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1. #Popshot the illustrated magazine of new writing skin#
2. #Popshot the illustrated magazine of new writing full#

“Goodbye!” Rita called as Silas guided her towards the front door. Instructions are in here?” The nurse nodded.

Well, good.” Silas took the bag from the nurse. “Make sure to wear the sunglass and keep the eyes hydrated.” “Your vision will be spotty for the first few days,” said the nurse as she held out a bag of supplies to Rita. “And your prescription won’t change? No more frames? No more lenses?” The doctor had to be careful with the contact bandages. Are your eyes OK? You gonna need additional surgeries?” Silas leaned against the counter, his features blurred in the dim light, but she knew all the angles and points of her husband. They’re fragile for the first few hours.”Īfter more numbing drops to ease the swelling, Rita followed the nurse out to the lobby. Breathe and remember not to touch those eyes. “He’ll be informed of your success Mrs Asvang. “You’ll have a thirty-minute period of rest while the adhesive contacts settle. On the wall, painted in gold, she read, “If you see this, thank the doctor!” and she handed her bear to the nurse as she was helped off the table. The nurse smiled and removed the padded bars that held her head in place.

#Popshot the illustrated magazine of new writing skin#

A spritz of water and the dead skin skimmed away, the operating room came into focus. The clink of tools, and then the pressure, like a thumb pushed against a puffed-up cheek, as the scalpel made a final slice into her cornea. Rita saw the drops fall from the bottle before they splashed across her eye, eating away at her vision, blurring sharp lines into disorder.

Please, all excessive facial movement must be avoided.” This piece by Amy Barnes appeared in The Mystery Issue of Popshot Quarterly.Īaron Menzel was inspired to write short story “Patched”, featured in The Escape Issue, after undergoing laser eye surgery. I never ate watermelon or cantaloupe again.

I named that watermelon Trudy and she played by Sander’s Pond with me as I read books and did math. “Can I have a slice, mama?” She smiled as shook her head and called for the nurse lady. I heard the watermelon crying as they cut off its vines from inside my belly. “Do you like watermelon?” I asked the men in white coats and women in white hats.īlood red juice dripped across my belly when they sliced it open-smile-style.

#Popshot the illustrated magazine of new writing full#

I gripped my tight, full belly the whole way wailing along with the ambulance siren. I ate a lot of watermelon that year, sucking down each slice and spitting out the seeds into the grass.įour months later, I couldn’t wear my Jordache jeans or even my gym glass sweatpants. She grabbed me by the arm and drug me off the paper-covered doctor chair, throwing my jumble sale sweatshirt and stretchy pants and Wednesday underpants at me. We ate almost a whole watermelon after we went swimming.” “Who did this?” she hissed at me like my brother’s bearded lizard that lived in a cage by his bed. “Watermelons in early spring are for rich people, mama. My back hurt like when I helped bring in the corn crops. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying this watermelon that long though. Having watermelons in the off-season was something rich people did. “Sit still,” she told me, as if I were a child and not carrying a sweet watermelon under my skin.ĭr. I jumped back in the stirrups that weren’t made for horseback riding. He touched my belly and set off some kind of sparky tweed-induced friction.

Smith had a voice and bedside manner that matched his name. She loaded pumpkins up in her wheelbarrow and me into her wood-panelled station wagon.ĭr. Just as mama’s garden spit out piles of pumpkins, my belly reached gourd stage. I tried pushing it down and hiding it under sweatshirts when everyone else was stripped down to tank tops and shorts. I asked Bobby to try and suck it out of me and he tried but we both knew it was all over.īy the time I went back to school, my stomach was the size of a cantaloupe, stretched summer peach-y skin that hadn’t been burnt by the constant Alabama sun. I felt it land with a plop in my stomach. I remembered my mama’s warning when it was too late. We were both sweating by the time we got done swimming and snacking. Bobby Jenkins and I went skinny dipping in Sander’s Pond and afterward we sat half-naked by the water’s edge and ate slices of watermelon until our fingers were red and we were both wearing less than we arrived in. I avoided eating watermelon until that one really hot day at the summer carnival. If you eat a watermelon, a baby will grow in your belly. Order your copy hereĪmy Barnes’ flash fiction explores the surprising ramifications of a young girl eating watermelon. When I Cook is from The Nostalgia Issue – Issue 22. Of hands – nut-brown, green veins, gold rings – Of a hollowness, a deep clanking in my chest. This poem is by Oeil Jumratsilpa, a London-based copywriter who loves to read, paint and cook.