The Gift I Saved For You – Introducing Stephanie Bennett-Henry


I spent a lot of time crawling
around in the dark
trying to avoid the unknown places
where monsters hide.
Careful not to wish for anything,
in fear those wishes would turn
into nightmares
waking me with the cold sweat of fear.
And I slept with one eye open
or I never slept at all.
Sometimes I think maybe
I’ve been sleepwalking
this whole time.
There’s some comfort in that thought.
That I’ll wake up
in a dark hallway and recognize
my surroundings as the home
I believed in, a dream come true
that didn’t wake me to say…
“I was never more than lies disguised as bricks”,
wood painted over with two coats
of someone laughing at me.
But that comfort is nothing
more than a security blanket
I wrap myself in and it’s shredded.
I’m saving those pieces for you.
The monsters found their hiding place
in your eyes and I’ve been counting for years.
Ready or not… here I come…
when you least expect it.
I’m bringing those pieces back to you.
Because it’s only fair
for you to feel each one
until it ruins you.

Stephanie Bennett-Henry – Poetry of SL

Stephanie Bennett-Henry is a fierce poet who speaks with the beautiful tone of courage. She boldly proclaims, “No one can take the Fire out of your soul…” and “I have stood my ground, I am not breaking.” Her work is rife with poetic defiance. We are honored by her participation. Please look at her bio and more of her wonderful body of work:

Poetry of SL
Stephanie Bennett-Henry
Raging Rhetoric


Divergent Literature Contest UPDATE


There are only three days left in the Sudden Denouement Divergent Literature Contest. December 1st the submissions will be judged by panel of contributors from Sudden Denouement.  We will start posting finalist shortly thereafter. The finalists will be notified in advanced.

Panel Includes:

We have received many, many wonderful submissions. It has been a gift to be able to talk to so many of you. It has been the most rewarding part of the process. I look forward to speak more of you in the near future.

We are pleased to announce that we will be posting several new writers this week. Tomorrow we are posting a work by Stephanie Barrett-Henry. She is someone we have been aware of for some time, and, to say the least, it is an honor to be able to publish her work. We will be publishing a work by Mai Winters, Multitudes, who possesses amazing talent.  In addition to Mai, we are going to be featuring a poem by Max Meunier.

That would normally be enough, but we will also be presenting a new work by the incomparable Nicole Lyons of The Lithium Chronicles. She is a tremendously talented writer, contributing editor/writer for Sudden Denouement, and one of our favorite people.

Lastly, Miss Georgia Park is starting a feminist collective called Whisper to the Roar.  She is currently looking for contributors/collaborators. Submit your poetry to Georgia at

Jasper Kerkau


bow Wow – Georgia Park


bow Wow Georgia Park (Private Bad Thoughts & Whisper and the Roar)

I want the TSA

to smash my dog’s

little safety box into bits

instead of just the disposable lock

made especially for smashing

after the thirteen hours she spent in it

in cargo far from my place in the cabin

and then after landing

 I hear her cries,  desperate

but I’m not be able to touch her

until we clear customs


I free her in Chicago

and dump her into the car

 someone brings for us

painstakingly prearranged

I don’t count on the headache

the pressure the dog fur

out of reach


someone brings the car for us

to drive back in my homeland

after three years locked out of it

the chatter on the radio sounds foreign

American accented English

-it’s hard to listen-


Driving in America is different.

I bow to every driver who passes

like a good Korean

and then I start nodding…

it’s the 24 hour difference

I just can’t manage

my dog is alive

and I am so 

bone tired….

[Georgia writes for Sudden Denouement, Private Bad Thoughts and is the creator of Whisper and the Roar: A Feminist Literary Collective.]


Call for Submissions! Contest / Georgia Park / Whisper and the Roar


There are less than six days until the deadline for the Sudden Denouement Divergent Literature Contest! Be sure to submit by November 30th! The first place prize is $100, the second is $50 and the third is $25. The winning pieces will be published on Sudden Denouement.

We are also pleased to announce that Whisper and the Roar: A Feminist Literary Collective is launching. This site was proudly given to Miss Georgia Park. She issued a clarion call for all the “downtrodden to unite!” A call for feminist writers! Georgia has been a significant contributor to Sudden Denouement and is a poet of the highest order. Please join her! Simultaneous submissions will be allowed to both the contest and Whisper and the Roar (Please include a note indicating simultaneous submissions).

Whisper and the Roar

it’s hard to believe – SRP

it’s hard to believe – SRP
can’t seem to get up from this chair
as the walls crumble to the ground
the christmas lights still shine like stars
all around
slowly start to blur
i remember that thing you said to me
your voice echoes in my head
a haunting dream
slowly bleeding
we start to die
you died
looking back at the years that
passed us by
its like living in a dream
its like we’re living a dream
living in a dream
seeing how it used to be
can’t believe all the imagery
never mind the in-between
today its just you
[SRP is founding member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective]

Sibilant Nonsense – Olde Punk


Sibilant Nonsense – Olde Punk (Ramjet Poetry)

I feel I’ve listened
To something
That means nothing
Yet everything
I will leave you
Before you leave me
The mountain calls
And her heart
Is bared
The wind cries my name
Over and over and over
Do I dare answer?
I should go….
I’m lost and cannot find my way back
Is there anyone who can guide me?
Drive my hand into the treasure of despair
Let’s talk business
I don’t think you will ever understand
Just exactly what it is I am trying to say
I don’t think anyone will
I need something I can taste
Moonlit sun
I dreamed I was alive once
Only to awaken comatose
Adrift on a sea of sorrow
I contemplate the tomorrow….

Looking for silver
In the sands of time


[Olde Punk writes for RamJet Poetry]

There’s no place like alone

By pbbr

I ran buck wild for a porky child, sometimes even faster than the bullies chasing me. Bare-skin feet scrambling across playgrounds, through alleyways, through drugstore parking lots. They caught me once, I can still feel their blows. They caught me twice, I can show you the crooked scar. There were love handles on my side and dirt in my neckline, but there was not a third time. Adrenaline is the speed of children.

Running through the woods I was almost home. But I was out of breath in the Texas sun, heavy shoulders rising and falling under my sweatstained shirt. The pines were too skinny to hide behind. Catcalls and fistfalls were approaching fast. Then a ditch beside the channel whispered my name. There was a cargo barrel at its bottom and I slid inside, a rusty comfort beside the tide. In my mind it was a spaceship, and I roared away from that sordid scene. Through the heavens and space, exploring the universe alone.

Alone. There’s a strange comfort in that word, in its premise. It turns up its nose at society, at love, at even money. It disregards everyone and everything, save the one who enjoys it. In that, it is loyal. It welcomes only one person home.

So all afternoon I sat in that barrel, enjoying the sweet, sweet solitude. Listening to the loud and then fading curses of frustrated bullies as I rocketed through the netherrealm of space.

Now gaunt and grown, all greenstick bones have hardened. Those same bullies chase me, although with different faces. Awkward spaces, sitting in my own home, frightened to express myself. Scornful bride, forlorn mind, chiding from strangers I thought were my friends. Drug-addled debates and garbled philosophies spurting out of slick mouths like expensive diarrhea. What’s all this nonsensical shit? Why am I subjected to rejection? I’ve done it to myself. I am a masochist, and I don’t even get off on it.

Shrinking to my darkened lair, a soothing air. Parlor trick, vanishing stick. Perched in a hidden bar, the distant sounds of laughter fade away. A glass of cheap brandy. No ice, thank you. No cola. Matter of fact, forget the glass. Just pass the bottle. The stem is soothing in my hand, the band plays on, a song that reminds me I’m alone. Which is grand.

Alone. There’s a regal sound to it. Some children are afraid of it, they say, and some adults are too, but they won’t say. All I can tell you is that the word doesn’t hiss like an angry moccasin when it rolls off my tongue.

It’s a soft cozy sound, like winter mornings wrapped in a quilt, rain falling softly on a tin roof. A good book in hand. But no one else is allowed. No one.

There’s no place like it.

Now harrowed and old, bald and sold. I’m a cog in a watch without a wheel. At least there are no other cogs around.
Today is a holiday, I forget which one. I know it by several names, but genocide is won.

I was driving through a parking lot and someone raced around the speedbumps to cut me off. They should slow down and be thankful. Thankful for no broken bones, no aches, no clusterfuck of suburban muck, all the soccer moms can take a break. I’m thankful. Forever indebted, beholden contented. Like the holiday tells me to be. I’m thankful for inclusiveness, but I’d rather be alone. I’m obliged and grateful, relieved and hateful. Pleased and easy.

There’s no place like alone for the holidays.