Something Wicked This Way Comes: Meet the New Secret First Draft!

Secret First Draft has a bold and edgy new look and is welcoming its inaugural group of SFD Writer’s Collective Members this month:

1Wise-Woman of A Lion Sleeps in the Heart of the Brave

Oloriel Moonshadow of color me in cyanide and cherry

Aurora Phoenix of insights from inside

Hudson Biko Mwalagho of Piece by Piece HB

Christina Strigas of You can’t break up with a soul mate

Zelda Reville of Zelda Reville: A Sea of Illusions

This amazing group of writers will be contributing original content to SFD. SFD is also seeking guest bloggers to keep our content fresh and exciting.  We will also continue to bring you reblogs from the writers of Sudden Denouement, Secret First Draft, Whisper and the Roar and other divergent voices we think you will want to be reading.

If you are interested in becoming a member of SFD or contributing a guest writer contact the Editors at


And the Winners of the March Madness Divergent Literature Contest are. . .

The editors of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and Secret First Draft are thrilled to announce  the winners of the March Madness Divergent Literature Contest

1st Place: Conflagration/Nathan McCool  Newest Member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Inaugural Members of the Secret First Draft Literary Collective:

Second Place: Ligeia, under dimmed lights/Oloriel

Third Place: Marching in Madness & March Madness/1Wise-Woman

Fourth Place: The Magic Quilt/Zelda Reville

We are honored to welcome our new collective members and were thrilled with the quality of the writing submitted.  We hope that you enjoyed reading them as much as we did.


March Madness Top Ten: Ligeia, under dimmed lights/Oloriel

Cracked like the skyline

at 18:11

countless men mine me for coal;

I suck the midday Moon

like a good symbiot,

like a pretty harlot of war,

I search myself at the garage sale,

I hollow me out,

unlatch the hands like instruments,

lick and spit,

soft, but I am dust –

disassembled to a murder of crows.

This blood builds altars between teeth,

this ocean is godless,

I am

77 silver coins shoved in the socket,

the worthlessness of thoraxes

is speaking tongues –

translated it means I who no longer know dawn.

I, eyeing this river, a carnival, alone.

I, no longer knowing the sparrows

for their marrow of strawberries,

I, stuffing the pillow with hares,

my ventricle for Doctor Death,

My mouth for the athame,

for you, lover, among decapitated carnations,

for you lover, your silences like noose

around the neck of promiscuous Miss mercy.

Now, sugar coma, the mistress

lap dancing, calling for harvest with her

young hips, Night’s offerings,

burrowing into the dream;

my tongue withdrawn to wash its harpies,

my soul a poker game of ghosts –

we are

counting the dead like lilac, lavender,

marigold, primrose, irises;

you are the softest when you count my scars

like raided tombs,

rid of furniture and amulets,

a courtyard full of chimes

under Ibuprofen skies;

the cruelest when you don’t do good your lies,

the mortician won’t sway.

And you, how are you called?

Dead daffodils, plucked,

their corpses littering

the surface of the Styx.

You are called love,

madness, aria, flame.

Spawned from the womb of Spring,

Red like heart; red like gallows.

I stay, but shut my eyes.

Out there, an arid land

where nothing grew

when Persephone failed

to make her return,

the clouds were churning

in pomegranate hues

(eat now or forever speak your rue)

and pillars pierce the veils

like bones in bloom

(shotgun and kettle),

the sparrows were shrieking,

sharpening their claws,

my blue was leaking,

wonder does it show?

A murmur breaks out,

it screams and it plows

their ancient bodies,

a malady of songs,

swaying back and forth,

a gentle disease

(can you hear it?)

of their breasts, rising up and down

(I will die smiling, like a clown)

I, a shiver, I, nobody, before

the countless white dresses

of priestesses in rows

fingering their open wounds

and chanting

“Never doubt the gifts of Aphrodite”

“Never doubt the gifts of Aphrodite”

“Never doubt the gifts of Aphrodite”

Oloriel is a poet and artist hailing from Belgrade, Serbia. She loves dreaming up things then making them happen, whilst also being a wife, mom, artist, photographer, translator and designer. Her greatest wish is to one day become a chef, and make the best pies in the world.  She blogs at color me in cyanide and cherry