She dips her trunk and sprays me with water, nearly drowns me, before she brings me back. To ensure that you never miss a future issue of the print magazine, subscribe from just £24 for 4 issues. Popshot is an illustrated literary magazine that publishes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry from the literary new blood. As hard as I tried to conjure images of her strong hands and slender fingers, in that moment I couldn’t remember if Mom still wore hers. Annie Lennox sang Mom’s name over and over as the synth swelled and chimed and Dad just kept his eyes on the road and I kept my eyes on him as he held his left hand in his lap and stroked a gold band with his thumb. Waves crashed on a beach somewhere, steady and calm, before a pulsing synthesiser introduced a sparse drum. Wedding tape, he said, and I popped it into the deck before he could say anything more. His brow raised and his lower lip drew back, ready to click into either a grimace or a smirk. What’s this one? I asked.ĭad glanced over and his expression flickered between possible responses. My finger landed on a tape without any markings cradled in a fluorescent green plastic case. 2vs1 3way abs bashing anal armpit arm wrestling ass eating ass play ass pounding ball grabbing bearhug blond blow-job blowjob bondage boner boots championship belt coach cumshot cutcock daddy doggy style european feet french kiss group handicap kissing latino lycra mask muscled abs / gut muscled biceps muscled butt muscled calves.
The Eagles, Fettuccine Carbonara, Springsteen, Bacon-wrapped Scallops. When the radio signal cut out, I dragged the box of cassettes into my lap and flicked through them the same way Mom flicked through her card-box of recipes, written in swooping cursive on index cards. Through the neon of the city and onto the empty eight lane highway and eventually into the mountains where the station wagon sputtered along the moonlit switchbacks. When are you home permanently? And he said when your mom wants me permanently. I asked when he would come home, and he said he was home right now, wasn’t he? I said permanently. I asked how work was, though I knew by the piles of dirty clothes in cardboard boxes in the trunk of the station wagon that it wasn’t going well. He asked how school was going and I just said, “It sure is going,” and he nodded. We went for soft serve, then found a hotdog stand and ordered two with everything on them. I flew past her across the lawn, wet with sprinkler dew, and dove through the passenger seat window, not even bothering with the door handle. One night in the summer, he dropped by just after dark and honked until Mom stormed through the screen door and sniped him dead with her one good eye. He kept polaroids of us in the glove compartment, outdated maps of old family trips on the dash, a box of cassettes in the middle row.
#TRUNKS POPSHOT WINDOWS#
Only a handful of seatbelts still worked, and you had to crank the windows down yourself.
#TRUNKS POPSHOT DRIVERS#
It was an old Buick station wagon, the kind with a rear-facing backseat so that you could ride face-to-face with the other drivers and wave at them, then flip the bird if they didn’t wave back. Illustration by Toby Morison.ĭad lived in a time capsule because Mom wouldn’t let him in the house. This flash fiction by Luke Larkin which featured in The Nostalgia Issue of Popshot was inspired by his father’s cassette tapes.
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