Sudden Denouement New Writer Submissions Details/Dates

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 It doesn’t have to be unpublished, merely something that represents your voice as a writer.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Members of Sudden Denouement are asked to submit one unpublished piece of writing a month.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.

Sudden Denouement Seeking Submissions for New Writers


Sudden Denouement started a little over three years ago with a vision of creating a platform for divergent voices. We have grown tremendously and have been gifted with amazing talent from around the world. We are now soliciting submissions for new writers. If you are interested, please send a sample of your work, along with a short bio. We are interested in those who write poetry, short fiction, or any form that lends itself to the format.

If interested please send submissions to:


Sustenance: Conversations part 1 Jasper Kerkau

The Writings of Jasper Kerkau


I pondered the last thing she said about the meal before I began to ponder the concept of eating only for sustenance. It is my best guess that in the near future food consumption will not be a devilish sport for first worlders, rather an evolved act revolved around eating cubes or squares that have a natural balance of proteins, fiber, and essential vitamins. I would share my evolutionary philosophy, but the tension I feel coming from her does not invite such an unsolicited departure in conversation.

“Your point is not lost on me,” she begins half-chewing, pointing with her fork as she scrambles to get to the heart of things. “I just do not feel that you are really thinking things through. You seem to think you have everything figured out.”

“I don’t think we should have dessert.”

“That is so random and such bullshit.” She takes her hands…

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Eyes Screaming

Brilliant piece of writing from a master.

Heartstring Eulogies

“I hope my eyes tell you
every moment of every day
that my heart belongs to you.”

When my lungs no longer breathe air, remember that fire is what sustains me. When my blood turns black, know that words need to be spilled. And when my eyes linger on you for a few extra moments, know that it’s me, screaming inside my head, trying desperately to let the words flow from my mouth. Just remember those hidden messages in my eyes that tell you every moment of every day, my heart belongs to you.

© Sarah Doughty

Just as it always has.

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Potato Chips

One day the world is going to come calling.

Mick's Neon Fog

I’ve touched roses and smelled the sweet blossoms of spring. Naked in the summer moonshine. I’ve stood on the low-tide breakers at dawn, sun rise over the Caroline coast. Beauty, as you’d have it, golden leaves that drift to the lawn –I am no stranger: a come-home whiff of birch burning on a fire stove. The slow fall of snowflakes that christen the lawn. We’re children, in the comfort of the warmth indoors. Shake-out a cold sweater. Leave the dust for the motes. Wake for the burning sun.

The sun was soft for the graduation field. Black gowns and black caps. The rays down on the principal who spoke his peace: Love, economy, success. The wealth of nations, the burden of gods. Soak in the righteous face of a dollar. Stand up! This is your time to speak. The doctor is here to see you, he is the CEO. No…

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food for crows

Olde Punk is a friend and inspiration.

RamJet Poetry

food for crows

gasping, gaping. Metastasis. It glows in the corner as a fire fly’s mouth. Deep molasses of a moonless Southern night. It has a need of its own. There is a name on the door but no one knows who it belongs to anymore. That seed was scattered and crop failed. Erasure, in gilded gloaming. The craft of wetwork still decorates some of old pine floor. l’satan lo. Obstruction, judgement. The weather vane is rusted in a westerly position. Adverse to meaning, this pain is still subjective. There was never a time in this place where the low dogs didn’t whine. There was never a place in this time that felt so wrong.

Perhaps your wrongness was mine. They used to burn the witches in the square. Malleus Maleficarum. It happened just before the end. These things often do at All Hallow’s, reaping, Samhain. Desperation, fear, hunger. I remember the…

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David Lohrey is the personification of Sudden Denouement.


David Lohrey

The Crime of Understanding

He tells me Fashion has a purpose.
“You’re not against anything,” I say.
This is part of the problem. People
defend the end of the world, explain
it, like they don’t care. Like if they
understand it, they can control it.

I say denounce it. Call a spade a spade.
Bring back the capacity to object: tell
those boys to keep it down. Remind the
little ones to get dressed. We are losing
our will to power; we’ve given up.
That’s what Voltaire has done.

We’re not born free. We confuse ourselves
with lions. We are born with little.
They put us into cages. Tell your mother
to stick that rattler up her ass. Sucking
on plastic won’t get you anywhere. Get
dressed and stop wearing underwear.

Cry out. Protest your decapitation.
Life is a luxury. Stop playing it cool.
Renounce your throne. Cross…

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You’d done the same. Henna Johansdotter

Isn’t it easier to be
to beat the world to tainting your name?
the hospital says they won’t have me
no one wants to nurse a grenade
suffering is a shield I will wed it if I have to
now it seems strange for a person so obviously in love with words
not to know a single way to say “stay”
I was never art until I learned how to hurt
I’m an attentive student I lick the words I eject
to see if they still taste of you
the flavor of Revenge:sickly sweet:
people will tell you our story is about love
I say it’s about survival
each defeat hands me a choice
and in the end
I always end up saving myself

Henna Johansdotter, the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. Find her at


Iulia Halatz – All roads lead to Rome


Ellen Rogers 2

All roads lead to Rome

All roads lead to Rome
and poetry
-Delmore Schwartz

All words lead to Love
And the poetry in the afterLove

I wish I wrote poems
For the dreamers of barren lands.
They do not go to Rome
They go to places
That cannot be.

Maybe love is a colorless, odorless
shapeless haze
We see through
with the eyes of
the bricked sky,
pathless oceans
walled shrubberies
streeted lunarian trails
breathing and tingling
In the perfect nightmare
of flowers…
Vines reward our sun
with the sweetness
of grapes
wedded in perpetuity with
the linear shades of amber.

From the Good Place
Where joy is an illumination
To the Place that Cannot Be
They would have worn
The silver claw
of the Moon
above their heads
Art by Ellen Rogers.

Iulia Halatz

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.



The Heat of Her Gaze


S. K. Nicholas


As time momentarily ceased its wicked game, I stood there in the heat of her gaze. Naked. Just bones. Less than bones, a soul squirming before the watchful eye of God. She was still my girl, and I was still her boy, and even though we were older, and our bodies had begun their gradual slide into the great celestial grave, just the sight of her put the feels into my heart. She didn’t move, and neither did I. Her eyes bore into mine with no trace of emotion on her face save for the slightest almost invisible trembling of her lower lip. I opened my mouth to speak, and then decided against it. In her arms, she held an old cat that looked at me with a hint of recognition, and of which I in turn recognised but from where I couldn’t quite say. What might’ve been strange for…

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