Sudden Denouement is seeking new writers

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Writing is often a solitary vocation. Sudden Denouement is a community of like-minded individuals who strive to promote each other’s writing. We offer a community of best writers in the world, and also offer the option of publishing. Please send a sample of your writing to Jasperkerkauwriting@gmail.com.

Jasper Kerkau

 

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

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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]

 

I Survived the Storm – Jasper Kerkau

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I Survived the Storm – Jasper Kerkau

I survived the storm. Watched everything explode and evaporate in the slow waters of time, billowing out of the dirty earth, inching up sidewalks, devouring curbs, and quiet lives. It all goes away so quickly, the boring conversations, the Sunday afternoons, and fried chicken, the little lives of misery, heaped into the darkness, left silent in dusty rooms, soaked and miserable. Civility and comfort are all so fleeting. I shed the rain, the moon, the failures and regrets, bury heart and words under the pillow. I give them their leisure, and I take a million crosses and deformed shrines, puked up the unnatural pleasures and, alas, have all the pain.
I survived the storm. Molding my stars, peeling off the television and cycles of vomit and bile filtering through every fiber of my being. It is theirs; it is not mine. I will run in circles for eternity, eat fire, and resign myself to the arms of a beautiful girl with a big heart. I stuff mediocrity and resentment in empty potato chip bags and give back to the earth, hoping it will be recycled the next time around. A one-thousand-year event. A speck in time. A sneeze and cough on the big toe of forever. I will eat the water out of hand, starve no more. Drive away dark clouds and find the golden rainbows in my heart. Everything will be okay this time. The sun will come out, and it will all go away.

[Jasper Kerkau is co-creator, editor, and writer for Sudden Denouement, as well as the creator of The Writings of Jasper Kerkau.]

Glow-in-the-dark Annuals – Mick Hugh

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Glow-in-the-dark Annuals – Mick Hugh (Mick’s Neon Fog)

You were sitting outside the bar on the patio, picking petals from the daisies in the planter on the railing. I was seated at a separate table nearby, because you had asked me to find another seat. We weren’t speaking for the moment: the conversation had been high-tide with an undercurrent I was too stupid to avoid. I told the waiter I was buying your drinks, and had him fill the table with rum-and-cokes until finally he said Enough; my credit card had been declined. Last week we had left for a festival, driven an hour outside of town, just for you to decide you no longer wanted to go. I turned the radio loud to drown you out and you opened your door and I skidded to a stop on Route 70. You got out. And of course I turned around half-an-hour later and found you pouting in the dust the tractor-trailers kick up along the shoulder. We didn’t speak, but we weren’t angry. I had a difficult time being angry — we met when you were picking sunflowers in the park, and when I finally caught your eye you had irises as thin as mine. Your skin was as thin as mine, and it only took us a matter of minutes to shed our skin and expose the blood vessels that bubbled the beauty into our lives. The little pinches of flesh on your arms and the nape of your neck, soft as dawn and golden. You could sing like Janis Joplin and illustrate the poetry of the pouring rain, and when I reached inside of you I found home and the hillsides I’d dreamt of roaming as a kid. Your mother was a hippy, your father itinerant. We had everything in common in a box of mismatched shoes. And when I held your hand I had looked inside, and saw a little black star in a palm full of rising light. I admit, I was immensely drawn and intrigued. There was nothing for us in this timeline. I bought a trailer on the edge of the city because you were the first I could tell myself I loved. You let it last for four beautiful months. Yet I had seen the timeline. I had seen the fistfights and the holes in the wall and I wasn’t surprised to witness my fears come to life. But what I wanted more than ever was to crawl inside of you. There was a beauty there, and even deeper, something darker true. By summer you came and went as you pleased. Days gone to god knows where, cryptic text messages from the shadows of dawn. I ripped apart your nostalgic doll and left you no choice but to sleep in my car. Cry out your eyes and let me find the reason why I could ever be so stupid. Drink myself into a stupor, you drove me to it. Every night for a week listing names of my friends and every little thing you did with them.
But then again, I knew both of your parents were dead — still, I needed to see the blackened centers of the sunflowers.

[Mick Hugh is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and Sudden Denouement Publishing.  He is the creator of Mick’s Neon Fog.]

Writer Spotlight: Ward Clever – Demons, Unicorns, and Cupid’s Assassins

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[Photo Lillian Gish]

We will be spotlighting our writer’s periodically. Today, I wanted to focus on the work of Ward Clever and his page Demons, Unicorns, and Cupid’s Assassins. I became aware of Ward’s work early on in my journey on WordPress and having him in our humble collective has been a great joy.  His latest work, The Knife, Sharpened; The Senses, Dulled, showcases his mastery of language, as well as his sage-like wisdom. Please take a moment and read his latest work.

https://wardclever.wordpress.com/

Jasper Kerkau

 

 

Rebuild A Heart-valve – Mick Hugh

The rain had beaten holes in our backs and it was my idea to come here. 2,000 miles from home. You owned a Mazda and I owned a dream, and together we had $40 and no place to sleep. So we did what we always did best. We scrounged, rags and happiness up and down the sidewalk. New friends, old acquaintances, same familiar taste for bum wine. No mattress but a pile of blankets on an old neighbor’s floor but the walls were hard and hid our dirty fucking well. Drunk on rooftops, drunk in alleys, drunk in bars, drrrrrrunk in the library ‘cus it opened at 7 just after the sun and had couches in the stacks to hide our bum lovin’ selves. Towers shined downtown. Neons shined crosstown near the arena. Eyes shined tits shined cocks shined. Dreams hid behind clouds. Nose bled. Knuckles bled in drywall. Hunger struck well. Fever came to days flush red with sun baking without a drop on the promenade. Dry-out, please just dry-out. Uptown sprints to catch delivery trucks, clandestine missions lifting cases of cans. Rowdy downtown. Rowdy uptown. Rowdy ‘cross the college campus getting sex out of wild freshmen. You were talking ‘bout New Jersey and the hills you grew up in. You moved our blankets to the far side of the floor. Leave me stranded, will you, just lock the god damn door? Sail off in your pretty cloud ship, leave the wasteland far behind. You had the keys and the gas and the paycheck I couldn’t steal, a heart I couldn’t hear. I’ll guide you to the alley and watch you beg for bread. Hike up those legs and shut the god damn door. Shut the door and let me wander and close your eyes till I get back. Let me see it from a distance.

I’ll come back sane.


[Mick is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement, as well as being creator of Mick’s Neon Fog. He has been published in various publications, most recently in Junto Magazine.]

 

Mick Hugh “Casket on the Fulcrum” Junto Magazine

 

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One of my favorite writer’s Mick Hugh, also a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement, recently had a short story published in Junto Magazine. The title of the short story is “Casket on the Fulcrum.” It is indicative of the kind of work we have come to expect from Mick Hugh. I would hope our writers and readers would take a second and read Mick’s story. I am often overwhelmed by the writing of Mick Hugh. His potential is limitless. Please check out his site Mick’s Neon Fog.