Happy New Year from Sudden Denouement Publishing

 

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Sudden Denouement Publishing is celebrating the new year by lowering the price of the print version of Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective on Amazon from $17.99 to $11.99  and the Kindle version from $9.99 to $4.49 for the month of January.
 
We believe this fabulous collection of writing from 29 writers across 7 countries is an essential library addition for all lovers of edgy modern prose and poetry. 
 

Hide and Seek – Daffni Gingerich

hide and seek

From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon


 

I have poured out the contents of my insides today. I don’t want them back but there will come a day when they’re handed back to me with side notes and red ink. And I will retreat under the bed like I did as a child during hide and seek. There’s knowledge left under beds from those who never survived hiding. My eyes would dart back and forth and my heart would race as if death was truly on the outside waiting. It was always the big brown eyes of my brother that found me. And with such a rush I’d demand he be seeker again. He’d whine and I’d ignore him until he quit and we went our separate ways. Headstrong. That’s what they call me. I’m hard to stick around because anyone without passion bores me and anyone with it, well, that’s deadly. Deadly, like hide and seek. I’ve had an insatiable craving for sweets lately. I do my best to be an adult and pair them with more salads, but that amount of eating can be too much. I’d need more than 3 salads a day, and three is quite a lot already. If only hiding under the bed brought me sweets, I’d have been more likely to give my brother a turn to hide.


Daffni Gingerich says simply that she “is a writer.” You can read more of her mesmerizing prose at Daffniblog.

What Are Words 4 – Olde Punk

what is love 4

From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon

Lidocaine and cold passion

Misshapen nights unfastened

A misprint in my falsehood

Driving derision in a thunderstorm

Stormborn, borne to the edge

I scorn the precepts that flood

The nights on television

With false precision, more indecision

The race is tightening, the racism frightening

When will we be of all one kind, one mind?

Whatever, nevermind to quote a sad sod

Another in passing is saying hello 2 heaven

The words live on and they say fight for

Your rights

I don’t know what right I have to say

But I tend to write these things anyway

Reproachful I pretend to be

But I so tire of the reprehensible dichotomies

We are not the lazy, stupid fools

You desire to see

I am out to sea with the Party

I wish there was another choice of tea

This one has gone cool and the aroma

Is quite drab

I’m fishing for the big one

My mood is quite glum

I hope to find

Others like me, the ones

Left behind and still alive

And fed up with the 9 to 5

And taxes and healthcare reform

I need to be fucking reborn

My kids’ heads are full of drivel and swine

Zero Trans Fats and sugar substitutes still seem

To widen my behind

Where o where is the truth?

Is it hidden under my pillow like a fallen tooth?

I beseech anyone who is reading this silly farce of prose

Am I talking out of my ass

Or did I hit it right on the nose?

Dimethocaine and rational thoughts

Mix as well as oil and water

There are some things cannot be bought

I struggle with what to tell my daughter

Poverty for the meek

Lambs for the slaughter

A kiss on the cheek

But sometimes I pray

That we all go underwater

But hey, I don’t know

Isn’t there always

Hope for tomorrow?

If not, I’ve still got

Dimethocaine and whiskey

And the love of someone smarter


Olde Punk is an editor of Sudden Denouement and the curator of Ramjet Poetry.  Hockey, food and punk rock junkie.  Sci-Fi/fantasy/comic book nerd.  Writing for years; still not any better.

Magazines – Salvador Macias

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Magazines say that it is only a matter of time before beauty  fails us all
Television is filled with betrayal
And  Mindless self indulgence
The radio blares another sad break up song, and the internet promises true
Love within the first thirty days your
Money back guaranteed
I have tried to put you out of my mind
As I sit at a barstool
With
Mary, Tracey, Juanita, Heather, and other
Girls whose names will
Be important to some lovelorn soul
One day
I look into their eyes
And see the same loneliness
In so many other people
Thinking as we all have at one point
That just maybe.
They might be the one to find true love
But to be the one is a rarity
To be treasured
Like a jewel
I have held it in your hands
Tasted love in your kiss
I have made many mistakes
And Now I must live with them
I see a room full of people
More lost than the souls lost in purgatory
I see them laughing away at poor anecdotes
Pretending to care when all anyone wants to do is go home
But we don’t because
This may be the night
We find the “One”
But I have  found the one
And continue to meet the one
Every time I am in the same room with her
It  is the same old black magic
We felt the first time we met
Those many years ago
In a dark room at some party
Neither of us wanted to be at
As I tried to pick her up
While reciting a poem
Into her ear
She turned to me smiling
And asked if my cheap parlor
Trick has ever worked
And I said to her
It just did
Salvador Macias is a poet , playwright, and visual artist . He currently resides in San Antonio TX. trying not to get arrested. 

Because I am worth so much more- Sarah Doughty

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From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon


“Because I am worth so much more.
I deserve better than loving
someone like you.”

Maybe, loving you was wrong. Maybe, I knew that being yours would end in my own heartbreak. But, darling, did you ever consider that I made that choice on my own? That you had no business putting words in my mouth — words I never spoke. That you had no right to force my actions. Or act upon your belief that it was in my best interest. Maybe, this has been my problem all along. Choosing to love someone that could never accept me for who or what I am. Loving someone that I knew, deep down, would never change. Maybe, I should have loved myself more, respected myself more. Because I am worth so much more. I deserve better than loving someone like you.


Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of , The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right hereTo learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her websitestalk her on Goodreads, or both.

Been Bloody – SRP

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From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon


Terror fills the streets
in dark
as we cry to ourselves
sleep at night
you don’t know me
anymore
How many days how many nights
when we pull out
hair
and scratch out
eyes
Done seen too much
the information is relentless
I didn’t have a choice
won’t make it
you gave me the gun
tried to make it
right
She was standing there
right in front of him
and all i can see
is red
red red red
And i can’t wash it
clean
i can’t take it
away
we both are
still here
bloody


SRP is co-creator and editor for Sudden Denouement.

Absconding – Joey Gould

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Absconding

When I left my job I folded my apron like always, tucked

into my hat. Six months since the supermarket rows–apples

stacked once twisted & picked–I check into a dive hotel

in Chelsea with a room the size of my body but free apples

at the desk. At the ferry, a storm culls the sky like a produce knife.

Rain, rain, passing front, then stars: belligerent dappling apples,

sparkling cider in dark sky over Governor’s Island, Lady Liberty

bright as a promise. Squint long enough & any tree will bear apples

or maybe they’re given us to sample on arrival at the farm

in the sparsely-paved pinelands, Maine, littered with unheard-of apples,

varieties that drip summer when sliced, cry & bleed sugar—

cold mustering a nor’easter backstage for after apple

season, the pond cool enough to sting skin while dragging

the dock from its posts to the boathouse. Andy takes an apple

but leaves a basket of late peaches. Uncle!

I had lost my admiration for you. I’m sorry, dear apple,

for leaving you in fascist rows, for the poorly-cut quarters

for the bruised side hidden under a PLU sticker. Apple:

I remember being a mouth full child. Let’s get there sweet,

because we’re all going somewhere to be apple-

sauce. To the loud world, its musty-colored figs, riding the long

whalebone skeleton people marry under, apple

orchards when out of season. Gaunt capillary networks

dull white as a Macoun inside, bone-core of an apple

thrown out the car window on I-95, radio blasting Lady Lamb

on a cyser-crisp Sunday, singing: you are the apple.

I’ll carry my past in a tucked-away apron pocket. We all do, we all

secret away what we found: a kiss, a glimpse, an apple.

I’ll never leave the store. Or my heart won’t, that bloated, red

goat. How I run from it. How I should hold it soft like an apple.

Joey Gould is a long-time contributor to Mass Poetry who has twice been nominated for Bettering American Poetry and once for a Pushcart Prize. He has performed in The Poetry Circus, Elle Villanelle’s Poetry Bordello, and The Poetry Society of New York’s Poetry Brothel. He writes 100-word reviews as poetry editor for Drunk Monkeys. He’s working on a website: joeygouldpoetry.wordpress.com

You can follow Joey on Twitter @toshines

Wasps – Jimmi Campkin

From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon


Open up my skull and you will find her inside, in a tatty striped dress and muddy Doc Martens.  Every bedroom, every hotel room, every airport lounge, train and coach I sleep in she is there, smiling and licking razor blades.  When I shower I look into the steamed mirror and see a pair of blue eyes staring back at me.  Neither of these eyes belong to my partner.  She is still there, with a red flowing tongue and a black choker.

This is no guardian angel.  She is guilt and sex and violence, with greasy hair and furry teeth – not brushed since her last remembered birthday and she always forgets her anniversaries.  Years later, lying in bed next to my partner, ‘the woman I love’, I wait until I hear gentle snoring before I rest my head on the pillow and close my eyes.  I know that I talk in my sleep, and all I think about is Her, with a mouth full of blood and bacteria.  In my lucid dreams I feel the hairs on my face lift to receive that sour taste.  I feel my pupils expand, opening like bank vault doors to a secret code.

As teenagers together, she took me to her secret place – a single tree in a circle of thick thorn bushes.  Like a ballerina she danced up to a noose tied to a low branch, launched her head inside like a basketball three-pointer and thrashed – piss streaming like river deltas down her soiled, writhing legs as I watched, frozen in a moment of incredulous horror.  After a few moments she lowered herself down and her barefoot heels touched terra firma.

She stood before me, at her full height, the rope now slack at her shoulders.  There was no danger, it was all a game.  Removing the noose, she walked towards me.  You never even tried to save me she smiled, and kissed me hard.  It tasted disgusting.  And then she kneed me firmly in the groin.

I sank to my haunches; coughing and farting, with a stomach ache billowing through my insides.  Looking down at the floor I saw brown leaves, dead twigs and ten toes with ten filthy toenails.  I thought to myself; I wonder if my tongue could clean these grey stumps?  A few minutes later, I knew the answer….


Jimmi Campkin is a “Writer, photographer, creator of SANCTUARY. 16bit child, INFP with clinical nostalgia and red wine for blood.” You can enjoy more of his work at jimmi campkin.com

Funeral Trumpets-Kindra Austin

With each jug of spirits
I ingest,
my organs’ mourning
does crescendo; and premature
funeral trumpets
bleat in stereo, stricken on the sidelines of
my mind.

Every time I get sober,
someone else
dyes
black
my hair.

From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon


Kindra M. Austin is a very sweary indie author and editor from mid-Michigan (you can find her books here). She’s also the co-founder of Blank Paper Press, a founding member of Indie Blu(e) Publishing, founder of publishing imprint, One for Sorrow, and a writer/managing editor at Blood into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. Austin cut her poetry teeth in April, 2016, and joined the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective in 2017. You can find more of her foul mouth at poems and paragraphs.

Sudden Denouement Classic: Gag Reflex- S. K. Nicholas

Triptych personality and a taste for the beaten and crushed. Favoured positions. Preferred imagery including a crushed butterfly placed so sweetly on her navel- the one that swims with my seed. Specks of blood on the bed sheets from our collision- the one I try denying but keeps happening anyway. In lipstick upon the wall, I scrawl my desires in lowercase. I spell out what I mean to say which always seems to escape me when she’s gagging on my fumes. I’m a good guy at heart, but a single droplet puts me in a rage like you wouldn’t believe. Shards of glass and portals. Lonely roads and stories gathering dust, but there will come a day when everything makes sense. There will be a moment when the end is not the end and an exit is not an exit but a door to a river where resides the girl who started it all. I go in and out- I pass through on the off chance she’s around. Lights and nipples and stretch marks. Torn lingerie and tourniquets. Vampires, lovers, killers. A painter, a writer. There exists celluloid imagery of my actions. There are photos of body parts and vials full of hair which fuels the fantasy more and more. There was once a golden light but it was snatched away and now I take from others because my future was taken from me. Souls and slaves. The ties that bind. Scenes missing until she’s wrapped in a blanket because this world doesn’t care and although my hands are cruel I do it because I care and no one cares as much as me. She is mother and enemy. She offers salvation and torment but the more I do it the less I can tell which is which. Flowers pressed in a book. Numbed fingers from two bottles of wine as she shaves her pubic hair at my request. She is not her own woman, she is my girl. The girl by the river who visits me after I pass out in the early hours of the morning halfway up the stairs. She flickers in the eyes of those who get too close. She dances in the mirror and kisses my neck when the right scent ignites what’s left of me. That cherub heart, it’s been gone for years and no matter what I do, and no matter how many times I try bringing her back, it won’t beat again.


S.K. Nicholas is the creator of My Red Abyss.comas well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1, 2 & 3 (available on Amazon). 

Sudden Denouement Classic: On Becoming a Writer – Christine Ray

Sometimes, adopting the names ‘writer’ and ‘poet’
Led her to encounters with the most amazing minds
Connecting her with a larger community

At other times she thought that ‘writer’ and ‘poet’
Were the loneliest names she had ever called herself
Waking up every morning
To unzip her chest, her gut
And bare her truths to the world
Because like others of her kind
She was complex, messy, containing
Multiple truths, not a singular one

Sometimes she felt like she was writing
To a small group of intimate friends
At others times,
She felt like she was calling out her truths
Into an empty desert landscape
Without even a coyote or armadillo
To hear her words before they fell away
Forlorn and unread
Unheard and unacknowledged
Rendering the writer, the poet herself
Invisible, diminished somehow

She was always struck by the juxtaposition
Of her physical body negotiating
Close suburbs,
Crowded subways and jostling city sidewalks
On the way to her day job
While her heart and mind
Wandered in the isolated wilderness
While errant words and wisps of dreams
And drops of feelings like rich, red blood
Continued to seep out of her


Christine Ray is a writing, editing tornado who touches down at Brave and RecklessSudden DenouementSudden Denouement PublishingWhisper and the RoarBlood Into Ink, the Go Dog Go CafeFVR Publishing, and Indie Blu(e).