This is a wonderful list of places for writers to submit their work, awards and publishing. Published in ENTROPYMAG.ORG. This is a very effective tool.
Great website for writers!
This is a wonderful list of places for writers to submit their work, awards and publishing. Published in ENTROPYMAG.ORG. This is a very effective tool.
Great website for writers!
Sudden Denouement just published our first book, Superstition, a collection of poetry by the other-worldly Rana Kelly. The book is available through Amazon. It was a labor of love for both Rana and myself. The process of pouring yourself, your life experience into a book is daunting–and rewarding at the same time. Conversely, publishing a book is a great deal of work and undertaken with a passion for great poetry, great literature.
SD is greatly honored in the task. I would ask that anyone interested reward Rana by picking up a copy of her book. We will soon have copies with signed cards inside them. I would also suggest reading Until Her Darkness Goes, her amazing novel, also available on Amazon.
I will give a copy away to the best 100 words I receive about why poetry is necessary in a world of texts, social media, reality television, and the never-ending noise that we wad through in our daily lives.
We will be giving more copies away in the near future. Please support Rana, support the process, the sacrifice, the barring of one’s soul to the world. There is a place for poetry in the world, and Rana Kelly’s Superstition is a reminder of this fact.
Anyone who wants to write 100 words about the importance of poetry in our society, please send you submission to Jasperkerkauwriting@gmail.com.
Unpublished/Original work
Each entry should be more than 50 words but less than 500
Each writer may submit 1 to 3 (maximum) pieces of writing for consideration
Full prize information to be announced!
1st Place Winner will be granted membership in the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective
2nd, 3rd and 4th Place Runners-ups will be granted membership in the Secret First Draft Collective.
Send your submissions with your name, your pen name (if applicable), the address for your blog and a short biography (1 to 3 sentences to): Suddendenouement@gmail.com
The Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and its sister sites Secret First Draft and The Whisper and The Roar are forums for divergent literature that we hope excite and challenge you.
The top three posts will be published on Sudden Denouement and the top five posts will be published on Secret First Draft.
Finalists will be contacted by Sudden Denouement no later than May 30, 2017.
What’s missing?
Absolutely everything, dad, absolutely everything,
including you.
Who’s missing?
I have friends who don’t sleep at night.
Are they thinking of what’s happened or worried about tomorrow?
The ball came this close but missed my head.
It’s called a close call.
All of life is a close call, mother said.
Who, what, where, when, why, how?
Mother’s left breast is missing.
Does she miss it? Did he?
Humes. Clover. Des Moines, Iowa. Coldspring.
There’s no tomorrow and yesterday’s forgotten.
You will be missed means you’re still alive.
You’re not dead yet but you will be.
Welcome to your funeral.
Is anything missing?
There is something missing but I can’t put my finger on it.
My front tooth is missing.
I missed the bus.
Mom’s purse.
Where’s my sock?
No, I don’t miss the bus.
I missed the boat.
“I’ll teach you to talk that way to your mother!”
You missed.
“I won’t miss next time.”
There won’t be a next time, father.
There never is a next time.
I miss you.
David Lohrey
On Becoming a Writer – Christine Ray Brave and Reckless Blog
Sometimes, adopting the names ‘writer’ and ‘poet’
Led her to encounters with the most amazing minds
Connecting her with a larger community
At other times she thought that ‘writer’ and ‘poet’
Were the loneliest names she had ever called herself
Waking up every morning
To unzip her chest, her gut
And bare her truths to the world
Because like others of her kind
She was complex, messy, containing
Multiple truths, not a singular one
Sometimes she felt like she was writing
To a small group of intimate friends
At others times,
She felt like she was calling out her truths
Into an empty desert landscape
Without even a coyote or armadillo
To hear her words before they fell away
Forlorn and unread
Unheard and unacknowledged
Rendering the writer, the poet herself
Invisible, diminished somehow
She was always struck by the juxtaposition
Of her physical body negotiating
Close suburbs,
Crowded subways and jostling city sidewalks
On the way to her day job
While her heart and mind
Wandered in the isolated wilderness
While errant words and wisps of dreams
And drops of feelings like rich, red blood
Continued to seep out of her
Brave and Reckless Blog
When the ink parts
between my tresses
I unfold like a streak of leather
and disappear into the horizon
A crimson casualty
of lifeless days
In my town
the weather is a dense blue
rivulets and arches, alleyways and purple boundaries
a liquid state
of all matter
a fluidity, a lisp, a demonstration
I have been weeding out
the pellets of time
time after time
they have grown scaly fingers and clumsy feet
You ask me
Where is the ‘ache’ ?
I throb, a spinning compass
pointless
pointless
I am Orion
I am Virgo
I am Polaris and Sirius
stretching and leaping
across time and its variety
the combustible zones of space
I have a mouth of flames
an insurgency of sores, the vacancies of unanswered questions
Time after Time
I pluck my tendons
twist and crack, break and wield
throw it all away
Am I diseased ?
Do I seem irregular to you ?
with my blurriness and putrid hues
Do I deviate from your slumber of stagnant happiness ?
for you continuously ask
Where is the ‘ache’ ?
I stay quiet
pastel white lips, creases of suspended chlorine
embroidered waves of a wallowing blue
the willows and the currents
burgundy and bourbon
I stay quiet
for how must I say
that I am the ache
I am the ache now
I am coarse and viscous
and I spill
Oh, how I spill
I spill like velveteen red blobs
splatter, splatter
I’m not afraid
I have no sex,
I have no religion, no color, no form
no mind, no interpretation, no perspective
I am sparse and dangling and damaged
and true
Oh, so true
for only the truth can sting, sting and penetrate
and carve circles on your chest
and cubes
and snakes
and split you
and chop you
yet leave you calcified
remotely resembling the contours of a human female
https://aakritikuntal.wordpress.com/
Custom Homes from the Low 600’s
The Monday after I committed suicide, clouds formed over the plastic McMansion he’d promised me before slipping three-quarter karat cyanide on my left hand. Weighted drops of rain thrust their gelled bodies out gray figures like shit the day after a person over-indulges his or herself on a party-sized bag of Doritos.
My corpse, lost, within a forest of highlighted reverse bobs sitting behind leather steering wheels inside black Escalades, complaining how the forty-dollar bottle of ‘Damn Gina’ just stained the side of their ten-dollar iced-caramel-macchiato-choco-latte-Frappuccino—extra skinny, and ruined a selfie.
Blood slid down our AstroTurf lawns, syrup on Sunday morning pancakes, or paychecks from a nine-to-five-but-we-found-ourselves-going-in-at-seven-and-coming-home-at-ten-and-who-cares-if-a-glance-or-two-or-seven-is-exchanged-between-him-and-his-secretary type job, and suffocated us like Spanx.
We needed the money for a closetful of Louis Vuitton, because one should always keep a closetful of Louis Vuitton if she (or he) is attempting to impress fabricated friends to score an invitation to bunko night. Our laughs, GMO free as we dieted on sushi and engaged in photoshopped conversation about The Bachelor, or goldfish. The barrel of the gun cold as I poured a glass of Pinot and pulled the trigger.