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
Sequoia Nagamatsu story inside
T H E WAT E R I S S U E Issue 35 – Spring 2022
“They both listened silently to the water, which to them was not just water, but the voice of life, the voice of Being, the voice of perpetual Becoming.” – H e r m a n n H e s s e, Siddh arth a
WATER | Illu stration by R ebecca Chang Jen Lin
LAKE CHILDREN Poem by Twanda Rolle Illu stration by Y ian Lee
It's dark morning and the lake is cold from last night the dew drops knew of the child who died there some time ago they say it was murder but it’s as if someone is still there it was something like a vapour, misty, a leaning down crouching figure, it seemed a shadow cast by the immature morning but the night will come when it will change into a newer figure showing its ever-changing eyes the silhouette is still not clear but the mother is happy to see the child again as she moved even closer to embrace the longing when everything melts and a white mist was left on the dark water but a little voice still calls the mother stares around her around the lake everywhere Then she's gripped by a hand pulled down just like the other women who saw their children there.
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BEFORE YOU MELT INTO THE SEA Shor t stor y by Sequoia Nagamatsu Illu stration by R achel Joan Wallis Here is the chamber where I’ll place your body. You’ll float in a solution of water and potassium hydroxide at a temperature of three hundred and fifty degrees. Your skin will flake like ash and the tendons inside your hands with which you messaged me over the years will unravel to the width of spider silk until everything is completely gone. You first came to Eden Ice before you were truly sick, before the cancer the plague left in your brain forced the doctors to put you to sleep. My company provides artistic alternatives to burial and cremation, one of the many “new death” companies that became popular after the plague, as people died from the chronic illnesses that remained in their bodies. In our introductory video chat, you asked me to walk you through the process, told me you discovered us through a WeFuture ad and were impressed by the testimonials. “We’re very proud of our customer service,” I said. “We have an A-plus from the Better Business Bureau and received a gold coffin award for Most Promising Funerary Start-Up of 2040 from FEEL: Funerary Enterprises, Entrepreneurs, and Lobbyists.” “That’s very impressive,” you said. You were wearing a tank top, and I studied the murals on your arms as I described our state-of-the-art resomation chamber, which you called a human Crockpot. I gave you a video tour of the facility via my phone, all the ways I tried to carve a moment of beauty out of tragedy—a group of Disney princesses for two little girls; a pair of swans for an elderly couple found in their assisted living facility, holding each other. “I just want to make sure that the ink is saved before you liquefy me,” you said. “Did you get my memo?”
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DOG DAYS Fla sh fic tion by Jill McKen zie Illu stration by Zhigang Zhang
I puff behind the dog as he races ahead on the final slope of the path, paws scraping the dirt. Gone is the cool dampness of this walk; the air is dry and gritty, the grass brown and thin. It’s not even midday but my feet are already hot and sticky. No matter. This is my favourite route. Up on the flat you can see across the long stretch of water right down to the dam. At the bottom of the valley sleeps the village of my childhood. My hidden treasure. The county town needed more water, so our little community had to relocate. I was a teenager, in love with the boy from the end of the street. They moved us all on and flooded the area. The boy and I got married, and would return from time to time to be close to the sunken heart of our love. Roll on the decades, and it’s just the dog and me walking round. But I’m hoping that will change, because this summer is different. We’re two months into a heat wave and the water level is the lowest since the reservoir was created thirty-something years ago. A collar of boulders has been exposed round the banks, deeper at every visit. I’m praying for the sun to burn on and on. Whatever it takes to get us back down there. It will be wonderful. We’ll go past his house and along the lane to the corner where we used to dawdle. Then round behind the church where we kissed for the first time. I’ll take his hand, and he’ll squeeze my fingers. Last time I’m sure I saw a chimney pot take a breath. I want a glorious reveal, so I’ve not been in a week. It’s got to be today. The dog disappears from view when I stop a couple of metres before the flat and scroll through the photos from my recent visits. Enjoying the swell of my excitement, I cross my fingers and stride the final distance. And there it is, my treasure found at last. But the village wasn’t preserved under the waters. After thirty years, there is only fallen stone and decay. It has been utterly and completely drowned. I cut the walk short and leave the dog in our empty house. He whines, but it’s my turn to be let off the leash. In town I park myself in a coffee shop to decompress. All round me people are talking in tense tones about dead lawns and skipped showers. It seems the true wealth of the reservoir was not what I thought. When I finally go home it is so late that my husband is there. He looks at me over takeaway containers. “You weren’t here,” he says. I see that the ruin hasn’t been contained to the reservoir. “We need to talk,” I tell him. “But first, I need a brick for the toilet cistern.”
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Popshot Quarterly is a beautiful illustrated magazine showcasing imaginative short stories, flash fiction and poetry by the best new writers. The Water Issue is a collection of vivid writing, exploring our relationship with the wet stuff. It goes deep, with tales of selkies, hot tub time machines, submerged villages, and severe droughts.
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SPRING 2022 35
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