Popshot Issue 27 - The Mystery Issue - SAMPLE

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 THE ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF NEW WRITING

A Double Life: Exclusive short story

by Charlotte Philby

T H E M Y S T E RY I S SU E Issue 27 - Spring 2020

I'm I'm soso interested interested inin the the fact fact that that we we really really “I'm so interested in think the fact that we don't don't know know anybody. anybody.

We We think we we know know reallyclose don't know anybody.

We think the the people people close to to us, us, but but we we don't, don't, we we really really don't. don't. we know the people close to us, but we don't, we really don't.�

Elizabeth Elizabeth Strout Strout

- E l i za b et h St ro u t

M YS TERY | Illu stration by Ir ina Kr uglova

EATING WATERMELON Fla sh fic tion by Amy Bar nes Illu stration by R achael Presk y

If you eat a watermelon, a baby will grow in your belly. That’s what mama always told me.

I avoided eating watermelon until that one really hot day at the summer carnival. Bobby Jenkins and I went skinny dipping in Sander’s Pond and afterwards we sat half-naked by the water’s edge and ate slices of watermelon until our fingers were red and we were both wearing less than we arrived in. I remembered my mama’s warning when it was too late.

I swallowed one slimy black seed. I felt it land with a plop in my stomach. I asked Bobby to try and suck it out of me and he tried but we both knew it was all over.

By the time I went back to school, my stomach was the size of a cantaloupe, stretched summer peachy skin that hadn’t been burnt by the constant Alabama sun. I tried pushing it down and hiding it under sweatshirts when everyone else was stripped down to tank tops and shorts.

Dr. Smith had a voice and bedside manner that matched his name. Bland. Ordinary. He touched my belly and sat off some kind of sparky tweed-induced friction. I jumped back in the stirrups that weren’t made for horseback riding. Mama clutched her not-pearls.

“Sit still,” she told me as if I were a child and not carrying a sweet watermelon.

Dr. Smith turned to my mother. “She’s four months along. Probably due at Easter.”

Mama burst into tears. I didn’t know why. Having watermelons in the off-season was something rich people did. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying this watermelon that long. It was getting heavy. My back hurt like when I helped bring in the corn crops.

“Watermelons in early spring are for rich people, mama. It’s a good thing.”

“Who did this?” she hissed at me like my brother’s bearded lizard.

“I did. By the East pond. We ate almost a whole watermelon after we went swimming.”

“Who is we? Nevermind. Let’s go.” She grabbed me by the arm, throwing my jumble sale sweatshirt and stretchy pants and Wednesday underpants at me.

I ate a lot of watermelon that year, sucking down each slice and spitting out the seeds into the grass. Four months later, I couldn’t wear my Jordache jeans or even my gym glass sweatpants. Mama took me to the hospital. I gripped my tight, full belly the whole way wailing along with the ambulance siren.

“Do you like watermelon?” I asked the men in white coats and women in white hats.

Blood red juice dripped across my belly when they sliced it open-smile-style. I heard the watermelon crying as they cut off its vines from inside my belly.

“Can I have a slice, mama?”

She smiled as shook her head and called for the nurse lady. I named that watermelon Trudy and she played by Sander’s Pond with me as I read books and did maths.

I never ate watermelon again.

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ARRHY THMIAS Fla sh fic tion by Laura B esle y Illu stration by Kévin Deneufchatel

Dave carries his girlfriend in the left-hand breast pocket of his shirt, thinking – for he is a thoughtful man – that she’ll find the steady rhythm of his heart comforting.

In the early days, she used to pummel him with her dainty fists, little bursts of energy banging out messages he couldn’t decipher. Instead, he pretended it was her heartbeat; blindly seeking his own comfort.

As the days grow shorter and colder, they live in silence. His heartbeat is muffled by knitted layers.

She sleeps most of the day, fists clenched, but still; hugging her knees to her body for warmth.

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MY BOYFRIEND’ S BEARD Poem by Kathr yn Keane Illu stration by Loren za Cotellessa

I asked him, once, as between my fingers each riotous strand sprang up, ‘What would happen if you straightened it?’

And laughing, he said it would go on fire.

I hope he never does.

For when the world dizzies me with its anarchy, and I burn myself fumbling for order, his beard between my fingers wild and weird as any of my spinning thoughts makes a straightener seem a straitjacket and turns the whirling of the world into a waltz.

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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 Mystery issue is a collection of vivid writing about solving riddles, disentangling lies and finding hidden truths. It includes a startling array of stories and poetry, revealing everything from the mysteries of naivety, to what’s hidden in a creepy attic, to the motivations of a match-making sea monster.

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SPRING 2020