call the police because he’d been out for a drink. I found him snoring in the autumn leaves on the side of the road. The second sign for me to leave were my clothes pirouetting out of the bedroom window when I was dropped home by a male colleague, my dented car parked on our drive. I should have left when he called me Lola and I told him to stop, but he carried on, telling me that he loved me. It was later that night, when I woke up from the bedsheets getting warm and wet, when I tried to shake him awake, when he called out her name again – that I realised that he’d been talking to her all along. Lola appeared on our doorstep four years later, holding the hand of a little girl with familiar floppy hair. He was away for work, so she and I watched the fire in our slippers, Lambrusco fizzing in plastic cups. His daughter tried to roast marshmallows, but kept setting them alight, until nothing was left of the pack except for one ugly, melted baby-pink mess. I didn’t take the ring off then, but I did just now. We had breakfast in the kitchen. The wind had stopped howling and waterfalls ran down drains. Tiny droplets still peppered the puddles, but on the cusp of where the roofs met the sky, seven colours stretched in a semi-circle, framing the houses beneath. I thought it was a good omen and, to remind him, I tugged at his sleeve, crinkled my nose in delight. He tore his eyes away from the phone screen, thumb still moving along the pad. He turned to where my finger tapped on the window. I watched his face for signs of recognition. I hoped that he would look at me, actually look me in the eyes like he did all those years ago under the white canopy. But there was no magic to this moment. He shrugged almost instantly and turned back to the screen, screwing up his lip. I washed the dishes whilst he sang in the shower and took the ring off. It sits in front of me now, sunlight concealing its lack of lustre. I re-read the inscription one last time – ‘You are the rainbow of my life’ – and leave it by the bowl of rotting apples. The suitcase has been packed for a year, he never asked why. I pick it up and head out. Brisk air cleanses my mind, like a healing balm. A new me stretches inside, yawns, shakes off her slumber and ignites her colours one by one. 12
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GABRIEL’ S PIER Fla sh fic tion by Charlotte Newman
Over the Thames on Gabriel’s Pier, a man thinks about love. It’s too hot to think about love; it’s too hot to think. It’s as hot as the summer which drove him mad – but that was another him and that was another river. A river abroad, clear as a mirror and fish that went straight for his toes. Love was there because love had walked with him. Love fed him fruit in a garden and love laid him down in the grass. Love pinched his arms first pink, then sunspot-brown, the undersides white as if bleached. ‘Napolitaine!’ Love laughed. Surprised to find his eyes are shut, he opens them and sees the Thames. It’s the colour of muddied milk. Over the Thames on Gabriel’s Pier, a man thinks about loss.
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LONDON PLANE Fla sh fic tion by Geoff Lavender
Around four in the afternoon, if the sun is shining, a shadow falls across that part of the square where a woman sits on a park bench, waiting. She brings with her a flask of tea and two enamel mugs which she takes from her bag and places on the bench beside her. It’s late September now and leaves are beginning to fall from the trees that surround the park. When they last met here, in this London square, it was June and he was on leave. They sat on the same bench that she sits on now and drank tea from a flask. She will recall these moments, even years from now, as the best she’s ever known. The happiest of times. He promised that as soon as the war was over – ‘it won’t be long now,’ he said – they would finally be able to start their lives together. So they agreed that she would come each day to this spot as soon as the war ended. She would come at four – the time of their last embrace – and he would join her as soon as he was able. She said she didn’t mind. It could only be this way. She cannot know, on this particular day in late September, that he will never join her, that he would have been one of the last casualties of a war that ended on the 2nd September, 1945. He will never know that she is carrying his child. She will not learn of his fate until just before Christmas. His wife, of course, has known for some while.
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Popshot is a beautifully illustrated magazine showcasing the most imaginative short stories, flash fiction and poetry by the best emerging writers. The Nostalgia issue is our rose-tinted compilation of finely-crafted poetry and prose that looks back in anger, fondness, love and regret; a shoebox full of literary memories, which includes cassette tapes and cruel parents, ice cream and infidelity, rollercoasters and Richard Curtis.
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WINTER 2018