Submissions for the Winter issue are open until 9am (UK time) on Tuesday, 31 August 2021. The Uncensored Issue will be published in November 2021. Entries over the word count will not be considered. To discover more about Popshot, pick up a copy from WHSmiths or another reputable newsagent ( here are a few other ways you can safely find it). You can subscribe to either hard copy or digital editions. Four issues are published per year showcasing the best emerging fiction writers. Define popshot full#To see your writing published and illustrated, head to our submit page for the full guidelines. Include the issue and form of your work in the subject line (i.e. We are open to original contributions from anyone, anywhere in the world.Īt Popshot towers we have just wrapped up the Family issue, which will be on sale from 5th August.ĭrop us a line at us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. To ensure that you never miss a future issue of the print magazine, subscribe from just £24 for 4 issues.I sit on the threadbare Amtrak velvet tracking the city of my parents with their guidance. We look at the map together as they point out landmarks and marked land. Popshot is an illustrated literary magazine that publishes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry from the literary new blood. numbers will be so please be sure to log all of your submissions here and not just your. They say it in unison, uniformed in dull button up coats with buttoned up lips, trained to still carry a ticket to be ticked off, momentarily ticked off at each other. The magazine is published bi-annually, releasing a new issue every April and October. Each issue is themed, with poems and short stories illustrated by some of the world's finest contemporary illustrators. Their words are bare, worn down by years of sitting on sadness and madness and badness and all the ‘nesses messes. This statistical information is an aggregation of submission data provided by our members. At lunch, we eat train trip triangle cellophane sandwiches that don’t fit in heart-shaped holes and taste of dust and sawdust and sawed off lifelines. Look they say again and I obediently crane my neck to the window to see the place they kissed by lockers, locked each other down with golden rings and lettered jackets. They are forever taped down on yellowed yearbook paper, archived in a velvet dress and pearls and skinny legged, skinny tied suit in that year only. There are lilies on her wrist at prom and lilies in the wedding bouquet, on the not-white brocade dress, on their only daughter’s name. The conductor calls out our stop and we all breathe sighs of relief that we are stopping. My mother glares at him like he’s a chaperone or maybe has a flask of punch-filling vodka in his pocket. We walk past the baby house that held their baby me where they swung me on duet arms, smiling.
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