Sudden Denouement New Writer Submissions Details/Dates

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Sudden Denouement’s New Writer Submissions will be open through May 23rd. We are asking for a sample of your writing. It doesn’t have to be unpublished, merely something that represents your voice as a writer. Does your writing style fit with Sudden Denouement? The term “divergent” literature is a loose one that means, first and foremost, that we are open to those voices to challenge the status quo, and we offer our writers a great deal of freedom.

Members of Sudden Denouement are asked to submit one unpublished piece of writing a month. We give our writers a great deal of leeway in terms of their artistic choices. Our objective is to provide a platform for literature that challenges specific norms. We will reblog posts from our writers’ personal sites on the weekends, and we become advocates of each other’s work. In doing this, we find that it creates a much larger audience of like-minded persons for each writer.

The writer does not have to be the solitary practitioner, there are others who are bound by a passion for writing that does not easily fit into a box or have an appropriate label. We believe that there is a “secret language,” as coined by Sam Lucero, that may have alienated some in the past but becomes a thing of power when our voices are joined in unison. Community amongst the like-minded can be very rewarding.

Is my writing good enough? Some of the worst writers in the world think they are great, and some of the most brilliant often languish without a true audience due to not realizing their value. We will be reblogging some of those who send submissions during the decision-making process.

Virility – Mick Hugh

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Virility

At night there is a silence gently broken by the moaning of the walls: Vast landscapes and skylines and pink insulation. At daybreak comes the screaming, the kid still in need of weening, a breakfast still in need of eating: toast for the road. Sit at a desk. Sit at a desk. Sit at a desk. Did you know that daffodils grow wild in the woods? Stare long enough while driving and you will see. A cultural project to beautify these streets: Days pass in the blandness of inner eyelids. At night in the quiet and your fantasies shrouded in dark, cut sharp by the quick panic of a deadline missed at work. The soft pillow: you couldn’t care less. Couldn’t care less for rose-colored lips. Couldn’t care less for well-padded paychecks. Couldn’t care less about a liver-rot death.

Your heart is the size of your fist. Learn how to throw it.

Mick’s Neon Fog

Mick Hugh is a writer for Sudden Denouement, and the groundskeeper at Mick’s Neon Fog.

Dreaming

Insights from "Inside"

I want to write that poem…

that grabs you by the head

twists your reluctant gaze in its direction

as train wrecks and nymphs routinely do;

that collides with your heart

ice pick or first love

thuds through miles of veins;

that glimmers dewdrops on your skin

whispering of sunrise and erupting volcanos;

that touches you at the core

-not in the creepy Trumpian p-grabbing way-

in the way that lights your essence on fire,

a slow smoldering that torches a forest

in an eyeblink.

I want to write that poem…

that centipedes among your synapses

imprinting thousands of indelible footprints

secreting sticky neurotoxins

irreversibly remodeling your thoughts;

that impels you to scribble snippets

on gum wrappers and tissues

and tuck them in your bra, pocketless,

so as not to lose your precious thought-gems.

I want to write that poem…

that leaves you gasping, open-mouthed,

at the import and audacity…

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Cummings and Goings

Silent Hour

Cummings and Goings

‘I have a love,’ he said.

‘And I have none,’ I said.

‘I’d like to stay,’ he said.

*

‘Can’t be with you,’ he said,

‘but you’re my flame.’

I said: ‘I feel the same.’

*

‘It’s wrong,’ he said.

‘So stop,’ I said.

‘No, don’t,’ he said.

*

‘Is everything a game?’ he said.

‘That poor guy.’

I said: ‘There’s something in your eye.’

*

‘Come on,’ he said.

‘Cannot,’ I said.

‘Why not,’ he said.

*

‘You have a love,’ I said,

‘remember?’

He said: ‘You’re better.’

*

‘It’s true and sweet,’ I said,

‘the message you’re transmitting.’

He said: ‘ You’re kidding.’

*

‘I want you more,’ he said

‘but like you less.’

I said: ‘Makes perfect sense.’

*

‘Fuck you,’ he said,

‘you only wanted me for sex.’

*

‘And you,’ I said,

‘will make great friends with my ex.’

***

© Basilike Pappa, 2018

(Image:…

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erichmichaels

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Would you believe me

If I told you

The song playing in the other room

Just faint enough to be imperceptible

Will color your entire day

That it’s set your head askew

It’s an overlay

The weather in the novel you’re reading

Is an outward projection

Of the main character’s inner turmoil

The howling wind

The driving rain

The rainbow that sometimes follows

Your subconscious will hum that song

As your own weather system moves in

An unwitting participant

An actor following stage directions

Every night the play is slightly different

Every day a different song plays

In the other room

Just out of earshot

Each day, unaware you hum these tunes

An ear worm

It burrows into the minds around you

They begin to weather parallel storms

Manifestation

Virus

Synaptic transference

Daisy chain

Bucket brigade

The buckets are filled with tears

Of joy

Of sorrow

Of acceptance

They taste…

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it’s all blue

lois e. linkens

black light

And I was away,
While you shone by the old red buildings
And years of wealth. I was away
Doing mine.

You spoke, you speak
Like you planned it; words like petals,
Soft and bright. I press them,
Between heavy books
And smell them on my bedside. You kept free,
When the walls drew in.

And I’ll keep free,
Choosing colour over sullenness
And silence. I know,
You liked his melting eyes

And his sharp face, and
How he made you feel, the shape of him

But in the black-light –
It’s all blue. A great field of it,
Loud and fluorescent and staining.

It’ll stop raining,
And the wet pavements
In the hot streetlamps
Will be gold.

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MY VALIANT SOUL

Абстракция ручной работы. Ярмарка Мастеров - ручная работа. Купить

Quietly, the wind comes,
transforming into a pointed dagger of a muse.
The murdered landscape of colors bleeding,
trying to ingest the muse.
A quarrel between violet homes
defeated and uprooted.

Unfurling stitches of dead mouths.
Colors deformed. Bright neons
& curled blues.
A white sky now turned red, opaque.
This space, an empty eye.
Nothing is forever.

What about your muse?

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X and I, The End of (sort of)

S. K. Nicholas

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As their lips met, Herbie poked his head out from the pocket of X’s dress. The animals moving about them were no longer animals but glowing orbs, and behind what had been their animal faces, he saw them for who and what they really were. He didn’t have an answer—he was just a hamster after all—yet he understood the meaning of magic and that there was no greater magic than this. Sticking his nose into the air, he sniffed out the scent of love. He knew it was love because it was the only thing that was able to make her heart beat the way it was beating right now. It made him happy, so happy he twitched his whiskers the same way she twitched her nose. And to think that only yesterday he had lived his life in a cage, not knowing of the strange beauty that existed in…

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Literary Property

by David Lohrey


One doesn’t think of poets as money managers.

It must be nice to see one’s work issued by the government.

You have to give her credit for it, she made an industry

out of having had a hard time of it, even if today she lunches

with the likes of Oprah and Jessica Mitford.

Had there been enough good parts, she could have 

made a fine actress. She would have made a powerful Josie 

Hogan, you know, from that play by Eugene O’Neill, or that

haunting wife of Macbeth, or, better yet, Hamlet’s dear mother.

Instead, she became a bestselling poet.

Something about her reminds me of a circus, a tented

carnival with a snake-man called Scaly and a three-breasted

lady. Step right up and hear her tale of unparalleled woe.

Avoid the door on the right, or you might get her confused

with the tattooed midget in yellow tights and his aqua tunic.

Tell the tale of your miserable past: how

you were beaten and mistreated, and how

you experienced unwanted advances. Why not

explain once again what it was like to have to eat

barbecued bologna on Christmas morning?

Now there’s human suffering.

The royalties mount beyond anyone’s count.

Rake it in while it lasts. There’s the 5-bedroom townhouse

in a fashionable part of Harlem, the mansion down

in swampy Carolina, a wee property along the Hudson

and, rumor has it, a pied-á-terre in a posh section of Paris.

The newest new book is just coming out in a new

waterproof edition. The text, it is said, glows in the dark,

so it can be read underwater, or you can get one that floats.

It is scheduled to appear later this month in coordination

with her new show, Big Woe, the new Broadway Musical.

Have your say, as they say, but be sure to count your earnings.

Some might say it is too much to dare. When you wear earrings 

and things from Tiffany’s, it gets harder and harder to ask for 

sympathy. You might wind up like some of your devoted readers,

much too rich to notice a little girl in need of affection.


David Lohrey’s plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and Lithuania. In the US, his poems can be found at the RavensPerch, New Orleans Review, Nice Cage, and The Drunken Llama. Internationally, his work appears in journals located in the UK, the Netherlands, India, Malawi, and Hungary. His fiction can be seen at Dodging the Rain, Terror House Magazine, and Literally Stories. David’s collection of poetry, MACHIAVELLI’S BACKYARD, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishers. He lives in Tokyo. You can read more of his writing at Writing, Musing, Poetry