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 HOT QUARTERLY THE ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE OF NEW WRITING
Exclusive: David Harsent poem ‘Icefield’
THE EARTH ISSUE Issue 28 - Summer 2020
“This is our world, although the people who drew this map decided to put their own land on top of ours. There is no top or bottom, you see.” – C h i m a m a n d a Ng o z i Adich ie, H a l f o f a Ye l l ow Su n
E A RT H | Illu stration by Connie Noble
THE PALAEONTOLOGIST Fla sh fic tion by Sam Payne Illu stration by Buba Viedma
He digs through layers of soil and sediment to reveal the tiny remnants of her. She’s been buried for so long, the earth refuses to let her go. There are sweat beads on his forehead, mud smudges his fingertips and gravel specks lodge deep under the thin moon of his nails. He sweeps the dirt from where it gathers in the curved dip of her hips. Brushes the dust from her femur and her tibia, then pauses for a moment to cup her heel bone gently in his palm. He remembers how she never liked to wear shoes. Remembers the soft sound of small feet on bare wood floors. How it echoed all around when she ran while pleading with him to be a dinosaur again. Chase me, Daddy. Chase me. Her bones are reflected in his spectacles as he tends to the ribs and circles her clavicle with the tip of his brush. He counts her teeth, twenty little milk ones, wobbly and uncertain. Further back, those which will never come through. He speaks softly as if she can hear him, telling her stories like he used to on his good days. Tales of rare, magical creatures who are buried but not lost, just merely waiting to be discovered again. He tells her everything will be okay. He tells her he's stopped drinking. Stopped driving too. Finally, when there’s nothing left to say, he tells her he’s sorry and as he says this, over and over, he lays his head next to her skull and tenderly strokes the hollow of her temple with his thumb.
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EARTHRISE Poem by Rober t Bilinski Illu stration by Emilie Mu szczak
You rose, like a cloud that rose above a column of warmed air, and the red kites that rose through those thermals, you rose, like the ashes that rose from the flames that rose, and the air that rose from the base of those flames, you rose, like floribundas that rose from the soil and moisture, and the nutrients that rose to crown those plants, you rose, like the new houses rose from their foundations, and the community rose to commend the courageous, you rose, like the night workers rose as the nightingale sang, and the pious people rose to sing in praise of power, you rose, like the fists rose up in solidarity from the crowd, and the placards rose in protest and principle, you rose, like a mother who rose assuaged to feed her newborn, and a father who rose at night to calm his crying child, you rose, like a boy who rose taller than his last mark on the wall, and a girl who rose up to confront her tormentors, you rose, like a woman who rose from her chair for the final time, and the family and friends who rose to remember her life, you rose, like the encore of a resurrection, you rose as they rose like you rose.
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DEME TER Poem by Alison Patr ick Illu stration by Laura Parker
You know, I do have other talents. It’s not just fruit and flowers and corn; although you’d never tell; always pictured in what I think of as my Festival attire: Flowing gown, sandals, some sort of rustic crown. It would be nice occasionally to be shown In a good sharp suit; Armani or Chanel. I do Creative Business Planning on the side. Women only. Don’t be surprised. Even goddesses move with the times. I know you’ve moved on, to less specific gods. Or none. You knew where you were with me. I do the seasons. I admit, there have been lapses. (Ireland 1845–51, not all my fault). It’s a big responsibility and I can’t be everywhere at once. I expect you thought I’d gone. Oh no! I’m still around. Remember, I only do the northern hemisphere, Not even all of that. It’s getting harder these days. Little things slipping out of my hands. Strawberries in November, unsettle me. Fires. A stranded whale. Things no longer go to plan. The business side is growing But I’ve a feeling there’s no future in 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 Earth Issue is a collection of vivid writing about the power of our planet, its creativity and our connection to the soil. This engaging selection of short fiction features animal gods, billionaires who escape pandemics on private islands, bodies that sprout flowers, ghosts, and unearthed mysteries.
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SUMMER 2020