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
Exclusive: Jamil Jan Kochai on the books that shaped him
THE IDENTIT Y ISSUE Issue 23 - Spring 2019
“ I se e m to ha v e ru n i n a grea t c ir c le, an d m e t mys e l f ag ain on t he s ta r t i n g l i n e. ” - Je a n e t te Wi n ter so n , O ra n g e s A re Not th e On l y Fr ui t
I D EN T I T Y | Illu stration by Joanna Layla
PIRATE Fla sh fic tion by A smaa Jama Illu stration by Bren Luke
Salty swathes of sea, white brightest white, hard to look at beaches, slowly swinging folds of cloth, lined brown faces sitting at cafes, that may or may not be called up by their wives and their kids and their God, and little explosions like firecrackers random, shouting down the telephone call, paying for the time with handfuls of plastic cards, and shoving notes into the hand of the shopkeeper, back home with a look in the eye, spinning cups of sweet tea, left as they run for cover from some police and men getting stopped at the sides of streets, the thick trail of petroleum in the air, the never ending dust clouds, the wide open sky, the stars falling out of its wide open mouth, breathtaking, getting into taxi here, the dark slowly moving cars, drunks getting in and shouting, where you from, how long you been ‘ere, and your father slowly dying thousands of miles away, and the funeral pictures on facebook, and you are ‘ere still. Inaa The stillest sky is just before fajr when god descends from the machine. Lilaahi Praying in your seat, afraid of the asphalt and your head Wa and the faces phosphorescent in the lamplight, wishing you could prostrate at the roadside. Inaa Thank god for the safe miles Ilaahi safe they shout as they leave raajioon.
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GINGERBREAD Shor t stor y byAnthony Howcrof t Illu stration by Gu s Scott
Plastic ramekins full of candy are laid out down the centre of the table. Multi-coloured m&ms, liquorice, mini-chocolate logs, peppermints, tubes of icing, candy sticks, and round chocolate balls. We skipped the gumballs – a nightmare for false teeth. The gingerbread sets are cheap as chips at the local store, and Donna has collected a handful. I worry everyone will eat the candy and skip the building, but Donna is certain the patients will know what to do.“They always remember kiddie things,” she says in her strong accent, towering over me. Donna wears flat shoes, but still has to duck under the lights. Her height and strength come in handy, far too often. Only Mabel, Alice, and Lulu show any interest in the activity. I confess, I’ve never made a gingerbread house. “Don’t squirt that into your mouth, Mabel!”I guide her hand back to the ridge of the house. We are attempting to stick two halves together. Donna is pushing dishes of sweets further away from Alice. “Let’s build the house before we start decorating it, shall we?” she says. The walls of Mabel’s house seem to be leaning against each other like a drunk on a lamppost, and the amount of white icing we’re deploying to plug the gaps recalls my miserable attempt to regrout the bathroom tiles. I glance at Lulu, but she’s quiet, and rarely causes any trouble. Lulu has lost the power of speech. Although, she does love to be hugged. Most of the time Lulu cuddles her stuffed Dalmatian toy. She’s as easy to handle as any late-stage Alzheimer’s patient I’ve met. I keep working with Mabel, slowly sticking sweets on the eaves of her house. “Lulu!” Donna cries. I swing around, holding Mabel’s wrist to restrain her from spraying liquid jets of sugar. Lulu seems oblivious to her name and continues decorating her creation. She hasn’t built a gingerbread house, it’s a rectangular mansion in a Baroque style. There are at least twenty windows on each floor, with three floors visible on the front face, and she’s adding a handmade sugar clock in the centre, directly above the doorway, which is constructed from pillars of liquorice. “It’s a work of art,” Donna declares. Even Mabel stares at the incredible building. Lulu has opened several packets of the basic house kit and broken rectangular walls and roof pieces to make the long shapes for her structure. She’s piped the windows in place. There are grooves on each biscuit, to help children see where windows and doors should be, but Lulu has ignored these, making her own designs in white, criss-crossing over the underlying patterns. Each corner has a small towerlike construction, but strangely, the inside of the structure is bare – an amazingly elaborate façade. “What is it?” I ask Lulu.
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MY BRILLIANT CAREER Poem by Barbara DeCoursey Roy Illu strated by Er in McClu skey
Deposited in a cardboard box on the doorstep of St Jerome’s three days before Christmas, found by an ex-cop who packed a service revolver to six o’clock Mass, I was named Noel by nurses at Children’s Hospital. A full head of black hair, eyes like un-pitted olives, skin untraceable to any specific ethnicity, I was the “Christmas Baby,” usurper of headlines about record snowfalls and record homicides. My adopted white family changed my name to Taylor, after the teenage pop star. I was to be “Little Miss Universe,” but had a taste for Shakespeare and salsa dancing, loved to roller blade with the guys, and hated wearing makeup. Came out to my family after safely navigating law school. Lawyering worse than pretending to be straight, but I learned how to dress for success, and close an argument. I do performance art now. My Latina wife and I make babies. Never thought our parents would accept black and brown grandchildren, but they are goofy about Frida, Enrique, and Shaquille. Watching my children blow bubbles in the tub, I remember (or almost) how I came upon the world. Cigar smoke mixed with doughnuts; his paws like sandpaper; a red siren on the blue-veined dawn.
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