I have just concluded an interview with Nolan Devine (Gabfrab). I am very appreciative for him agreeing to talk about his craft with us. He is a writer who possesses a unique voice. Interview will be posted in the next few days. In the meantime, you can find his writing here.
At night there is a silence gently broken by the moaning of the walls: Vast landscapes and skylines and pink insulation. At daybreak comes the screaming, the kid still in need of weening, a breakfast still in need of eating: toast for the road. Sit at a desk. Sit at a desk. Sit at a desk. Did you know that daffodils grow wild in the woods? Stare long enough while driving and you will see. A cultural project to beautify these streets: Days pass in the blandness of inner eyelids. At night in the quiet and your fantasies shrouded in dark, cut sharp by the quick panic of a deadline missed at work. The soft pillow: you couldn’t care less. Couldn’t care less for rose-colored lips. Couldn’t care less for well-padded paychecks. Couldn’t care less about a liver-rot death.
Your heart is the size of your fist. Learn how to throw it.
It must be nice to see one’s work issued by the government.
You have to give her credit for it, she made an industry
out of having had a hard time of it, even if today she lunches
with the likes of Oprah and Jessica Mitford.
Had there been enough good parts, she could have
made a fine actress. She would have made a powerful Josie
Hogan, you know, from that play by Eugene O’Neill, or that
haunting wife of Macbeth, or, better yet, Hamlet’s dear mother.
Instead, she became a bestselling poet.
Something about her reminds me of a circus, a tented
carnival with a snake-man called Scaly and a three-breasted
lady. Step right up and hear her tale of unparalleled woe.
Avoid the door on the right, or you might get her confused
with the tattooed midget in yellow tights and his aqua tunic.
Tell the tale of your miserable past: how
you were beaten and mistreated, and how
you experienced unwanted advances. Why not
explain once again what it was like to have to eat
barbecued bologna on Christmas morning?
Now there’s human suffering.
The royalties mount beyond anyone’s count.
Rake it in while it lasts. There’s the 5-bedroom townhouse
in a fashionable part of Harlem, the mansion down
in swampy Carolina, a wee property along the Hudson
and, rumor has it, a pied-á-terre in a posh section of Paris.
The newest new book is just coming out in a new
waterproof edition. The text, it is said, glows in the dark,
so it can be read underwater, or you can get one that floats.
It is scheduled to appear later this month in coordination
with her new show, Big Woe, the new Broadway Musical.
Have your say, as they say, but be sure to count your earnings.
Some might say it is too much to dare. When you wear earrings
and things from Tiffany’s, it gets harder and harder to ask for
sympathy. You might wind up like some of your devoted readers,
much too rich to notice a little girl in need of affection.
David Lohrey’s plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and
Lithuania. In the US, his poems can be found at the RavensPerch, New
Orleans Review, Nice Cage, and The Drunken Llama. Internationally, his
work appears in journals located in the UK, the Netherlands, India,
Malawi, and Hungary. His fiction can be seen at Dodging the Rain, Terror
House Magazine, and Literally Stories. David’s collection of poetry,
MACHIAVELLI’S BACKYARD, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishers.
He lives in Tokyo. You can read more of his writing at Writing, Musing, Poetry
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.
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 https://hjdpoetry.wordpress.com/
I called my father today and told him that his death
will give me closure.
“Why don’t you jump off the balcony
while I’m talking to you? You’ll do us all a favor,”
I said, seething with rage.
Echoes of abuse never become whispers;
the past lies mangled like the hind leg of a deer
in the mouth of a lion,
the future is as cut up as paper put through
a voice in the dark
that’s as sharp as a blade screams, “Injustice!”
But does that give me a right to become the very man
I detested growing up?
A tormented, tortured, theatrical fool,
a disgruntled, discontented, disgusting do-nothing,
an uneasy, unstable, unsettled madman.
I wish there was more to life than
looking at my shattered reflection,
I wish there was more than drowning
in a green abyss of self-loathing and hate,
I wish there was someone who’ll love me
unconditionally and help me purge the
But I’ve realized that this arid valley of dry bones
is the only place I’ll ever know.
Nitin Lalit Murali is a poet, flash fiction writer and essayist from
Bangalore, India. He also enjoys reading literature of different genres
and listening to jazz and neo-classical music. He started writing seven
years ago and art has consumed him over the years. He blogs regularly at
Fighting the Dying Light
I remember she once told me; the funny thing about endings is that they never happen. By the time you reach it, you’re already past it. Likewise we can never experience tomorrow, it is always just out of arms reach. She was always saying stuff like this; it sounded profound but then she once told me that only men die, women just sleep until it is time to wake up. I was having a panic attack at the time and this apocalyptic vision of women emerging out of a cemetery did nothing to help.
I hurl another rock into a jet black ocean. She’s running late but I have a comfortable spot, several small stones and pebbles, three pathetic little flowers clinging onto the pier and a few thousand miles of uninterrupted empty horizon to stare into.
I dangle my feet over the edge and feel a vertiginous swelling in the pit of my stomach, up my esophagus. I feel top-heavy as though I might topple forwards, and I’m aware of my shoes being loose on my feet. The stones of the pier sink into the silt below and I think I am sliding forwards so I grab hold of the ground either side of me and cling on. Below me the water laps, disinterested in one more fragile little soul. No birds in the sky today, just heavy bloated clouds fighting through a film of brown pollution.
When I stare at the sea for too long I see faces in the waves. Often they protest or cry out, so many drowned sailors and regretful suicides, but sometimes I see a beatific face beaming out, inflected by the rays of an underwater sun, a soul at peace with itself and its journey. When the wind whips across from the frozen North the faces sink away for the white horses to gallop and crash, falling over each other and throwing their jockeys into the ether.
She tells me often that my eyes are like the sea; still and grey or furious and white. She cups my hands, blows warm air into my palms and kisses my forehead. In those moments I forget that I have ever felt cold in my life. When they arrive I run to the storms to watch the sea clawing at the land, allowing huge waves to crash over the defenses soaking me, and I feel the warm furnace beating inside my ribs evaporating the water from my body and leaving a film of salt. In those moments I am untouchable, unsinkable, invincible.
I throw another rock and I see faces scrambling to devour it like so many hungry fish. The ground feels steady now and I am brave enough to rest my hands in my lap, to kick my legs freely knowing that I won’t lose my shoes. To my left I can hear the crunch of a pair of sneakers approaching. A pair of legs appears in my peripheral vision and a familiar hand tousles my hair and strokes the back of my neck.
Crouching onto her haunches she asks me; what are you thinking about?
David Lohrey’s plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and Lithuania. In the US, his poems can be found at the RavensPerch, New Orleans Review, Nice Cage, and The Drunken Llama. Internationally, his work appears in journals located in the UK, the Netherlands, India, Malawi, and Hungary. His fiction can be seen at Dodging the Rain, Terror House Magazine, and Literally Stories. David’s collection of poetry, MACHIAVELLI’S BACKYARD, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishers. He lives in Tokyo. You can read more of his writing at Writing, Musing, Poetry
And so I rest upon my one, good, in inverted commas,
right eye and it works harder
and I work harder,
maintaining slices of routine.
amidst all those banks of fog.
Morningtide, I pray, eveningtide, I pray.
I think for now, that’s all I can do
and hope, the good hope.
“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: