Innholdsfortegnelse for Issue 32 i Popshot Magazine

Growth is all about renewal, rejuvenation and reaching new heights. As we emerge from a winter and spring of lockdowns and fear, however normal things may feel, we will have undeniably changed and grown. Having failed to get a haircut between the first two lockdowns, I’ve been able to witness some literal growth during this strange year (partly why I related so much to p. 28) and my hair is now down to my waist. Sadly, I lost a friend to cancer last October (someone with whom I grew up, and so whose face and identity I saw grow and shift in a distorted mirror to my own), so I’ve found a positive opportunity in this accidental hirsuteness, and have decided to cut twelve inches off my long hair and…

Naked branches prick the skyThe sky is greyThe clouds aren’t shyToday and yesterday the sameLocked in, frozen, unallowed.We wait wait waitFor the ground to thaw, the trees to bloom,The sun to dissipate the gloomThe moonto pass through one more cycleNo iciclesno snowWaiting for the crocus and the daffodils to growKnowing it will happen soonNot soon enoughMy breath still leaves my mouth in icy puffsThe leaves still ice the ground in brownish mushBut soon.SoonWe wait.…

A scale can tell what’s heavy, what’s light. What’s hollow, what’s sincere. What’s a lie, what could be one of the truths. The puny scale in Bhaga’s store could assess all this and more, but it no longer did. Five years ago, while being towered over by a corpulent constable, it had declared the weight of a five-foot tall bag of sugar to be five hundred grams. The hammering, dismemberment, and reconstructive surgery that had followed would have blunted even the sword of Damocles down to a sprig of mistletoe; Bhaga’s scale had proved to be no exception. Ever since, it only concurred and didn’t measure. A string of nonaccountable afternoons followed, to ultimately be snapped by a uniformed girl. On a windless day, she blazed in and deposited on…

Bollard-side springingin a beach of road dusthanging on the reservation edge. Stubborn seeds unstoppablein every nook and siding. Planted in the wind, goaded into livingthe world is so much wider than life. Grains creak like iceover a lake. Splintering fingernails must dig into pinch any existence they can taste, knowing thatany moment not dyingis a flowering. And buffeted by the asthmatic musicof the passing freight,they cannot help but quakein blasted celebration.…

The moon hung in the sky like a dead fish in poisoned waters. My eyeball was gritty, one side of my face mashed into the foot of my bed, upper body clutching the whole duvet in a wrestle of defeat. I’d woken because my feet, pointing at but not touching my pillow, were uncovered and cold, my mouth was dry, and my belly churning, and because the window was staring at me, accusing, admonishing, a TV screen I’d failed to switch either on or off. Hunger pushed me from the bed. Fridge light warmed me, its chemical hum defining a silence I had a tricksy feeling I’d never been in the company of before. I was surprised to find a jar of mayo, a slightly wizened cucumber, and a meaty-looking…

Alex Hahn alexhahnillustrator.com Andrea Šafaríková andreasafarikova.com Cinta Fosch cintafosch.com Connie Noble connienoble.co.uk Daniel Macleod danielmacleodillustration.com Dilianny Espinoza diliannyespinoza.com Emily Louka emilylouka.com Emma Thrussell emthrussell.com Freya Lowy Clark freyalowyclark.com Gus Scott gusscottillustration.co.uk Katie Scarlett Griffin instagram.com/katie.scarlett Lea Reusse leareusse.com Lucia Biancalana luciabiancalana.com Mathias Ball mathiasball.com Raffaela Schöbitz raffaelaschoebitz.com Ruthie Gibbs ruthiegibbs.co.uk Scott Wilson scottwilsonillustrations.co.uk Simona De Leo simonadeleo.com Sophie Standing sophiestandingillustration.com Tiffany Dang tiffdang.com Virginia Mori virginiamori.com Wendy Denissen wendydenissen.nl Zoë Jackson zoejacksonillustration.co.uk Zofia Chamienia instagram.com/zofia.cham.illu 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…

A thumb of root ginger. A wodge of Victoria sponge.Apple cores, tulip petals, hydrangea crowns, radishes.Shells, peelings, scrapings, halves. Celery stems, limes,onions, rocket poured from vacuum packs, Cutsto rescue ailing economy, inks bleeding through beige.Cauliflower heads. Strong English teabags. Innardssqueezed and scooped. Tops, toes, rinds, fingers, alllocked together in life-slime. Mush shivery with heat,a dizzy waft of sweet puke, fast and slow rotting loot,shoot and syllable distilling black-gold mosquito-hummingdirt liqueur. Quintessence of nitrogens,carbons, rancid/fresh chemicals, all of us chemicals,crushed in our squalors, august in our entropies. Peas.…

I settle into my stone fort home.In here, I’m safe, but my mind can roam.My hair grows and spreads as I dreamOf mountains, stars, experiences extreme.Cascading over my shoulders, between my thighs,Hair tickles memories: open lips, lover highs. Tendrils grow, curl up walls, drape over shelves.Under this hair, I play out new selves.No one can see whom I rehearse to be;Isolated, I am, but also I am free.I’ve lost my edges, only these walls have form.I’ll not be the same after this great storm.…

The dead eyes of the herring, lampreys, and mackerel seem to fix on me. Their bodies rainbow-gleam on beds of hay, piled high, bearing a whiff of the sea. “Fresh fish! Have ye some fresh fish!” The seller is trying to catch my attention, but I always wonder which of the market-traders I can trust. Today, it is not fish that I’ve come for. I pass the spicerer’s stall with its colourful, mysterious offerings. Mounds of nutmeg, cloves, liquorice, and other mysterious commodities. Heady scents fill my nose, like I’ve stumbled upon an exotic banquet. Woody, sweet, sharp, earthy; all blended in one spicy haze. But with few coins in my purse, I cannot ever dream of sampling delicacies from afar. A farm-hand’s wage is as changeable as the pattern…

I left my apartment and climbed the stairs. Each floor closer to the top was warmer than the last. I stepped out onto the roof. In the centre was a makeshift stage with two temporary cooking stations. Max, the building’s landlord, was currently plugging a microphone into a speaker. He tapped it a couple times and the speaker thump-thumped. “Hey, Max.” He looked up at me. “Hey, Bo.” Your station is on the left, there.” I climbed onto the stage. My station had a small stove, an oven, a counter, a sink, a mini fridge, and a multi-socket. I put my Tupperware down on the counter. “Uh, hi.” Max and I looked round at the door. There was a guy carrying several glass Tupperware boxes and a couple of wooden…

I saw a strange thingin March before winter's blanket lifted.Still to plume into wieldy monochromes,a House Sparrow of fledgling fluff, lattefoams and breathy grey, too early usheredfrom the nest, to the garden, showed no joyin the erratic company of hispeers' combative play. No pleasure in theassaulting smack of snowballs to his skull.I imagine, back at the nest, there's norelief in the scalding bath which wizened,toughened hides insist is "fine". As siblingsguzzle the nasal lava of fizzypop, he watches on. No sugar rush. Noappetite to force down the greens on hisplate. Too often rushed with no time to be.Too early ushered from the nest.To protest the injustice, not enough notes yet.…

Maybe, I will be brave and you will start growing in me,and all I can picture of that is whale calf in a whale gut,from an old picture book about babies. It is so surreal,the thought of a great cage of ribs, a huge round head,fin-hands, tail-toes, all pushing and denting my surfaceto finally, brutally break out, on blood and water, to be.Maybe, you will grow from a test tube or a glass dish,make the first few multiplications, bubbles into bubbles,until you are slid into me, or her, whoever she may be,then you grow underwater, but with that first taste of air.You could come from either or both of us, frog baby,and you will learn one day how hard we fought for you.Maybe, you will already be growing, in the…

The feel of them wakes me up. They’re on the lower lids of my eyes, where it’s wet and soft. I bring my fingertip to my left eye. I hardly touch it, and the pain is unbearable. The blinds let in the morning and the light trickles down in crumpled stripes over the duvet. I twist from my bed, knocking over a glass of water with my hand, crying out every time I blink. I walk down the landing to the bathroom and click on the light. I step close to the mirror. They have leaves. Tiny fresh, green sprouts are coming up from the pink of my lower eyelids. A drop of saliva runs from my open lips and down my chin. I lift a thumb and finger to…

Who is in a plant pot in the garden of my mother’s bungalow Not for you the chill of the dank graveyard,morning mists rolling in over yew and stone.You never believed the claptrap of religionso it’s fitting there’s no cross above your head. Are you happy now you’re potash for a rose,planted in this cheap ceramic pot on a slabbedpatio in the sun? You always loved to roastuntil you were tanned as your leather belt. Or would you rather be under the shadowsof the conifer hedge, skulking in the dark,ready to burst forth into a bloomingred rage, as you always did? She doesn’t realise what she’s done,tangling you in roots in an objectthat needs to be taken with herwherever she goes next. She’ll bequeaththis Fragrant Cloud to me, black-spottedwithering with…

8 – Holly Kybett Smith is a writer from Portsmouth. Her work has previously appeared in the New Gothic Review. You can find her on twitter @h_kybettsmith. 10 – Elizabeth Gibson is a Manchesterbased poet and performer inspired by the city, nature and folklore, queerness, mental health, and self-love. She won a Northern Writers' Award in 2017. 12 – Marissa Higgins is a journalist whose writing has appeared in Best American Food Writing 2018, is a recent D.C Arts &Humanities Fellowship grant recipient, and she is working on a novel. 15 – C. P. Nield recently finished an MA in poetry at the University of East Anglia and was shortlisted for the Wolves Lit Fest poetry competition 2020. His poetry has been published widely. 16 – Alys Key is a…