Quietly incessant

by Oldepunk

I wasn’t always sure

About the noise in the background

Incessant, like the peeling of

A grimace in rush hour massacres

Pounding out the march of time

To rounded pupils and bloodshot

Veins that wrapped around conclusions

They claim names remain inane

I see some new faces on the pavement

air is thick with mistrust and ash

I know it’s not safe to breathe

There’s really no other alternative though, right?

Nodding on Himalayan chiba

Absorbing good news vibes

While the bad news bears play to lose

In the side streets, side stepping

Johnny law and copper johns

Did you hear that meth is a thing again

Don’t call it a comeback, it’s company certified now

Cheaper and harder than generic opioids and gin

Sundays and shit coffee and stale pastries

Freebasing the shame on the nails of

Mary Magdalene and asking if maybe

She was the one this whole time

I once knew a girl who looked like

My vision of the wife of a Messiah

Except she dressed like Lilith and wakizashi

She wrote me a Gospel unlike any other

My faith in her will be

the dirt of my grave

She spun up a speedball packed

With that Chelyabinsk fentanyl

Cooked herself the last supper

she ascended while surrounded

by a dozen other prophets

in a broken down rectory on

North Brother Isle

I would share her Book but I haven’t the words

To quite define the Spirit she conferred;

faith restored in self.

I regret I could not return the favor

Perhaps that’s how angels get back

Where they’re supposed to go

I tattooed Psalms of her movements

Upon the palms of my daughters hands.

Holy things can come in the strangest

Places that hum quietly incessant,

Prophecies behind a junkies teeth

_______________________________________________

Oldepunk writes in Texas with a pair of kids and cats.  Hockey junkie and music aficionado.  Read more at Ramjetpoetry.


Gallifrey Is Gone

by Nathan McCool

gallifrey

My home is at the heart of nomadic wandering.

If you were to understand

this kind of isolation, you too would

have to be the lone survivor of

ancient desolation.

All the wars now are fought endlessly

among my triple brain stems.

These wars that will take all my love.

These wars that time and dimension

cannot escape.

These wars that will leave me alone –

the last thing walking in the shadows.

My dearest friends, my greatest loves…

You know me. But you can not know

what is in me. That I see everything

at all times;

even at the ruination of the world

and the resurrection of my body.

How the beating of my two hearts

elapses in the lacuna where dual suns shine;

echoing with all the death in my wake that could

engulf all of time and space.

For all my love and good acts,

there is perhaps an even

greater vulnerability.

Because I’ve seen it all.

And I can tell you that I am alone.

Gallifrey is gone.

 


 Nathan McCool is a member of Blood Into Ink and the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. You can find the haint, dusk, and sizzling of his concrete snares on his blog, Mist of Melancholia.


 

To Quote Walt Whitman

by Mick Hugh

 

whitman

Are there pastorals in a pixel?

I’ve heard it said so.

That a perfect moment holds life’s memories…

yet the playback waits for death.

 

No better than the world

in a meek man’s hands:

show me the roses growing naturally in the graveyard,

or a romance with a wick for the years.

 

We can get high enough

if we run the old Buick

with the garage door shut.

 

We can get high

walking the Lincoln Tunnel,

or gasping for breath

from a Newark overpass.

 

A thousand office faces

find their dreams in computer screens,

still glowing when the day shuts its lights.

Wither the aortic valve,

just from a lack of use.

 

Lazy eyeballs,

cataracts,

myopic Coke-bottle glasses.

The smoke-stacks in a Cezanne.

Mesothelioma

in the gold mines of a wedding ring –

are we done yet?

 

Febrile seizures on a death-bed

awaken his famous past:

canyons in the skin

that ran the red of roses.

 

He’d take his books for walks

till his legs got lost,

down by the waterfront,

down Washington Street.

 

The clamor of half-built high-rises,

soot of the tent towns

under the highways:

the fast clacking of sharp shoes on the sidewalks,

a briefcase to withstand the bullets.

 

Strange creatures that lurked down the streets,

mange and tendon and quiet whisper.

The dog with chopped ears

pawed the Plexiglass shell,

and whimpered,

as the clerks and the lawyers brisked past.

 

A daisy grew in a pavement crack.

A daisy grew and the seasons churned

on a playback twice as fast.

Stop.

 

Stuck at a stop in the traffic-thronged street was a truck,

hauling concrete to the next empty lot, being filled.

The driver could barely be heard:

the hum of idling traffic,

the overpasses rumbling above;

 

beneath the sounds of airplane thrust

and the debates of World News Tonight,

the truck driver,

red faced,

barely heard,

shouting out,

“I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass!”

 


Mick Hugh is a writer for Sudden Denouement, and the groundskeeper at Mick’s Neon Fog.


 

Calling All Writers! Our Short Story Contest is Now Open For Submissions

The Contest is officially open!

Since its inception in 2016, The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective has had the privilege of featuring some of today’s most fearless writers. With members that span the globe and editors who share a passion for pushing boundaries, we as a collective have enjoyed reading, promoting, and watching the success of each individual artist as they have grown in their craft and left their mark upon the literary world.

Now, as writers and readers, editors and fans, we at Sudden Denouement Literary Collective are ecstatic to open up the doors to our outstanding, award winning collective, and invite you all in to pull up a chair and tell us your stories.

The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, and Sudden Denouement Publishing, are pleased to dip our toes into the waters of great literary contests and announce our first ever short story literary prize with a call for submissions from all of you.

Our theme is ‘Things Would Never Be The Same’ and our rules and regulations are as follows:

WHAT: You can submit ONE original, unpublished piece of fiction that is up to 2500 words. There is no minimum word requirement.

WHEN: The competition is open for submissions from November 1, 2018, to January 1, 2019

WHO: Everyone, everywhere

HOW: The Submit button at the bottom of the page.

WHAT YOU CAN WIN: 

1st place:
$100 cash
One copy of every book published by Sudden Denouement Publishing
Three guest spots featured on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019

2nd place:
$75 cash
One copy of three books published by Sudden Denouement Publishing
Two guest spots featured on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019

3rd place:
$50 cash
One copy of two books published by Sudden Denouement Publishing
One guest spot featured on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019

Honourable Mentions (2 places)
$25 cash
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019.

Good luck to you all, we look forward to reading your submissions.


submit

-The Editors of Sudden Denouement

Christine Ray – Composition of a Woman Like no Other

“The world needs strong women who will lift and build others, who will love and be loved. Women who live bravely, both tender and fierce. Women of indomitable will.” – Amy Tenney

I don’t know who Amy Tenney is, have never heard of her, nor read anything other than the above quote, (that I know of), that can be traced back to her, but after reading that very quote, I think Amy Tenney may know Christine Ray.

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If the heart of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective is the impressive collection of writers and their work, editors and their passion, readers and their appreciation, then surely Christine Ray has been a potent infusion of life for us all.

For the past two years, Christine Ray has been a valued, and much loved, member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. As a writer, Christine is nothing short of impressive. As a poet, Christine is nothing short of phenomenal. With her vivid imagery and the unfiltered passion she leaves on her page, it was no surprise when Christine developed a large following of fans and a rock solid appreciation and respect from her collective, and the writers who run tight in influential social media circles, none of which are an easy feat.

Always the first to read, comment, and share the work featured on SD onto her own sites, Christine played a huge role in bringing all of our work to people who wouldn’t normally see it, and then bringing devoted fans and readers back to SD.

It wasn’t long before Christine became an editor at SD, working closely with the writers to produce the very best content, all the while writing for, and maintaining her own growing site, Brave and Reckless, but she was also quickly tapped to become the managing editor of not only The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, but its sister site Whisper and The Roar as well.

Over the past two years Christine has given her all to this collective, and at times that has been a thankless and an exhausting job, yet she has continued to do it all just as she does everything she sets her mind and her heart to, with grace and determination. We, as a collective, have been fortunate to have spent these years under her ever-watchful eyes and her guiding light, and it is with our deepest thanks and our greatest appreciation that we bid farewell to her as editor of SD, and stand behind her as the biggest champions of her bright new future endeavours.

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Lost Voice – Christine Ray

siren’s golden voice
once dropped confident syllables
into air
as naturally as breathing
now stifled in constricted throat
that struggles to swallow
six-sided anxiety
hot, sour bile
college ruled notebooks
once full
of manic scribblings
compulsively captured in black ink
before inspiration could swirl down the floor drain
collect dust
sigh from disuse
pen now held in death grip
fingers have lost their grace
their nerve
fertile mind now an empty room
where silence rings
torturous tinnitus
blindfolded by fear
weight pressing down on shoulders
by the weight of giant
unseen inquisitor’s voice barks
Have you reached the bottom of yourself
are you so shallow
so barren?!
Or is truth so deeply hidden
that you must dive inside
hand to elbow buried into slippery entails
to reach it?
surgical implements laid out
with precision on a stainless tray
slide into view
no hesitation picking up sharp scalpel
with shaking fingers
a writer’s way is
always to bleed

“She was an angel that burst into my life and shone her brilliant light right into the eyes of my demons”

Christine is a wonderful writer & editor & it was through our shared love of poetry that our friendship was birthed. She is one of the strongest, most patient & inspiring women I know and it has been a pleasure to work alongside her often.
– Rachel Finch, author of A Sparrow Stirs Its Wings

Meme 14

“Christine Ray. I told her once I knew with a name like that, she’d go places. What I didn’t mention was she already has and does every day, she takes us with her too. What I didn’t mention was even if she was called Erma F. Sluggs, she’d go places, that’s just how bright her electric mind is.
Christine Ray came into my life as a writer, with a flash and from the moment I heard of her, she didn’t stop spitting electricity and fire. Routinely we over-use descriptors, the irony being Christine is often the source of those descriptors. She actually IS unstoppable. She actually IS the real deal. She actually IS on fire. (Okay so the last one is a slight exaggeration, but seriously, have you looked at the sky lately?).

Christine Ray has left an impact on my life already, as if she had resided there for its entirety. She doesn’t demand attention, she earns it, with every hard effort she makes to be basically the bad ass best at everything she does. Is this a Type A Personality? Hell, she invented the term.

It is both sad and wonderful that whilst Christine has long battled with exhaustion and illness, she is one of the most energetic minds I have had the privilege to meet, and she has a gift of putting intelligent and creative people together in ways that creative incredible happenings. Despite any set-back she has experienced or any trauma in her past, that would give her ample reason to bow out, Christine never does, she keeps going and she takes you with her.
On a bad day, Christine’s infectious energy and passion for writing and poetry, equals that of most of the rest of us. She has taught me to be more, do more, expect more. She has taught me that you can be broken and mangled and still find no excuse not to do your absolute best. Christine is an unwilling role-model in that she doesn’t seem to see her own shine, whilst everyone who ever meets her, sees it instantly. Her talents don’t know boundaries they defy even her own expectations.

I have been so honored to work with Christine over the years I’ve known her, and see her rise in our literary publishing and poetry circle to become one thing; Irreplaceable.

I wouldn’t bet on many people because you really don’t know, but I would bet on Christine. She’s a warrior, she’s a fighter, she’s a demon mind that doesn’t rest until she’s accomplished goals far beyond her reach and you know what? She succeeds. And nothing, not even herself, stops her from getting up the next day and doing the same thing. I admire the hell out of her, I also genuinely LIKE her as a human being and this is pretty rare because many passionate people can drive you crazy, but in Christine’s case, she only reminds us, to be more of what we can be, never less.

Christine has galvanized a huge group of people into a collective that has radically changed the quiet, detached safe world of poetry writing that hitherto existed on WordPress and beyond. She’s brought all of us together, she is a lightning rod and a fucking incredible human being and her poetry is devastatingly beautiful. I adore her. I applaud her. I will never feel anything ordinary about her.” – Candice Daquin, author of Pinch The Lock

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During her time at Sudden Denouement, and Sudden Denouement Publishing, Christine Ray has worked closely with dozens of today’s most impressive writers to bring their most impressive work to print. Christine was key in helping to establish Sudden Denouement Publishing and single-handedly compiled, designed, and edited ‘Anthology Volume I: Writings From The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective’ which was published in the summer of 2018 and remains one of SD’s proudest achievements.

As editor-in-chief, Christine helped bring not only two of Sudden Denouement’s most anticipated collections of 2018 to press: Rachel Finch’s debut collection, ‘A Sparrow Stirs Its Wings’ and Nicole Lyons’ third collection ‘Blossom and Bone’, but has also edited and added Eric Syrdal’s brilliant novel ‘Pantheon’ to SDP’s catalogue.

Never one to claim the spotlight for herself (though it shines for her) Christine has been the backbone, the kickstart, to each and every brilliant collaboration we have featured on SD.

“I’ve always been in awe of Christine. Not only in terms of her output as a poet, but in how much energy she puts into so many projects. Her level of commitment is like nothing else I have ever seen, and every time I’ve worked with her, she’s given 100%, even with so much on the go. From my early days in Sudden Denouement up to our recent collaboration, Christine has been supportive of me in so many ways, and without that support, and guidance, the last eighteen months wouldn’t have been as satisfying as they have. I’d like to thank her for everything she’s done, not only for me, but for so many others, and I hope she continues to shine her light as brightly as she’s done for a long time coming.” – S.K. Nicholas, author of The Journal For Damned Lovers Volumes I-III

FAITH DON’T LIE – Christine Ray & S.K. Nicholas

It was with great pleasure, and one of SDP’s shining accomplishments, that we were lucky enough to bring Christine’s own debut collection ‘Composition of a Woman’ to press. It is pure Christine Ray – amplified – and we couldn’t be any more proud to feature such a stunning work.

Though Christine has stepped down from SD as editor, all is not lost; she is still a much loved and valued member of the collective and we will continue to publish her work while we promote her exciting new adventures like Indie Blu(e) and Indie Blu(e) Publishing.

“Christine is a tough and tender wild thing, a brilliant writer and editor, and a ferocious friend. She has talent, an eye for it, and a gift for bringing it out in others. She especially has a gift for turning trauma into triumph and encouraging others to do the same. I am proud to call Christine a friend, and invigorated to know that this friendship will last a lifetime. On all levels, Christine is an amazing person. It is a privilege to know her and read her work. I am excited to see where her ambitions will lead her next!”

-Georgia Park, Private Bad Thoughts

We look forward to reading and promoting the brilliant artists and the work Christine and her team at Indie Blu(e) are set to publish very soon.

Here’s a little sneak peek of Christine’s second book of poetry, ‘The Myths Of Girlhood’ slated for publication with IB very soon:

High Quality image Mitch.PNG

The Myths of Girlhood – Christine Ray

we were spoiled

for reality

by milk chocolate-coated fairy tales

force fed us as girls

made to swallow

not spit

myths about beauty

love

sex

taught that only pretty, pretty princesses

would be awoken by

true love’s first kiss

impossible standards of beauty

femininity

made for

bitter cherry centers

that left us empty

starving

hollow

how old were we

when we learned

that mere mortal girls

like us

would never be beautiful enough

thin enough

kind enough

pure enough

to win Prince Charming’s gold enrobed heart?

we ate up the lessons that with the right make-up

the right clothes

shoes

if we took enough quizzes

in Seventeen magazine

about how to be popular

how to catch his eye

contorted ourselves into pretzels

we might almost be enough

to be invited to dance at the ball

drink a brief taste of the pink champagne dream

before the clock struck midnight

and we turned back

into pumpkins

 

From all of us at Sudden Denouement, and Sudden Denouement Publishing, thank you Christine, for all you have done for us and for all you have given of yourself. You are irreplaceable, unforgettable, and we hold you in the highest esteem.

Sudden Denouement’s First Short Story Literary Prize – Open For Submissions Nov 1, 2018

Since its inception in 2016, The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective has had the privilege of featuring some of today’s most fearless writers. With members that span the globe and editors who share a passion for pushing boundaries, we as a collective have enjoyed reading, promoting, and watching the success of each individual artist as they have grown in their craft and left their mark upon the literary world.

Now, as writers and readers, editors and fans, we at Sudden Denouement Literary Collective are ecstatic to open up the doors to our outstanding, award winning collective, and invite you all in to pull up a chair and tell us your stories.

The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, and Sudden Denouement Publishing, are pleased to dip our toes into the waters of great literary contests and announce our first ever short story literary prize with a call for submissions from all of you.

Our theme is ‘Things Would Never Be The Same’ and our rules and regulations are as follows:

WHAT: You can submit ONE original, unpublished piece of fiction that is up to 2500 words. There is no minimum word requirement.

WHEN: The competition is open for submissions from November 1, 2018, to January 1, 2019

WHO: Everyone, everywhere

HOW: While the competition is active, submit your piece online through Submittable.

WHAT YOU CAN WIN: 

1st place:
$100 cash
One copy of every book published by Sudden Denouement Publishing
Three guest spots featured on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019

2nd place:
$75 cash
One copy of three books published by Sudden Denouement Publishing
Two guest spots featured on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019

3rd place:
$50 cash
One copy of two books published by Sudden Denouement Publishing
One guest spot featured on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019

Honourable Mentions (2 places)
$25 cash
*possibility of publication in Sudden Denouement’s first short story anthology – 2019.

Check back on November 1, 2018 when submissions will be opened.

Good luck to you all, we look forward to reading your submissions.

-The Editors of Sudden Denouement

 

Nuance of Damage – David Lohrey

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Nuance of Damage
I.
Hope is faster than light,
its speed beyond measure.
It’s alive, today, but what about
tomorrow? Easy come, easy…
I need something to build up
my courage.

One advantage is sleep, an endurance test:
a locomotive or a pillow. We learn to calculate
the commotion. Suck the straw, hang out, hit the hay.
Who’s to say? One cedes territory, one
establishes boundaries, one signs along
the dotted line. Some choose Southern exposure.

Gross indecencies stare us down. Our calm is our
rebellion. It’s the last frontier. Benumbed, confounded,
lost in space. We escape confinement like water, searching,
but what of our aversion to chaos? Our taste for the
tranquil. Must we be held in contempt for despising
aggression, our preference for the impassive?

It’s massive: jest. Or condescension. We cultivate superiority;
we celebrate death: theirs, hers, his. Inoculation. Innocence.
Quest. It’s a matter of combining ingredients, the right balance,
justice. Too much won’t do. There’s much too much parsley.
One less grain of sand. The handyman’s muscles are too big.
The phone keeps ringing. Where’s the drain?

There’s anguish in repetition. I prefer hilarity. The monks won’t go.
Offer them a martini. Thelonious learned to tread lightly
as one should. Deer in the headlights, grizzly bear, a flamingo: there.
Notoriety ruins everything. Ask the Princess. I like to stay in bed.
Back to basics. Sunny-side up. He refuses to remove his boxing gloves;
he grunts and the world stands still. Rebellion begins with rest.

II.

Who started the fires? Many are drawn to the flames – men and women
in equal number. They clamber to get closer. They take off work to travel:
the flames climbing higher, engulfing, filling the skies. The smoke gets in
everything; there are ashes in the houses, on the carpets. Many stand still
and hold out their tongues. They tear off their clothing. They crave the heat.
They’re excited by the smell of ruin. They’re delirious.

The fires mean trouble. The people can’t tell the difference
between fireworks and flames. They welcome the fires with tribal dances.
The women bare their breasts. It excites the men. The logs in the fireplace
have rolled into the living room but the people are too drunk to push them back.
They’re laughing. They’re excited that something’s finally happening.
They’re so bored the thought of burning the house down makes them giddy.

The gals want their backsides smacked. The men get close
enough to the flames to singe their body hair. The women shriek.
The parents no longer watch the children. Many die running into the flames.
The parents shrug. What’s the difference? The children carry fiery
logs about and throw them into the cars. They take hot sticks and poke
out each other’s eyes.

The parents don’t know what to do, but declare with a sense of urgency
there is nothing to be done. It’s all beyond them; it’s fate.
They move closer to the fires. They’ve burned all their clothes.
They have nothing on. They push the children away and commence
to fornicate in the ashes. The men relieve themselves on the hot coals.
Many children catch fire.

They move back to the caves when the fires burn down. They remove
the paintings from their frames to use the wood as kindling.
The museums are ransacked. Libraries are emptied. They desperately
raid the theatres for wood from the stage floors. In short order,
there’s nothing left. The fires die out. The men and women crouch
in their earthen holes and cry.

Some brave women venture out but quickly regret it.
Most hide themselves deep within. Much if not all is lost.
The fires burn out. When there was fire and music,
nudity seemed sexy, but now the women are cold.
They feel ugly like insects. The men don’t caress them;
they kick them. The sexes are not equal.

III.

My guardian won’t let me out to play.
She told me to amuse myself in my room.
She doesn’t want me to get wet.
She’s afraid the neighbor’s dog might bite.
I have some games I can play all by myself.
My guardian is always worried.

It’s been raining now for several days.
The traffic’s slowed to almost a stand still.
The newscaster warns people to stay indoors.
The house is insured against flooding.
A boy last year drowned in the local river.
I was told to get up on the roof in an emergency.

It’s been 7 years since they outlawed music.
My guardian told me to stop humming.
Girls are advised to always dress in layers.
The marauders use giant nets and even carry bug spray.
The men look for frightened girls like me.
I was captured and sold to my guardian six years ago.

I always wear leotards and my bathing suit at the same time.
My guardian scarred my face so I wouldn’t look pretty.
You can hear the firing squads in the distance.
Girls must avoid detection at all costs.
I can pass for a boy from a distance.
My guardian trained me to fight with a sharp blade.

We’ve been living like this for as long as I can remember.
The police dress entirely in black now and cover their faces.
If pregnant, they line you up and shoot you.
There’s an escape route my guardian talks about through Alaska.
They threw my boyfriend off the bridge and into the water.
The toxic spray they use is so strong it induces labor.

I remember hearing my mother sing.
My guardian says I could pass for a boy.
They say we have a 20% chance of survival.

IV.
Shelter in place: this is the advice one needs.
After a life of turmoil and defeat,
it’s best to stay indoors. Hide. Place your head
between your knees. They’ve been telling
us this for years, but I never listened.
I was too busy trying to take over.

Genghis Khan with a phone I was called; now,
all I wish is to get along. I just want to be free.
Don’t involve me. I’d just as well not come, thanks.
I’m content to stay, lay back, kick it. Let the world go by,
along with the riff raff. My God, what a sight. My mother
was right not to let me play with the neighbors.

What happened to the innocence? We were kind, don’t let them
tell you otherwise. These are lies. We were true blue. And
sweet, I kid you not. We were John Wayne’s children. We were
Frankenstein’s playmates. We made cakes with our mothers.
We even ate mommy’s lipstick. We sipped grandma’s elderberry
wine, but I’ll tell you this, we never took the Lord’s name in vain.

We hated our gym teacher, but we never called him a motherfucker.
It never crossed our minds. I can remember the first day that word
was introduced to the American people, the very first day it was
used in public. We said golly, gosh or darn, not shit. We said we were
sorry and bent over to bare our bottoms. We took our punishment
like a man. We didn’t sue. We didn’t curse. We never pursed our lips.

Now we have to hide. The news reporter announced that all the world’s
troubles could be traced back to us, yes, that means, you and me. The
social justice warriors, once known as scavengers and marauders, are
on the hunt; they’ve been trained in name-calling, finger-pointing, and
manufacturing nerve gas. Our well-wishers have fled the country.
They’re living in Canada with the Eskimo. They kill seal and eat caribou.

We’ll have to keep the lights out. Our teacher has piled the chairs against
the door. She’s asked the gunman if he would please let us live. He said,
“Shut the fuck up.” He’s a nervous wreck. His eyes are glazed over and he
foams at the mouth. He called our dear teacher a stupid cunt. “Open up!”
He’s determined to kill us all. He wants to make the world a better place.
He’s fighting for justice. “We are the world now,” he says, “not you.”

Machiavelli’s Backyard is Available at Amazon.com, Amazon Canada, Amazon Europe, Book Depository and other major book retailers.
Paperback, 106 pages/Published September 1st 2017 by Sudden Denouement Publishing
David Lohrey was born on the Hudson River but grew up on the Mississippi in Memphis. He currently teaches in Tokyo. He has reviewed books for The Los Angeles Times and The Orange County Register, has been a member of the Dramatists Guild in New York, and he is currently writing a memoir of his years living on the Persian Gulf. His latest book, The Other Is Oneself: Postcolonial Identity in a Century of War: 20th Century African and American Writers Respond to Survival and Genocide, is available on Amazon.com. He is also the author of Machiavelli’s Backyard from Sudden Denouement Publishing