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Popshot MagazinePopshot Magazine

Popshot Magazine

Autumn 2019

Popshot is an illustrated literary magazine that publishes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry from the literary new blood.

United Kingdom
Chelsea Magazine
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$10.04(Incl. tax)
$33.50(Incl. tax)
4 Issues


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ISSUE 25 — FANTASY AUTUMN 2019 There are no limits on fantasy. Yet, in literature it is so heavily steeped in genre it’s impossible not to think of warring kingdoms, dragons, unicorns, witches and other supernatural tropes. Fantasy with a capital F involves epic narrative journeys, like Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones. They are sprawling, complicated stories and yet it is easy to suspend disbelief because their worlds are built with such detail and nuance — and because so much is recognisable to the reader thanks to the diktats of genre. I sometimes wonder if the clear but unwritten rules aid or inhibit fantasy writers? For this issue we sought to nod briefly to genre while also representing wider interpretations of fantasy; to take in dreams, desires and the human…

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Her movement is like liquid,Strides taken with prestige and pride.She’s a gymnast or maybe a ballet dancer,Oh, how those steps are quiet and graceful!And when she wraps herself around me,her warmth is all that I need,It is familiar to me. Beware, don’t look into her eyes,They draw you in…into a galaxy,You won’t be able to look away.They sparkle in the blackness of the night.Allow her to see farther than my sight,And when she leads me onto my path,The journey seems familiar to me. When she mews in her timid tune,Like a violin played with a sturdy bow!An enchantment encircles our cove.I am stupefied in her sole coven,To her sound is my gradual echo.This spell that we chant together,It is familiar to me.…

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man from la paz

Last night I knitted a Bolivian.Or was it a Peruvian?It doesn’t really matter.It was proper knittingnot the peg-peg-pegof hooking a French dollybut the click-clackof metal needles in thepurl-one-row, knit-one-rowof Bolivian stocking stitchery. I started with the tip of his hat −snaked stripes, Ikat squaresover flap-covered earsmade him a squashed nose,button-hole slits for eyes,a pinch-pursed mouth,a centre-parted maneand further downhis poncho grew, flowedlong and woolly wildas pinks and silvers met Inca gold.Skinny brown legs dangledfrom my needles until shoelessI cast him off. Later I found him sitting on my bedplaying his Bolivian pan flute,pressing warm fingers to mydropped stitch holes.He paused his music, licked his fuzzy lips,murmured Desnudarme, desnudarme…as we began to unravel.…

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the witch and the woods

There were once two lovers who were forbidden by their families to see each other. Every night, while their families slept, the lovers met in the woods outside of town. They did not know they were being watched. A witch lived in the woods. She watched the lovers meet day after day and heard them talk of their love for one another, of how they longed to always be together there in the woods, never to be separated again. The witch came up with a plan. The lovers were scared when the witch first appeared. But when she told them she knew a way they could be together forever they listened. The two lovers gave themselves willingly to the witch and to the woods. The witch turned the lovers into trees: tiny saplings…

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are you lonesome tonight?

The road Angela saw in her dreams was fresh enough to sink your heels in, slick liquorice tarmac licking the horizon like a long black tongue, forked at the end. There were no workmen in her dreams, no dull machinery; instead the road swept down the main street in a viscous tide, pushing Mrs Gardner and the vicar into the dull shop windows, lapping tar against the sides of the Post Office. In reality she was sure she’d heard from someone that they were thinking of putting it a mile to the east, opposite the church, so the ancient Red Centurion pub could get the extra traffic. When she ran her hand over the road it was cool and smooth like the back of a snake. It bucked up into her…

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side gig

A woman with an internet connection can find financial redemption at almost any time. I, a woman, an artist, do not have the energy resources for a full-time job. I do part-time work in a library shelving books and such, but the pay is not enough to cover the rent for my studio. So when money is tight (which is all the fucking time) I take on additional work. I find it mostly on Craigslist. Mostly using the library computer, and mostly during my working hours. It's not because I don’t have a phone, I do. It’s just that the job’s not exactly titillating, so I make up chores to do on the computer when what I’m really doing is getting paid to look for other ways to get paid. I’m…