Fawn- Introducing Jimmi Campkin

Whitby XXI.JPG[Photo by Jimmi Campkin]

Fawn

We’d convinced the girl behind the screen to let us climb the church tower.  We were both stoned beyond human comprehension – only nature could understand us now – but with her bored expression and indigo hair, we could see a kindred spirit.  Arms over shoulders we talked about the coming of the Lord, and how we needed to get really high, because we wanted to run our fingers through the clouds, and you kept spitting on the glass every time you tried to pronounce a hard ‘th’.  Never mind.  Our tickets were punched, and I swear I caught a smile as a lock of dark purple hair curled over an ear pockmarked with empty piercings.

Up the narrow stone steps we wound, tripping over each others ankles, inhaling all the smells of history – damp, dust and decay.  Emerging on a ledge, supported by one  thousand year old masonry, we stared up at the same sun from all those ages ago, and ran our fingers through the grooves left by people long since lost.  No tombs, no bones, no names, just the gashes in the rock.  I carved our initials into the soft stone to continue the journey.

Your lapdance around the spire was bizarre.  Uncordinated.  You stripped like a propeller rather than a dancer, flinging clothes and limbs everywhere.  Quoting The Dane, you screamed into the air; I have of late, wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth…

I sat down, watching you self destruct, what a piece of work…

Jimmi Campkin

[Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I also enjoy art and photography.  Clicking on the photography link will direct you to a few examples of my pictures, or if you prefer you can look at my artwork.  Most of my pictures, art and snippets from my stories also end up on my Instagram account (@jcampkin)
I welcome you to this site, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.]

Time and Sticks

By Aakriti Kuntal
Time and Sticks
My legs elongate
into uncertainty,
their uneven shapes masquerading
a rather even formlessness
Prickly clouds hang
with shaven heads
and Clot
the artery, the pace,
the rhythm of this slovenly existence
I tap the round edges of my calves
and meet the rising color of age,
a darkened maple hue,
accumulation of multiple days
cemented boundaries of blurring worm cells
fountains of tension and pain
Occasionally I think
I could bury myself in space,
Swallow vacuum like food and create a gaping hole,
a minute, a day, a lifetime
Anything that spells ‘ Okay ‘
Occasionally I think
I could burn onto the side table
and nothing will take notice
not the cold sheen of blue curtains
not the clocking lights in my room
That nobody will take notice
And suddenly I will be sliced into two,
two equally nonexistent dimensions of time and space

image courtesy of Aakriti Kuntal

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell

SAMSUNG CSC

Of the Sword Blade in the Sun – Jonathan O’Farrell

Some unstoppable truths.

A sword blade has two sides.

The craft of sword making is an old one.

It takes many true and uncompromising elements to make an excellent sword, the right metal, the dark matter that is elemental carbon, white heat of the fire, cleansing waters.

The sword, a strong and mostly unstoppable implement of war, it has two sides. Without both sides it is nothing, not sharp, not honed, not fit for purpose, be it war, defence, or peace keeping.

But when it is strong, true and honed it has unmistakable purpose. And that purpose is not stopped by shields, maybe delayed, but not stopped, ever.  As long as there is the strength of life in the arm that wields it, it will do its work.

Hold it up in the air, against an intense sunlight. If it be held broad side, you may see it. If it be held cutting edge facing into the sun, you may not see it. But at least in the radiant and uncompromising white light of day, you have a chance of seeing it, in all its very final glory.

A sword wielded in the dark of the night is the most dangerous, even to the hand on the shaft of it.

Be it either side of blade, day or night; done with skilled swordsmanship, or blindly thrust, in the dark, by a near do well, the result to the tender and open parts, at its journeys end, are the same, grievous injury, or death.

Wishing all parts of your being true honourable strength, wisdom and light.

Under the sun.

Jonathan O’Farrell Pantreon

[Jonathan is the newest member of Sudden Denouement. He is a brilliant writer and a photographer. We are honored by his contribution. Please check out my interview with Jonathan. – Jasper Kerkau]

 

Nothing I Could Do

2016-09-28-08-09-31-19

It was all so fleeting. The expression on her face says everything. After a terse exchange, I sense that we were both beholden to the past; there is no escaping it.

“Do you think it would ever be different?” She looks puzzled, lost. I am befuddled and confused. Incapable of doing anything. Words become useless ornaments that get discarded. It really didn’t matter what I said.

“I am going to go.” I posit, turning to the door slowly.

“It’s all very sad you know.” I can hear it in her voice. The finality is a haunting presence in the room. She continues, “I don’t know what to say. I just really don’t know what to say.”

“We should talk when I get back.” I suggest, but she and I both know that we will be in a different place then. It would be water under the bridge, just a dark pang that stabs the heart periodically.

“Okay, that sounds great. We will talk then.” Slowly she wipes a tear out of her eye. Embarrassed, she turns as I head to the door slowly, making one last attempt to think of anything that could fix everything.

“I still think of you the same way I did then, that day. It feels like a million years ago.” I walk out the door, silence to my back. There is nothing I can do; there is nothing either one of us could do for that matter. I get a lump in my throat and feel the sun beat down on my face as I walk out.

Jasper Kerkau

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective