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 / Culture & Literature
Popshot Magazine

Popshot Magazine

November 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 Issues


1 min.

ISSUE 26 — CHANCE WINTER 2019 We like to believe we are masters of our own fates; that if we work hard enough, have the talent or take the risk, we can achieve anything we want. It’s inconvenient and potentially upsetting to think about the role chance may have had in our successes. The roll of the dice that meant we were born into a particular time or circumstance. Part of the job of a writer is to consider the what ifs had the road we walked down forked in a different direction or started in another place entirely - to take a leap of imagination that robs us of our chances or gives us different ones, and alternate outcomes. In this issue of Popshot Quarterly our writers explore opportunism, coincidence and…

1 min.
most terrifying thought

the possibilities of the lives that we can live are endless the people we can meet in a lifetime, uncountable the consequences of every choice we make, unfathomable the dreams that we may dream for ourselves, limitless except, for those who have set their hearts on a single entity: a person, an idea, a purpose, or a dream - there is no other your heart has stubbornly set itself on the idea of marrying him,a love so irreplaceable and unforgettable that you would forgo the excitement of a life full of adventure, a life ought to be reimagined constantly that your happiness lies on one out of a billion that if it fails, you may never get it back this is the most terrifying thought, a danger to one's sanity to devote your entire existence to…

1 min.
one more tooth

I could fly, so I told her not to worry. I made my own way out of the jam jar. It didn’t feel right to leave immediately so I sat down on the bedside table and looked at her. I’d never seen a human this big up close before; but stranger than her size were the lines in her skin. I was mesmerised: tracks running from the corners of her mouth to the bridge of her nose, and deep ravines fanning out from the edges of her eyes. No children had been born for twelve years. I was getting desperate. But it hadn’t worked — she’d caught me while I was trying to pull her tooth out. She began to speak, and I noticed my glimmering thread, still tied around her…

5 min.
playing the game

“You are your own worst enemy,” I say. He nods sadly. “I know I am. But what can I do about it?” Here we are again. It’s Friday night and I’m in the pub with Ben trying to sort out his messy relationship problems. He’s been married to Helen for around twelve years and shagging his PA, Amy, for the last two years. Some people just have everything handed to them on a plate and Ben is one of those people, all courtesy of Daddy and Mummy. Top notch private school, university and, after that, he went straight into the family media business at management level. Whereas I – well let’s just say I didn’t have it so easy. Not that I’m Oliver Twist or anything. I certainly never felt underprivileged until I met…

1 min.
pot luck shopping

I tell the kids it’s a game called Pot Luck Shopping as we unpack the two bags of tins, boxes and packets, lining them up on the kitchen counter in size order. Earlier, in the church hall, I battled between gratitude and shame. Thank god the kids were at school and didn’t have to watch me queue for handouts from complete strangers. My mind starts calculating how many meals I can make. Gone are the days I could savour food, even taste it. Now I just force my body to swallow it so I can function for one more day.…

3 min.
take a magpie up to heaven

Glen got up one day and died. Her head rolled clean off her shoulders and down the stairs, past the cat and out the front door. As she rolled away she had one last look at the rows of terraced houses, at the rubbish that blew out of the bins, at all the dead birds you could ever want. Glen tried to grab a bird in her mouth as she rolled downhill, but she was going too fast. She slowed down as she approached the funeral parlour to shout through the open door, Hey! Clemson! Bury my body!’ ‘Sure thing, dollface. Have a good ride!’ he shouted back. Clemson knew Glen from all the cats and birds she’d buried with his help. The coffins he imported were made of fine stuff. He’d…