Innholdsfortegnelse for Issue 38 i Popshot Magazine

Whether you interpret the theme of this issue as the basic cause or origin of something, a genre of music, the underground part of a plant, the answer to a mathematical problem, or the source of our ethnic or cultural origins, roots wrap around and entangle us all in a tight and jumbled bundle it can feel impossible to wriggle apart from. Just as blood vessels mimic the shape of roots beneath soil, we feel rooted for different reasons, and those reasons are so much a part of ourselves, running through us, it can be hard to gain the perspective to examine them. Many of the poems and stories written here examine our heritage, or more specifically our parentage, and the thrumming tension of loving and leaving our families as…

I see nothing but I’m hearing quite a lot a kind of rustling of little feet tiptoeing on dry leaves I’m digging in the dark like a serial killer but I’m not a serial killer I’m just gardening I sense the presence of another person– a little person who is four-legged and furry with a tail I’m done digging my hole next I feel the cool leaves of my fuchsia embracing my hands gently as I lift her up I now release her from my arms and place her to rest in the nurturing soil beneath us I hope she will be happy here as I am I will come to see her in the morning her and my other friends who remain awake and surround me now as my…

Where we come from Water and land meet In irregular lines On intuitive maps They form unexpected Uncontrolled patterns In perfect harmony Land rises and falls As if to fulfill The most desired Of dreams Water roughly mirrors As if she knew That we all will Eventually return to waves I make mistakes When I ask water If it belongs to land And land If it belongs to water Yet They answer In their very own language From the time before– Before land and water Were two different thoughts To our wet feet The magnetic sand belongs To the sand our skin Still covered with sea…

They say the bond between a mother and her calf eventually weakens so she takes a ferry to the islands, though her grief has barely dried. She packs a journal and a drawing he did when he was just a child. The cartoon whale has his cheeky jagged grin. That grin that got him into trouble on the streets, cast a smile, a girl who wasn’t his to win. She bides her time throwing stale thoughts to bold eagles; they grab scatter, grab scatter across the bay. She puts her ear to the water; hears him pulsing her name, sounding for home.…

8 – Tianna Jordening is an English teacher and writer from California. You can find her reading, rollerskating, and connecting with her English students. 10 – Ilisha Thiru Purcell is a poet and writer based in London and Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Her poetry has appeared in Chayn’s Creative Hope exhibition. 12 – Sarah Royston from Hertfordshire is inspired by nature, folklore and the landscapes of southern England. She is a researcher on sustainability issues. 14 – Grace Maxted is a playwright, poet and corporate trainer from London. Her piece was inspired by seeing roots everywhere, even in the mirror. 16 – Anna Rose James is a queer, bisexual actor and writer of poetry, flash, auto-fiction, screenplays and scripts. She is also a co-founder of Sonnet Sisters. 18 – Elizabeth Gibson is a Manchester…

When they extract the root, they will find bits and phrases, syllables and sentiments my teeth never let pass my lips. Each molar and incisor is a bar clamped shut against my tongue. Every inhibition stored safely in my gums. And despite the anesthesia, I swear I feel the crack. The moment these thoughts are freed of me. The tooth clinks like an instrument when it hits the metal tray. This one reads ve me. And the dentist stares at it. Like he can see it too, and is trying to decipher the meaning. It is a mere scratch at first. It was that time, remember? When we met at that bakery on Fifth and you were late. Once I saw you coming up the sidewalk, I didn’t mind. Your…

I should like to go back to my early twenties, When the lines were not quite so entrenched, I could have cool, liquid protein injected into my forehead, They warn it could blind me, but I’d give my consent. I should really give in to my beautician’s upselling, Have my eyelashes tinted and lifted, I could have my jowls tightened, my lip-hair dyed, And for my eyebrows, entrust a tattooist that’s gifted. I should part with my savings and go under the knife, Have the crookedness taken out of my snout. I could go whole hog and have a facelift too, Give me a tonne of lip filler for a persistent pout. I should do morning crunches and strengthening squats, Get all my lumps and bumps tucked like a tiny…

Ankit decides to steal tuberoses from a grave. He needs flowers for his date. The sky is gray with the promise of more rain. He should walk faster. But the roads are slick and he doesn’t want to eat shit. He enters Goa’s oldest cemetery. The tombstones resemble waving hands. He waves back. He picks up a bouquet and, looking at the epitaph, says, “Thank you, Sonali Gonzales.” A banyan thrives amidst the dead. He walks through the curtain of aerial roots and stands at the site of his first kiss. The smell of moss encloses him like a boil. Callan had shoved him against the bark. His mouth was savage. When Ankit didn’t kiss him back, Callan withdrew and crimsoned. Callan came that night to Ankit’s apartment. As if…

Here, I got you one of those you like: those bewildered late bloomers, tough and small and sweeter than they’ve any right to be, as green as Eden, the red an afterthought as if there’d been an hour left in the season to paint them all, and where the brush had swept the snow-white fruit below is stained with pink as if your teeth had bled from biting it. It was hard enough to body itself forth with so few leaves to hide it from the frost without it burning fuel on working out where its skin stopped and its flesh began. All that touched it shook its heart. It was that or it was nothing. Take it in your pocket on your long Sunday walk to eat by the…

the span of life unfolding in front of you, each ring naming another cycle of survival in the presence of this ever growing being, opening into a window, a way to look through a lifetime the days spin around you, each moment dances ahead life steps forward—and you trail in the path it leaves each green second swirling in the air leaving you gasping for breath each past clinging to each growing moment trailing behind you, trailing behind life through it all, the window empty, waiting for you to look through, to see what is waiting, what is hoping to be seen the hand of the future reaching closer winding its way into your present pulling you in and up and out of what holds you each life swaying towards…

Nothing says roots like growing up in Lancaster County, watching as green fields of corn and tobacco turn golden and become a perfect backdrop for the Piker buggies (some of which may contain some distant relatives, which only my mum can point out). This place of anyone knowing everyone who is related to someone and I can show you the graves of most of my great-great-greats through several churchyards. Here our roots are so tangled it’s almost impossible to transplant somewhere else without a lot of digging – too much work for most of us. History and comfort hold on tightly, tethering us to what we know and trust as the fields glow gold, ready for harvest and winter’s rest.…

It was all he left you, that fishing boat moored on a rocky bay across from the windswept Cuillins. Except he left you more than that – a childhood you had to pack away like a Polly Pocket, twisted genes, which unfurled in your son, who lived his life unmoored, always talked about making the journey North for that boat, but never quite busked up enough to hitch the whole way there. And now he has a son of his own, who is being handed to me like a toy that’s been confiscated until second play. So I too must pack up my ocean-faring dreams, clasp that world shut, let it become nothing more than a decorative ornament in the window display of a coastal town gift shop in winter.…

The shadow of the red kite comes and goes, smooth on the soft road. Its template is disrupted when pale weeds break through the tarmac or spill over onto the roadside. But it remains, a gentle grey silhouette, a companion for our journey. We drive past the house where the man who reintroduced the kites to the Chilterns used to live, when I was a child and my mother was a young woman. “Remember when Theo lived there, mum?” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “Yes, of course.” Her voice is thicker and deeper now. The disease has locked around her organs, squeezing them slowly, constricting their actions and purpose. It took a long time to find where the primary was, the root of it all. It had…

When I left, The Vale of York rolled up my years of quiet innocence And stored them on a shelf marked ‘Home’– Just out of reach– And so, I am forever incomplete. Now I stride York’s City walls– As any other stranger can– And contemplate the nakedness of not belonging Like the rest, who haunt my past. The history, the times of those long dead, invade my Now. A hidden hoard of secrets, sad regret, and loneliness revealed, To trip me up, and scar my heart, And bring to mind thoughts that were lost. Dust and bones are all that’s left of those who made, but knew me not. Shadowed icons, laid prostrate, on purple altars of neglect– No heroes here to celebrate. Possessed by phantoms’ DNA, I step the…

We spend Sunday sweating under the sun. Silent, we pry delicate roots from the grip of mud. Snaggle tooth, hairy, they hold the familiar soil hostage, and dirty my palms. So enmeshed with earth. They tunnel their spiraled stems still seeking the promise of nutrients. I think I’ve unravelled them altogether, only to find secret remains an inch or two away. There really isn’t much to say. Dad tosses the weeds over the brick into the neighbour’s yard, singing along to some old song. Every so often: “You gotta rip it. Rip it!” “Rip up the whole system or it’ll come back to haunt ya’.” I tear at the ground letting roots lick my hands like switches, lightning lines of red trauma and dirt. Why not callous my palms, carve…

Why, oh why Don’t the plants move? I’ve seen the pictures and diagrams Some plants have a million legs! They sit on the ground with their legs buried deep They just sit And sit And sit And sit What if the plants got up? What if they marched away? Wat if the trees decided to go on holiday? Entire forests would shake As they marched across the hillsides The mountains would quake With the force of their tall strides There would be ballets of roses Waltzes of daffodils Swirls of tiger lilies and peonies And what about the carrots? Would they hop up and down? With the leaves on their heads just bouncing around? And the Venus fly traps? What about them? Would they go around biting to scare the…

It’s a good year for hazelnuts, foraged in green lanes between Gornal’s new estates, but squirrels got the best ones lower down then ran away. The blackberries are juicy as our accent, sweet as the quick abstracts sold by the Express & Star, but thickening barbs sprout from down where history shits. The oak galls are crenelated, corrupt. Doreen tells a story of us– small fish in a big pond –and we listen, our hearts as clogged-up by nostalgia as our roads. It’s early yet. Fresh-dropped leaves are bright on paths but as winter comes they’ll turn into mush, like old brown rugs, and I’m concerned for Dudley’s preparedness. The nuts are drying out nicely in the shed, but cracks in tarmac formed by roots far underground gather moss and…

Abbie Reilly @abbieblah Alana Nastold instagram.com/barefoot.illustrations Charli Beck charlibeck.com Chiara Morra @chiara.morra Connor Parker connor-parker.com Eduardo Morciano eduardomorciano.com Eryka Ilarreta erykailarreta.com Gabriel East gabrieleast.com Georgina Reynolds georginareynolds.com Hannah Clair hannahclair.co.uk Hannah O’Brien hanobrien.com Imogen Ward imogenward.co.uk Jiazhen Cai caijiazhen.com Jorge Cha jorgecha.com Joy Alicia Raines joyaliciaraines.com Katie Louise Thomas katielouisethomas.com Katie M Green katiemgreen.co.uk Kristen Huang qing-huang.com Kyle B Solomon kbsstudios.com Lucile Farroni lucilefarroni.com The Noc Design thenocdesign Molly McCammon mollymccammon.com Natàlia Pàmies nataliapamies.com Nelson Illustrates nelsonillustrates.com Sophy Smith sophylouiseillustration.co.uk Thomas Sciacca instagram.com/thomassciacca Zara Wilkins zarawilkins.com…