Innholdsfortegnelse for Issue 30 i Popshot Magazine

Protest comes in many forms, quiet or loud, obvious or cleverly disguised. Whatever its form, the tentacles of objection, of outraged dissent and moral conviction travel. These tentacles reach outwards, upwards and coil around to tap us officiously on shoulders, to say: 'Hey, have you seen this? What are you going to do about it?' Failure to notice (or unwillingness) creates the perfect conditions for injustice to thrive. Just as we must not be racist, but also actively anti-racist, so too must we seek to actively notice injustice and be anti-injustice. The age-old argument for inaction is apathy, but at a time of extreme social uncertainty, a lack of interest is not good enough. The pen has long been a quiet but incisive tool for protest. Language itself can be…

To eat your own children is a barbarian act. The Soviet regime printed this on posters during the Great Famine. Ildiko learned this while studying wartime Europe in the sixth grade. To her, Europe was a faraway land where either beautiful or horrible things happened, like the invention of chocolate fondue or her parents’ flight from Communist oppression. The anti-cannibalism posters made the hair on Ildiko’s arms stand up. But she couldn’t stop thinking about them. Ildiko still remembered the first time she saw the painting called Saturn Devouring His Son. Her friend Eve showed it to her in a book about Greek mythology when they were seven years old. The Satanic whites of Saturn’s eyes gave Ildiko nightmares. In her dreams, she ran from Saturn through a painted black…

On a sunny day in the city of Bristol, Esme stumbled in the street. The tip of her boot caught against a raised paving stone and she clattered to her knees. There was a small golden square of metal on the floor: Fugra from Freetown. Enslaved 15 years old. Arrived in St. Helena 1731. Died of tuberculosis 1735. The feet of commuters, screaming children and shoppers beat the pavement as Esme crouched on the concrete. Another raised stone glinted next to the first: Grafton. Enslaved 5 years old. Arrived in Charlston, S.C aboard Edgefield 1732. Died, unknown 1780. Another and another metal plaque erupted out of the smooth stone. More appeared on the road, in the doorways of shops and restaurants. People started to stumble and fall over them. A…

To say I felt out of place at the protest would be an understatement. I’m very white. I work in transport policy and have been known to spend over thirty pounds on a fleece. Luckily, social distancing meant I could ignore the people trying to dance with me. I would swiftly turn my head as if someone had called my name. Of course they hadn’t. I went to the protest because Kalisa didn’t. She’s been demonstrating for fifteen years and she’s tired. I asked her to show me some of the signs she painted, for inspiration. Up in the loft she found ‘Resistance is the Light,’ with stars shooting around the stately letters. Another sign said ‘Our Lives Are Not Yours To Take’ with an iron fist sprayed underneath. Kalisa…

If she picked up that packet of onions, it would all be her fault—wouldn’t it? Double the price for half the amount, a plastic tub brimming with pre-chopped convenience. That’ll be nice, less prepping so the twins can get fed quick– But what’s the price? The yellow £1.50 sticker glared, unwilling to tell the whole story. Its silence tugged at her conscience. Standing there, last of the lot, a dozen greedy hands before her own swiping them one by one. Her hand hovered before the shelf. The baby, balanced on her hip, coughed. Didn’t they say on Blue Planet to stop using single-use plastic? Her eyes strayed down to her basket by her feet, scanning the world of produce within. Glistening, crinkling, tell-tale reflections revealed she’d already made mistakes today.…

Sometimes after I drop my kids off at preschool, I’ll take the longer route home, through downtown, over the potholes and tent-lined streets. When the faded pastel sign of the Spaghetti Shack comes into view just before the freeway on-ramp, I smell the oversized pasta plates with extra marinara sauce that Bobby used to order and hear his slow, contemplative chuckle fill up the cosy, maize-wallpapered dining room. After long nights at his office, he dozed off in the middle of our conversations. We met in sophomore year. I was doodling in my notebook, waiting for class to start, when I felt two taps on my shoulder. A boy wearing a large jean jacket with his hair slicked back stood behind me, flashing a goofy smile that exposed a gap…

Antoine Doré antoinedore.com Charlotte Bayliss charlottebayliss.com Connie Noble connienoble.co.uk Freya Lowy Clark freyalowyclark.com Hazel Mason hazelpmason.co.uk Isip Xin isipxin.com Jack Holland jackholland.co.uk Janina Diller janinadiller.cargo.site Jarred Briggs jarredbriggs.com Jen Yoon jenyoonart.com Jet Hilferink jethilferink.com Lea Linin lea-linin.com Lizzie Quirke lizziequirke.com Maisy Summer maisysummer.com Naomi Ann Clarke naomiannclarke.co.uk Neil Webb neilwebb.net Nell McKeon nellmckeon.com Where I Draw whereidraw.co.uk Sabba Khan sabbakhan.com Salvador Verano amordeverano.com Sophie Parsons sophillustrates.com Sophy Smith sophylouiseillustration.myportfolio.com WE NEED YOU The beautiful illustrations that make Popshot really pop are produced by a team of creatives every issue. If you’d like your illustrations to appear in the magazine please get in touch with a link to your portfolio. illustration@popshotpopshot.com…

That June night in 1969 when the border closed between Spain and Gibraltar, my mother cooked rosto. She stood by the beige electric oven and tended to the pork cheeks sizzling in the pan, turning them over with a metal spatula. With her other hand, she flipped open the cupboards above her, pulling out OXO cubes and a jar of tomate frito. I sat at the kitchen table and peeled carrots slowly with an ancient metal device that I had seen Mamá and Abuela and all the other women in my family use with a speed that felt careless but never resulted in injury. I was seventeen years old and Mamá had decided that tonight of all nights, I would learn this recipe. When I turned up with a notebook…

Shrieks peak as a chorus of protest emergesManifested out of thin chit-chat air by a hawk surprising at the vergesThe sudden stealth-like swiftly swooping strikeMaking all peripheral and ambient songbirds alikeSpontaneously combust and simultaneously igniteA frenzied feathered flurry of distressed flightAll trees alighting in one full fell frightTogether gathering-up the mightBefore turning on their wingTo fight off and muscle inTo sound their charge-call The winner will attempt to take allWhen born of this fowl-life-death, gamePredator, prey, fates capricious all the sameWhen evolutionary survival ordains the chancesAs if choreographing all of nature’s cut-throat dancesWhile odds flash-flicker, who will lose and who will winSometimes no one and then, it will, once again beginOnward with this vicious-vibrant bird-eat-bird cycleMercy-bound to the wheel of nature’s manacleAnd yet this undeniably beautiful spectacleStill oft unpalatably terrifyingly…

You going to take down that mirror? You’ll need four people. That thing is heavy as a broken heart. Four people to take it down. Maybe three. Me? I spent twenty years in the army, five in the nick, five in the rodeo. Snakeskin boots, pretty as a girl. Bucking broncos. Steer wrestling. Yeah, and calf roping. They’d let loose a calf and I’d chase it on horseback. Jump it, grab it, turn its head to ground, tie three feet together. A wrap and a slap. Dangerous? Hell, yeah. That’s a fine piece of glass, that is. I can see the whole room from right here. You need four people, or it’s gonna break. You don’t mind if it breaks? Know what you get when you play a country song…

The first few hours are the hardest. The urge to turn on the TV or your phone is strong, powerful even. It's like a drug, that pull, that need, to go online, to watch something, to buy stuff, but it never lasts long. Within a matter of hours, you begin to wonder why you found it so stressful to begin with, why it was hard. By the time it's the middle of the day you've forgotten what's it like, forgotten what all the fuss is about. By the end of the day, you’re seriously considering doing this every single day, not just once a year. The annual Blackout seems to come around faster each year. Every time it arrives you feel like it was only yesterday that the last one…

You break the silence with your chainsawsthen call us an outbreak.You fell a forest with monstrous easethen call us a disease.You make our bodies acheand chirp, yet all you hear is applause. Yes, we burrow through barkand build our galleries in the woodyou call yours, but tell me:what makes your chairs or toilet rollsor even the perfumed letter paperthat you fill with your sweet idylls of greater importancethan the ciphers we engrave–the lines we live out of,the lines we live in,the lines we liveand die for?…

Yes, the world is burning.But I have read the books. I soak it up.Friction that ignites dripping discontent.Spread. Resistance. Righteous insistence. Imapped it all. It's plotted on my wall. Tonight mine is a lonely estate.So grand, so iconic - a fitting tonic.They pack cocktails; I pack the books.Euphoric anger spills in at dusk;I’ve already decanted into a shady bush. I scribble through the night, feveredritual of fire dancing across my eyes – untilthe threat of dawnwhen even the most brazenhave sighed, red-eyed, and dragged themselves home. So now.Fire burning low, writhing yet in your grievances.The symbol of your ire chewed and broken.The patient sky deaf from your billowing smoke.I hear your 'no'. I upturn my backpack - the books avalanche out.I hold each open like a parishioner at prayerand offer…

Kabul, 1965-69 Ashif was shuttling books between the library and his dorm when Tahir stopped him and asked him if he had heard about Shakarullah. He had not heard about Shakarullah since the three of them had been at school together. Had he heard about yesterday's protest? Yes, he had heard about that. He had heard it from his room. “He’s dead,”Tahir said. “I see,” Ashif said.“Let me get these back to my room first. Then we can talk.” Later, in the teahouse, Ashif found Tahir sat facing a wall. “How have you been, brother?” Tahir asked. “Busy,” Ashif said. “Very… busy. With finals.” They fell quiet while tea was served. “I-I don’t know all the details,” Tahir said, once they were alone, “I don’t really know much at all.…

From across the courtyard, Nelson saw the scatter of debris Hannah had tossed from their apartment. Socks and boxers, one Nike, one Puma, his poo emoji pillow, blue milk crates of nested speaker cables, their artificial Christmas tree. All of it looking like a picked-over lost and found. Earlier he and Hannah had been drinking at Pooh Bah’s, and she’d found some texts from an ex that he thought he’d deleted. Nelson knew he shouldn’t have been complimenting another girl’s booty, but it didn’t mean he’d been with the girl again. The storm door banged open, Hannah stepped out. “You don’t live here anymore.” “Hannah,” he pleaded. Her freckled arms, pale and slender, were crossed. One hand managed both a cigarette and a bottle of Corona. “All your stuff, it’s…

I left my beak hanging on the tree, but my voice continues in my head. There’s no silence in this house. No forgetting. No beginning of forgetting. Humans walk by with their widening language, their twitching wings. They don’t understand we must be quiet to hear the universe. This is why we must suffer, it says, as I hop and flutter. This is why the sky is clear and empty. Caw. Caw. Caw. Humans can’t see the words that gather here, and so visit some place else. Words like a clattering gate I can’t fly through. Were I less naked to myself I might look back to days sewn tight with illusion. Days with eyes washed clean of words and the memories they bring. Like the day my brother stood…

8 – Harry Wilding is from Nottingham and has a BA in Creative Writing. He's been published in Serious Flash Fiction, Everyday Fiction, and Flash Magazine. 10 – Lyn Patterson is a widely published poet originally from Seattle, Washington. She writes about identity, equity and overcoming trauma. 12 – Niklas Salmi is a poet from Helsinki, Finland. The author of three poetry books in Finnish, he is working on his first book of poetry in English. 14 – Vivian Pencz is a Canadian-Hungarian writer. Her fiction has been published in Canadian Dimension, Discorder Magazine and SAD Mag. 18 – Jonathan Pizarro lives in London and studied Creative Writing at Brunel, where Bernardine Evaristo encouraged him to write about his queerness and Gibraltarian cultural background. 23 – Kevin Mannion lives in…