Sudden Denouement Black & White Photography Contest

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[Photo: Able Eble]

Sudden Denouement has since its inception been interested in the synergy between imagery and the written word. We have been diligent in our commitment to maintain a specific aesthetic that compliments the strange world of words we inhabit. In the spirit of our commitment, we are launching a black and white/monochrome/sepia photography contest. This contest is a celebration of the medium, but also a means to showcase artists who share a passion for black and white photography.

Details:

1st Prize: 50 dollars and a link provided on front page of our site, as well as a full write-up on the work of the artist.

2nd Prize: 25 dollars and a link provided on site, as well as presentation of the work, along with appropriate links.

3rd Prize: A post on the work of the artist, as well as a temporary link on the site.

We only ask that the work is black and white/monochrome/sepia. The judges will be the editors of Sudden Denouement and SD writers Able Eble and Jonathon O’Farrell.

We ask that each artist limit their submissions to five.

Contest open to everyone.

Send submissions to Suddendenouement@gmail.com

Deadline: 6/19/2019

Guest Writer Lynn White The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

They all said the same,
that the light
at the end
of the tunnel
had been switched off.
She didn’t believe it.
Who would do such a thing?
So she went in search of it
wended her way along
the long dark tunnel
until she saw it
just a speck at first,
a glimmer of
starlight
shining
seemingly
from the outside in
while leaving the dark
outside.
Perhaps they were right
someone had turned it off
inside.
She scrambled up towards
to the end of the tunnel
and searched for the switch.
She found it
turned it on
and then
all was bathed in light
flooded with bright white light
but still she saw nothing
nothing hopeful
just emptiness
bathed in light,
in blinding light
so bright
so blinding
she fell back
disoriented
into the dark
into the emptiness of the dark.

[Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality and writes hoping to find an audience for her musings. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Peach Velvet, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/]

Introducing New SD Writer Skye (Melting Neurons)

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    The sun is a hornet sting in his eyes but his stagger started with that twisted sauce that dude hit him with at the coffee shop bathroom where he screwed Suzie in retribution against Samantha. The pain of that loss was still so fresh.

     Empty and meaningless body contortions while staring at the underside of a piss stained toilet. Should have stayed home that day too. She wanted someone to love her, that’s why she shook when you hugged her, apologized when she climaxed and asked for more.

     Two steps and a jerk of the muscles sends him down the sidewalk. Two more and the convulsions are there again in force, arms spasm outstretched and fingers go clenching at air trying smash it’s emptiness into something meaningful. Two more and the blood trails seeping from forearms that stink of vinegar and iron are drip dropping onto his shoes with a pitter patter of hope draining onto leather.

     His white v-necked shirt is clean if you ignore the spots of cherry red revealed as a splatter pattern seeping from the inside. His pants are sagging and baggy, deep brown with a tan cinch belt and pockets on pockets bulging with random items. His has Nikes, now personalized with scarlet across their tips.

     Fuck, fuck, fuck. Too much this time. Way too much. There. Priorities. Why? Needle. Get one. Man across the street, has the look. Get another rig. Block it out. Don’t think, just act. Shut it down.

     He asks the stranger if he has as a needle and of course he does, doesn’t everyone? The stranger says that he is clean of disease and has never used it despite the crimson hue inside the chamber. The stranger points out the blood running down his forearms and warns that it might draw attention.

     He stutter steps, two forward, a shuffle to the side, quick spin, dancing to the demands of the chemicals. Lips split open into a full bodied smile, lopsided to the left and sparks of intensity carve out a luminosity in his blue eyes that stretches past the borders of happiness into ecstasy beyond understanding.

     His face glows with inner fire, radiant passion – he’s got a zeal about him now that belies the shit show dance moves that propel him down the street at an uneven but driven keel. He’s on a mission.

     Samantha. There. By the bus depot, god she looks amazing even on the streets. I wonder if she still loves me. I told her she was Sparkles, that her fire was so bright I could see it in the darkest moments. Why?

     Her moan when he hugs her says “thank god you made it here and I found you, you idiot.”

     The sun is a hornet sting, the moon is a muse shining a halo of opportunity in the falling dusk.

     The zeal is faded as his eyes dull to the gray of the muse and her siren song of possibilities missed. They both rest against the wall inside the parking garage which hides them. His arms are full of her and maybe the stranger, his veins are on fire and his dreams are impressions of futures that could have been, envy soaks them. He’s going to die again, he knows it.

     He sits in the parking garage until the stars haze out and the moon disappears.

 

[Melting Neurons resides in Wenatchee, WA where he lives with his wife and stuffed owl, they both hail from Bend, OR originally. He has lived in more than 75 cities across the country at various points including Boston and New Bedford, MA. His writing centers around a lifetime filled with adventures in schizoaffective bipolar, addiction, and the dichotomy of being everything from a corporate executive to homeless on the streets for years. Someday he hopes his estranged children will discover these pieces, and he can regain a relationship with them. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and enrolled in Wenatchee Valley College studying English and Creative Non-Fiction.]

Peripheral Visions – David Lohrey

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Peripheral Visions – David Lohrey

 

They’ve outlawed torture because it doesn’t work,

but they forgot to tell my little brother.
I went to Madrid and wanted paella but all I found

was frozen pizza.
I traveled to Saudi Arabia and knew exactly what I wanted,

but found the road to Mecca closed to outsiders.
Americans claim to be welcoming. The kids in Tibet cry “hello,”

but when the Chinese visit Brooklyn, the kids shout “Fuck you.”

It’s the only language they know.
The kids in Harlem are no globe-trotters. They’ve never

even crossed the street.
Their female teacher doesn’t wear underpants, but her neighbor,

a man, wears panties. They claim it is the children who have a lot

to learn.
When the infants say they are not ready for anal sex,

their teacher makes them sit by themselves in the corner.
The six-year-old is sucking her thumb is told in no uncertain terms

to remove her thumb and find a boy to satisfy.
We’re heading for Broadway to watch a play with the provocative

title, Rotten. The actors throw tomatoes at the audience, after checking

first to see how they voted.
Righteous indignation supplants despair. Feeling superior sure beats

finding fault with oneself. The world is so stupid.
Diversity works like this: first, we take over. Children of the Empire visit

and are told they’re wonderful.
After the bombing, we legalize gay marriage. Napalm in the morning,

but the bathhouses are to remain open, announces the Pentagon spokesperson.
The President is trans. Her name is Annabelle. The debate question

she couldn’t answer was how it is she manages to look so fabulous.

She bursts out laughing and then begins to sob. After a break,

she gets a standing ovation.
It has been announced that everyone in the country lives in one city,

Houston, coast to coast; zip codes may vary.
Why bother with different names like LA and Atlanta. The whole

country is one big Houston: the bars, the malls, the adult bookshops.
Now that it’s been outlawed, kissing between men and women,

there are fewer law suits. There is no population growth. What have

we learned? Men can’t get pregnant.
Houston, Illinois has higher taxes than Houston, Texas, but New York’s

Houston is the worst. People there no longer keep addresses. Their

official residence is in Puerto Rico.
I was born David but call myself Dawood, Princess of the Desert.

I like getting my nails done. What I hate is driving in the slow lane.
And my husband likes to slap my ass. I won’t go into it. First,

he bites it.
I feel diminished by modern life. The lifestyle is belittling.

How can I develop an ego? Start by killing a mosquito.
People come to Memphis seeking Elvis. They leave having made

fools of themselves. Elvis did not die in vain.
The train leaves out of Union Station at 3. Get yourself a paper.

The toilets are certain to be broken.
I never wanted anything more than love. That’s why I’ve come.

You’ve come to the wrong place.
She may be rich, but she is bitter. She wants the nurse to wipe

thrice not just once.
If only my mother had been well taken care of. She lived ‘til 93

but could have made it to 105. I’m suing. She died on the way

to the hospital.
I just want love. My lips are luscious. My dick is huge. My nails

are dazzling. My bum is plump. What the fuck is wrong with me.

 

[David Lohrey is from Memphis, where he grew up, and now lives in Tokyo, where he teaches and writes for local travel magazines. He graduated from UC Berkeley and then moved to LA where he lived for over 20 years.

Internationally, his poetry can be found in Otoliths, Stony Thursday Anthology, Sentinel Quarterly, and Tuck Magazine. In the US, recent poems have appeared in Poetry Circle, FRiGG, Obsidian, and Apogee Journal. His fiction can be read in Crack the Spine, Dodging the Rain, and Literally Stories.

David’s The Other Is Oneself, a study of 20th-century literature, was published in 2016, while his first collection of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, was released in September 2017. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Collective.]

Introducing New Sudden Denouement Writer Vicki Wilson

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The pause

It is the pause

Between heartbeats

Where I await the echo

To signal that it can beat again…

…that I can breathe again…

… that I can’t…

It is the pause

Haunted by a promise

The prelude

Of pain

Where in slow motion

I scramble

With broken compass

And bloody nails

To find finger-holds

In the grey edge

Of the moment

Frozen in the shattered glass

Of the bauble

That once had

housed the world

Within a world

Before I

am falling

To moral paste

Beneath the agony of cloven behoves

Which beget the disentangle

Of limbs

Of lips

Of hearts.

© Vicki Wilson

I am an amateur poet, published author and professional technical analyst… all of these things mean I basically solve puzzles for a living, and to keep from dying. I know this because I died once. Metaphorically. Six years of a slow death by industrialised decision making. In the end I was so numb to living I ceased to exist. But burn-out has a silver lining, you wake up and all you have left is steel and the rich black of sticky charcoal to make your mark. I am still learning how to hold a pen, how to form words into a living thing, but my scratchings are mine, they are made with the corpse of who I was. I offer them as evidence I exist.

I have recently published a children’s book – written and illustrated by myself – under the banner of dragonflypublishing. You can find me there writing my next one: https://www.facebook.com/dragonflypublishing.au.

The Night is for many things but … Jonathan O’Farrell

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[Photo: Jonathan O’Farrell]

I would rather walk

my authentic steps into the night,

embracing obscurity,

than remain pliant fodder

for certainly lovely honey-traps

laid aforehand, by well-meaning pity.

 

The night and me

we are one abiding,

our abode,

beyond the reach you seek,

with your contrivances,

of lightmaking.

 

If you wait

until my return

then we may talk,

as equals.

You bring the true light

and intent

and I,

bring my friends,

of the dark.

Then,

we will sit,

in the balance,

of mutual possibility.

 

“I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”

Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, with writing, photography, healing garden project updates and travel journals:

https://misterkakiwriter.substack.com/

https://misterkaki.blog

Guest Writer: Able Elba

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[Photo: Able Elba]
Pulchritudinous Decline
Able Elba, 2018
 

And as the years fade,
fleshy encounters
with folds of listening and not being heard
creep up and frighten from behind walls and doors.
Pulchritudinous sags – crags – puckers –
a map of memories to cherish
and those I hope have the decency to stay behind
when I go.
[Writing began at fourteen, therapy after the loss of my father. Now, approaching thirty I extend a piece of my soul for the world to hold and do with what it likes. Seven years of art, music and writing education and here we are– further from the beginning with the penetrating recognition of how fast it has all gone by. Living is a burden and exquisite– all of which, I sieve through the arts. –Able Elba]
Her writings, art, and music can be found on her site: Able Elba

Introducing New SD Writer Ann Wuehler “His Taste

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HIS TASTE Ann Wuehler

Awash in clowns, I remember bits of him
in quiet fragments of the day.
How the stairwell hid us
and revealed our lust
to each other
like a good clean thing.
And his taste, his taste, his taste
and the slip of that skin, his skin
beneath the delighted surface
of each of my palms.
How I stumbled beside him
in the tired reaches
of early morning
without guilt or shame,
as we parted,
as we let go.
The tide smothers me
in clowns and mimes,
reminding me
I should bow my head
and pray to stern men
for forgiveness.
No thank you.
I am done asking
forgiveness
for what I
cannot regret.

Her work can be view at Ann Wuehler.

[A native Oregonian with ambitions and apparently a need to see more of the planet than a few feet beyond her back yard. I received my BA in Theatre from Eastern Oregon University and my MFA in Playwriting from the University of Nevada/Las Vegas. My Oregon Gothic was published in 2015 and my House on Clark Boulevard was published September of 2017. My newest novel, Aftermath, should be out, oh, soonish. I had an evening of plays this September with the Ilkley Playhouse in the UK. Bunny Slipper, a short story, was published in Whistle Pig this fall. The Moth and the Whale was published January 2019 in A Door is a Jar. My poem, My Feet Hurt, will be in The Rumpus. I am also co-writing a screenplay based on a short story from my Oregon Gothic, with the filmmaker who just finished filming a short feature of my play, Traces of Memory.]