The knight of infinite resignation – Nitin Lalit Murali

The knight of infinite resignation

I’m the knight of infinite resignation. The puppet on a string that never grasped the abstract like Abraham, the champion of faith did. I came close and perhaps almost touched faith, but vultures of guilt swooped down and plucked my flesh, leaving me screaming in pain and angst. Now, a walking cadaver, one of the undead, I’m lost to apathy with an occasional paroxysm of acute melancholia gripping me. Waves and waves of ditch-water green sorrow crash against the surface of my calloused heart, softening it for a moment, before receding, leaving me mute again like a forgotten chipped-off bar stool in the corner of a discotheque.

I’m a fatalist, the puppet soft and humanoid, but not free. I dance to the whims of a vengeful sovereign when a fantasia of dour, dolorous and despondent notes play. My dance is awkward, clumsy and slow like a virgin attempting to make love like an expert when he knows nothing. Trash, used red bull cans, pants I’ve shagged in, and cigarette buds litter my room. The stench is nauseating, and it parallels me. Pornography takes up most of the space on my computer. The women come, and the women go, finding the sadness initially alluring and then repugnant.

I don’t have cuts on my wrist because I don’t parade my misfortune with embellishments like the pseudo-depressed, ‘there’s a blue elephant in the room,’ status message posting for the likes, ‘I’m getting by,’ people do. I am who I’ve become, and there’s no remedy, and even if they put me in a time capsule and send me six years back when I looked good, and watched the stars, and fathomed the distance between them with a quixotic mind, I’ll end up becoming the man I am now.

I know horror intimately like Whitman knew his bedfellow. I’ve seen, I’ve heard, I’ve screamed, and I’ve run. Now, a melange of prescription medication keeps me breathing, but doesn’t stop me from asking if it’s worth it. The sunrise kills, and the sunset terrifies. I snatch sleep between the aubade and the curtain call, but even then, demonic dreams haunt. I’m not your source of inspiration. I’m not your Joel Osteen, white Chiclet toothed preacher of this being your ‘best life,’ but neither am I a prophet, or a soldier of wrath. I’m death personified. Not the taking of lives death, but the death that comes for a few who still breathe.

So, I don’t ask for your sympathy and empathy is never given without a clause. I only ask for your understanding.


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

 

Red Tides – Christine E. Ray

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blue and white capsules
ingested daily
devour my melancholy, baby
always ravenous
unsatisfied
they strip protective coating
off vulnerable neurons
leaving them raw
excitable
the faintest whisper
or intimation
that I fail to please
am not enough
makes irritation rise a
red tide
up my spinal column
forcing fluid rage
into hollows
ossification has crudely
carved into each
vertebrae
stiff-backed
bristling
lupine claws extend
gruff growl grows
low in my throat
and I am prepared
in that heartbeat
to shred tender flesh-
yours or mine-
clean to the bone


You can find Christine lurking about Brave and Reckless and Indie Blu(e) Publishing.  She is the author of Composition of a Woman and The Myths of Girlhood.

Sudden Denouement Classics: Battle of Boredom – Henna Sjöblom

There was a war that day
indisputably
although, nobody talked about it
you would see them walking by a little faster
their funny hats tilting from side to side
Sometimes the sky would shatter above us
And bleed neon blue
the drains would flood
the cats drown in screeches
what good is having nine lives
if you don’t know how to stay afloat

People are all the same
Everyone would unfold their umbrellas
Hoping for the weather to clear
The shards of metal and from the air
they stay cramped in their corners
watching their toes rot away from the humidity

Under-dressed little girl
strutting about, singing
dead men can walk
madness her name
lost her little mind
in the deluge
the acid raindrops
digging trough her temples
like a poem
and when the streets eventually dried up
she would be found crying
in the sewer
bent over the smeared ink stains
the disfigured body
of a paper print lover


Henna Sjöblom,  the goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. She writes to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. Find her at H.JD Writes

The Effortless Brass-Jimmi Campkin

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I’d known The Boy about six years before I realised he had feelings.  Until then, I’d assumed he was like a dead tree – enigmatic and interesting to look at but essentially hollow and lifeless.  The Boy only made sense on drugs – taken by himself and his audience – but in that narrow alleyway of lucidity there was a path to reaching him.  Like those on the fringes of death who witness the long path to the bright light, if you were willing to get as fucked up as he could and did, you’d find windows where he made sense.

I remember lying on the floor, smashing my teeth on a brick, convinced it was a stale piece of bread, and seeing him standing above me, upright, without the usual hunching of the shoulders.  His voice clear and concise, not broken and wavering.  I crawled in the general direction of his shoes, blood dribbling down my chin and spitting bits of tooth and gum out onto the concrete floor.  I grabbed a handful of dust and rubbed it into the smashed remains, feeling the first burning embers of pain even this far gone.  He looked down on me with an expression I didn’t think he was capable of; pity.

He said; She smells like a spring thunderstorm.  A spring thunderstorm.  That was exactly what she smelt like, what she sounded like, what she essentially was.  A storm in a fruitful season.  He crouched onto his haunches and I met his eyes, but they moved too fast for me.  Curling into a foetus, I began to violently spasm, kicking and dragging my body in a circle.  He told me later that the retching created petal splatters of blood around my head…. like a scarlet daisy. 

*

The Boy’s earliest memory was watching a fox with a broken leg trapped in an old oil drum, slowly starving to death over a period of two weeks.  Every day that summer he’d clamber through thistles and nettles taller than him to find the poor beast inside the metal coffin, rattling and whining.  Initially he would sit apart from it terrified and fascinated, as the animal crashed and groaned, trying to free itself from its prison.  But as it became weaker, the noises died down to a soft howl, gentle as the wind through a keyhole.  Towards the end, he would push a crate against the drum and peer inside, looking down at the fox as it looked back up at him….breathing heavily but with a look on its face of utter serenity.  No noise, no whining or struggling, just two damaged lifeforms staring at each other – one at the beginning of its life and one nearing the end.  He once told me; the fox went to sleep, and I kept going back to see if it would wake up.  But something ate its eyes, and it didn’t move no more. 

*

I still go to the old oil drum, now rank and loathsome, filled with black muck and vague glimpses of rib and snapped femur.  I throw my old cigarettes inside, hoping one day I’ll feel bad about it, but I never had the depth of feeling that The Boy did, with or without drugs.  I take enough blotter acid to wallpaper most family homes, but the sun still looks normal and the trees don’t sing anymore.  I push through the thistles and weeds, remembering the pain this little child went through to experience feeling.  How he’d return home covered in little white nettle bumps on his arms, legs and face.  How he’d never cry, even as he slept on a mattress damp from beneath the floor.  Born to indifference, raised in a slum; just a product of bad decisions and post-industrialisation, both parents dead in a public toilet cubicle.

I buried The Boy in a quiet corner of the wasteland.  I picked the spot especially; surrounded by nettles guarding what they could not harm, within sight of the drum and blasted by the rays of the noon sun.  He rests under his little barrow mount, like ancient kings, away from all the troubles of the world.  And that is what haunts me; leaves me so helpless and jealous – not that his troubles are now over, but that nothing ever troubled this simple, stupid Boy in the first place.


Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.

Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.

I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Figments of a Mania – Henna Sjöblom

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I saw her in the dark of my eye

stretched out on a polyester blanket,

puffed-up cheeks and threads of pink bubblegum stuck to her hair
the /maggot-eaten/ stockings barely covering up the /cigarette burns/ along her legs
riffles trough the pages of the /holy/ bible, decides she doesn’t have time

patient may sometimes experience feelings of irritability,                   grandiosity, or an increase in sexual desires

I masturbated to the image that night
and called /my own/ name as I came, arrogant god that I am,
wrapped up in my own, gluttonous plane of existence
I would grab a stake and drive it trough my uterus
So that my guts would spill out, drenching your immobilized body
beneath me
and you would cry out /in bliss/
knowing the

true exemption

of being defeated

before I was holy, I used to know shame
I made up lists of people I /couldn’t/ touch
sanctimonious beacons of chastity

I later took pleasure
in tearing apart                  patient tends to be outgoing,

easily angered,
I defile
/everything/
and
/everyone/
I find desirable

each day, my idols grow smaller

                                                     or could it be that I am growing bigger
It’s hard to see from inside the Taurus’s jaws
so I do as advised, save my apologies for another day
and succumb to the feeling
of walking on thin, crystal ice
waiting for the finned shadows
inevitably about to snatch me back to the depths
from which I arise,
the /drowned/ queen of the two-faced

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, in real life known as Henna, a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her writing often deals with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

A Sliver of Silver – Nicole Lyons

I always made sure
our house was clean
even though we never were.
And I always made sure
the moon had a sliver to peer into,
a little slat between the pavement
and my pillow where she would feel
welcomed to lay her silver smile
upon our sleepless nights
and find us charmed enough
to dim her light when the sun came
to taunt us in the morning.
I am cleaner now,
than any porcelain corner
I spewed myself into,
but I still get high
off her manic energy when she tells me
she is happy to share,
because something is in the air
right now, in the full silver moon,
and I drink it all down as if it was my own.

Nicole Lyons is a writer/editor for Sudden Denouement and the creator of The Lithium Chronicles.

Suckerpunch, the Second Coming – Henna Sjöblom

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Have you ever tasted true revenge?
Ever feared the loss of a wound more sacred
than the hollowed out palms of Christ?

I’ll tell you, I dip my knuckles in holy water after each defeat,
so that soon my skin will be impenetrable. I charge my gun with self-pity,
coat my blade with spite.
Don’t talk to me, I grin.
I am self-destructive.

Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not stigmatizing, and I can’t be a martyr, as I never bowed to anyone.
Who the fuck set the rules anyway?
I’m a bloody artist, displaying slashes as exhibits in a showcase,
and I take pride in my performance,
but presenting wounds won’t omit the truth,
and the truth is
I’ve never felt better

Than the night I woke up in the hospital,
screaming,
chains rattling around my wrists.
Nurses with faces made of paint scrapers.
Is that what I am?
An exhibit
in need of restoration?
Or the answer to the sarcastic questions
generally asked by horny men around their 50’s?

I’ll tell you what I am.
I am too big for this place.
Acid-tripping deicide angel,
fast-forwarding trough my own rapture.
Unashamed,
unrefined,
I am what mourning widows sing of
on their way to the gallows pole.
We’re the girls that already died once.
We don’t need anyone else.

 

[Murder Tramp Birthday, previously Malicia Frost, dropped the disguise and is now publishing under her real name on SD. A hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland, she enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

Teratophilia

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Drawing (c) Malicia Frost // Henna Sjöblom

 

I never wanted your understanding
All I need is a mouth
someone who roars louder than me
someone who grabs first and asks not
whether I’m enjoying it
to block out
my own desires
I have chosen to love the monster
I did not ask for it,
still
I think I’m quite comfortable in here

Being bitten is painful and familiar
I collect his teeth as trophies
like soldiers stacking bullets around their necks
like we used to compare our scars
in middle school
“I think he’s getting more violent,” you whispered
and shivered in terror and ecstasy
over the thought of getting torn apart
at the dinner table that night

Now,
my skin has become a topographic map of wars
that were never recorded in history
My anxious fingers wander up to his jawline
and starts deciphering
where the next impact will strike
so that I might pull my shirt up
make sure it hits the spot
to make me see stars, nebulae bruises
flashing before my eyelids
And it doesn’t matter that he is all teeth
and no bones
I always found it easier
to love the wound
rather than the person inflicting it

 

[Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. The drawing is from her sketchbook, a place she likes to illustrate her thoughts. More of her works can be found at her personal blog.]

Battle of Boredom – Malicia Frost

 

There was a war that day
indisputably
although, nobody talked about it
you would see them walking by a little faster
their funny hats tilting from side to side
Sometimes the sky would shatter above us
And bleed neon blue
the drains would flood
the cats drown in screeches
what good is having nine lives
if you don’t know how to stay afloat

People are all the same
Everyone would unfold their umbrellas
Hoping for the weather to clear
The shards of metal and from the air
they stay cramped in their corners
watching their toes rot away from the humidity

Under-dressed little girl
strutting about, singing
dead men can walk
madness her name
lost her little mind
in the deluge
the acid raindrops
digging trough her temples
like a poem
and when the streets eventually dried up
she would be found crying
in the sewer
bent over the smeared ink stains
the disfigured body
of a paper print lover

 

[Malicia Frost, or Henna, which is her real name, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her writing can be found at her personal blog.]

[Author would like to comment: Thank you all for being patient as I’m going trough a very stressful time in my life. I haven’t been half as active on SD as I would have wished, and I’ll try to make it all up to you. You guys are awesome and insanely talented.] 

 

Miscarriage – Malicia Frost

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By Malicia Frost
https://maliciafrost.wordpress.com/

It’s all so much easier now
As blood is flowing down my thighs, I lean back on the hospital bed
The memory of you forcing your way inside me
Fading with the pain
I don’t care, I want everything out of me,
the twitching
the turning
the hope of a new life
bleeds out on the floor
I thought I could make something beautiful
out of my shame
tame my monster
into something people could look at
and appreciate
And I would forget
that I never wanted you in the first place
But it’s easier
being empty
filled with nothing
To give up half way there
Rather than experience the horror of birth
The possibility of you tearing me apart
From the inside
“Stay dead”, I whisper at the sweet nothing
deformed little fetus lying limp on the floor
between my feet
before I wipe away the blood
and exit trough the emergency door

[Malicia Frost is a hobbyist writer and a new author of Sudden Denouement. She has a passion for the dark and obscure and likes to deal with mental illness trough various art forms. Her works can be found at her website Malicia’s Malebolge.]