The Sudden Denouement Publishing Store on TeeSpring

Sudden Denouement Publishing is celebrating the amazing book covers mad-talented graphic designer Mitch Green created for us with a special line of apparel and housewares now available at TeeSpring.  Now you can sport your favorite book cover design wherever you go!

 

 

Sharp- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

I am playing with knives
again
sharpening them
lovingly
against brown leather strap
admiring the way
hair splits cleanly
upon the well-honed edge
(Christine E. Ray)

Listen!
Sounds like a violin–
fine strings ‘gainst steel bow
I play concerto
splitting hairs
(Kindra M. Austin)

I’m trimming those frayed ends
sharpening those
pointy convictions
giving them a sharp edge
a serrated opinion,
ready to pierce you
where it hurts you more
(Megha Sood)

Cold steel on skin,
I blossom,
stare down the line
take aim
at friend, foe and fortune
with my throwing knives;
multiply and divide,
split and survive.
(Kristiana Reed)

I like a razor
but xyraphi sings to me
of shreds, edges, ends
sweeter than any cutlery.
An x is an eraser,
that’s why I draw it long
to keep it clean and short
and shave me complication.
Oh, how I love a razor!
(Basilike Pappa)

There was a shadow crowd
And a circle of light. Sawdust stank
Beneath my feet like dirty salt hair
And the thud
Against the board
Came like the footsteps of God.
Ribbons of air and time and space
Gathered round my ankles,
Coils of blue light.
Looping and curling and purring,
They crooned my power,
Sharp to draw blood from stone.
(Lois E. Linkens)

the slice was white lightening
lacerating flesh from bone
in the moment of searing truth.
I slash and gnash
my teeth barbed and keen
well-oiled from the feast
of my rotting soul.
I chop at the edges
of yesterday’s sorrow
but the pain! I feel it not
only the blinding sting
of my wayward might
(Aurora Phoenix)

All the time in the world
Pressing down
Sharp as the obsidian
Black night
You relinquished me
To oblivion
Surviving on
Insidious pain
Of yesterday
Tapered to the edge
Of no tomorrow
(1Wise-Woman)

I aim at dreams
knife them
as trophies on my wall.
I can always
take one down
quench the thirst
of a turbulent wound
with
tainted endearment
from the poisoned well
We dug and drained
under the wing of
One night.
I’m in love
with a stabbed dream.
(Iulia Halatz)

The blade cut into the night and flashed silver against the moonlight. And even though my ears heard no sounds but the thundering of my heart, I swore I could hear the sharp metal singing it’s high-pitched tune as it sliced through the air. It slipped through my skin like it was warm butter and at first I felt nothing. I wondered if maybe it was shock or disbelief. But then the pain started. Like someone injected gasoline into my bloodstream and lit a match. I watched as the thick, red liquid poured out of the fresh wound and begged for death. And as he stood over me, he licked my blood from his dagger and smiled down at me in a show of blood-stained teeth — right before everything went black.

When I awoke from the nightmare, I reminded myself that I was alive and the true face behind my fears liked it when I called him Daddy. The only comfort I found was knowing that death came for him first. Too bad he didn’t take the memories with him.
(Sarah Doughty)

Beautiful

My Screaming Twenties

You cry because it is the first thing

the world and its oxygen

taught you to do –

you, a scrunched up ball

of someone’s perfection –

a perfection you have never

seen, never believed.

Even when your mother

made daisy chains to adorn

your crown.

Or when your father cried

the first time you smiled,

not at him nor yourself

but the birds in the sky

and the whistling songs

they sing.

You frown because safety

is your priority,

because saying you are

beautiful, out loud

even to four walls

as if they are a crowd,

is dangerous.

The roses, love letters,

best wishes and mirrors

still say it for you –

beautiful,

but you refuse to believe it –

with tired eyes, errands

and ‘maybe next times’.

You shrink because you

believe the world is too big

and the light in your eyes

stops you from being small…

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the little mermaid #1

lois e. linkens

The blue Danish harbour did sparkle so,

That morn as the Mermaid took her hard seat.

Out on Langelinie in the fierce heat,

The bronzed little fish-girl dullish did glow.

They came at first light, with cameras and such.

She heard the great clamour of feet, and oh!

Here they would come, the red sun bright and low,

English, Americans, Chinese, the Dutch.

They crowded like bees round her grey rock,

A gaggle of geese, a murmur, a flock.

And the Mermaid would sit, faced t’wards the shore,

Hour after long hour. She thought – such a snore

Is this life I must lead in search of my heart,

Who’s ne’er in this crowd. All’s hopeless and dark!

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Chant

erichmichaels

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I think that when I’m picking at self inflicted wounds, channeling the dead, dying and dishonored, feeling the full weight of the world’s apathy upon my chest, and bleeding it upon the page…that I’m at my most sane. In fact, I would say that it is during those periods when I sleepwalk through life, filling a role, swallowing back the acid at the rear of my throat with a smile, and become a living currency, an end to a means, that I’ve slipped into an oubliette of depravity. Sublimating the curses and tics of universal verity bubbling up from the magma of my bones is the original sin, that can only be abated by chanting a prayer older than any Hail Mary’s, or Nam-myoho-renge-kyo’s. I am here for but a moment. Allow me to love you, to be loved by you, and to be remembered. I am here for but…

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when humans stink

MY VALIANT SOUL

/

My voice is a purgatory lie.
a solemn inhuman thread of existence,
the voice of this teeth crackling,
fingers going numb during cold shaky nights.
moist, stinking, moist language of nights.

A honeysuckle stung of a tear marking my white body,
flowerless, wavelengths of blurred nights again and again
you come and sit inside my skull,
you will perhaps have boneless maps of jitters.
And humans stink.
they stink like an abrupt old fist.
Mouths of dry saliva. Hollow and hopeless.
A frenzied attack of humans is like the orange peel.
you wish to unveil the skin,
it pokes your eye like a stencil.

And my mind talks to my heart,
in endearment still unknown
of soiled tattered sheets of oblivion.

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