There is Still Time to Enter Sudden Denouement Publishing’s Book Giveaway

Sudden Denouement and Sudden Denouement Publishing is holding a book giveaway! We will be randomly selecting one name from those who sign-up for our new Email List to receive the Sudden Denouement Publishing title of their choice. You could be the winner of A Sparrow Stirs its WingsMachiavelli’s BackyardI Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A GirlSuperstitionComposition of a Woman, or Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

To be automatically entered, sign up for our new Mailchimp Email list before Wednesday, August 1st.

Sudden Denouement Publishing Book Giveaway

Sudden Denouement and Sudden Denouement Publishing is holding a book giveaway! We will be randomly selecting one name from those who sign-up for our new Email List to receive the Sudden Denouement Publishing title of their choice. You could be the winner of A Sparrow Stirs its WingsMachiavelli’s BackyardI Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A GirlSuperstitionComposition of a Woman, or Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. To be automatically entered, sign up for our new Mailchimp Email list.

Feed Me- Maggie Lawson/The Art of Chewing Crayons

I’m starving!

Who will feed me?

To all artisans of the social missive,

Come on now, feed me proper. I have a flood in my mouth, an ache in my pit, and a hankering for something bloody. I want to lose my teeth in its depths, relish a rare bite and feel the deep sigh of satiation.

The mind, void of sufficient stimulation, is a dangerous thing and I’m bored; bored with articulate bullshit, robotic fist pumps and ass-kissing. Under such duress I’m inclined to want to scoop out brains with a teaspoon and use the skull to hold my crayons.

Speaking of crayons; be warned, bring the full box to colour with me as I’m not gifted with tolerance for fluffy stuff but I am a genius at alternative uses for the vacuous spaces between ears.

I’m calling all funky fringe-dwellers, weirdly wordy, pulsing poetics and sanguineous songsters.

Bring your double-entendre entrees; succulent morsels of moreishness that whet my appetite and tease my mind.

Delight with delicacies that roll off the tongue and pleasure the palate, tempting tidbits that tantilise. Seduce with sumptuous soliloquy that leaves me salivating; words dripped like honey on my tongue.

Dare with wild things; offer the repulsive with a twist of lemon, a stark tart reminder that all should be sampled before being rejected.

Bring earth’s offerings; that rich bounty of colour and crispness cleanses palate and soul with its purity and goodness. Rich in intellectual nutrition it affords me guilt-free sustenance to balance my indulgences.

Fill my table with meaty mains remembering to keep mine bloody (i have a predilection for food with a pulse). Bring me seared steak that i might sink my teeth up to my gums in that still-warm flesh and savour the flavour of it’s bloody juice.

But save the spun sugar for toothless children who know not what they eat; my hunger is for needful things. My taste for empty calories died a bloody death and grief sits sour in my mouth.

Link me the finest literary libations, pile my plate high with the best you’ve seen or written so I might feast on your deliciousness.  This girl is mighty hungry!

#MarvelousMavenOfMisfitness
#FullSpectrumSelf


You can read more of Maggie’s writing at The Art of Chewing Crayons

Fragility- Introducing Liz McLeod

Fragile egos,
Crushed like eggshells
Dropped on the floor,
Spilling their insides.

A simple challenge,
A contrary word
Meant for discussion,
Or clarification.

Instead it is viewed
As a knock to the expert,
A refusal to submit
On terms they require.

This is not equality.
This isn’t understanding.
This is a simple wish
To bend another to your will.

Willow-strong, pliant
I will bend to a point.
But then I bounce back
To continue my growth.

Why is every question
Such a threat to so many?
Why is there only
The expectation of bowing?

Are we always so fragile,
We can’t accept and relish
Being pushed and nudged,
With another’s experiences?

I can sit on the floor
At another’s feet, if and only if,
My past is acknowledged,
As it can only reflect on my future.

I am human, humans learn.
My learning has been fraught
With challenges, frustrations, loss.
Issues abound, but so do gifts.

My gifts are discernment,
A very good ear,
Passion, interest in life,
A relatively quick mind.

I have a caring heart,
An appreciation for beauty,
A love of learning more.
I could have made you curl your toes.

I can listen to your past,
Can you listen to mine?
Can we acknowledge each other
And the paths we have traversed?

Or are we doomed to continue
The age-old dance
Of loneliness and isolation,
Wrapped in our cocoons of pity?

I don’t want that,
So, I will seek elsewhere.
I will ask questions,
Expecting thoughtful answers.

I want to constantly question,
Continuously search and understand.
I want to acknowledge and seek
Good and bad, up and down, here and then.

If that is such a challenge,
Then you are right…
We are not for each other
In any form whatsoever.


Liz McLeod is a science fiction and fantasy author as well as a poet, living in the great and beautiful mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. She is also a Managing Editor at Sudden Denouement. You can find more of her writing Liz McLeod Musings on the Day!

HOLLYWOOD HIGH – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west coast skinned knees
elastic mouths and bodies
oily eyes in topaz and
gold canines in the skyline.

Ghosting their covenant of wisdom
Parked at the intersection of
dusk & dawn
Up on Mulholland Drive
We succumb to it’s lecherous stratosphere
with Hotel California on the radio
lighting smokes out of a trophy of ashes and tossing it into a hedonist zephyr
as L.A.P.D sirens start to sing in the background
Our fingerprints dusted by
the Chinese Theatre…
Hollywood as our alibi

you can see the wit of vanishment in a
wag of night
spirit and vein and wet, the pacific
rehearsing
my longtime name in the paunch of a
sand dollar where
a lover’s walk will stall with age and
wilt.
with the creek of it to your auricle, it’ll
sail in your ear.
but we are bionic serfs in an electric
city,
cordoned by chapters and eyes
sallower in the dark
dark, dark. can we pry open the
stillborn to find landmarks.
how deathlike are the lights.

Pop culture studies us
The media pine for answers
Clogged with a 60 minute survey
– Did their parents love them?
– Do they have a mental illness?
We side-step their clichés
and break the fourth wall;
Gravitating to the camera with verve
’cause we had a cause to be caustic
when faced with their plastic personas
stalking Beverly Hills fat cats
like taxidermists
And we won’t depart until our followers up stage Manson
Charles or Marilyn, its all the same in Tinseltown
where we carve out billboards
with a paramount question…
Why do you fear the children you’ve raised?

to be continued…


 

[ A.G. Diedericks: “write what you know” are the four most soporific words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2 fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes off & get dirty. I write & curate at Morality Park. ]

&&

[Samantha Lucero writes books and poetry, short stories, is a historian, heathen and philosophically speaking, an absurdist. Sisyphus being the ultimate example of the absurdity of human existence. She occasionally writes things at sixredseeds.]

BECAUSE I’M A WHORE WHO ASKED FOR IT – Kindra M. Austin

I quite like the dark side, dear.

Show me your shadows, those

Phallic phalanges, and

Feel up my female.

 

I quite like the fusty spoors of

Spirits, and semen, and plundered

Blood

Fixed to my skin.

 

I quite like the emptiness settled in the pit of me—

The sharp taste on my tongue as I lick the edge of abyss.

 

Because I’m a whore who asked for it, simply by breathing.

 


 

Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan—Go Detroit Red Wings! She likes her drinks corpse stiff, music loud as fuck, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs. ]

Kindra M. Austin has just published a poetry book.
Click HERE for more information!

Subterranean Novellas – Aurora Phoenix

he is sleeping
fetally curled
as the narrow bench allows
hairily bedraggled
a forlorn green bean
hopelessly lost in a crisper corner.
insensible to the hubbub
lurch oblivious
sea legs unconscious.
his story has uncracked bindings
though I inescapably
draft this chapter
unimaginatively entitled
“homeless”
subtitled
survival strategies for bitter blustery days

they wear their privilege
like their pancake
precisely overdone
accentuating blemishes
it purports to mask.
like spanx in overtime
containing wayward bulges
they convulse in paroxysms
suppressed schoolgirl giggles
as they selfie mock him –
these southern belles
similarly lionizing
life’s half century
in the city
that will never sleep

do I,
in the crushed velvet burnout
that is my poetic soul,
bear closer resemblance
to an urban misfit
escaping frigidity
cloaked in congealed
eau de shame
than I do
the pungently judging
glam squad clique
clicking and cackling
in cringe-worthy
mean girl couture?

I hope,
fervently as the guillotine bound
damned
pray for salvation
that I do


[Aurora Phoenix: I spent over 2 decades as a clinical psychologist, prior to the decimation of my world when I was suddenly incarcerated 2 and a half years ago. My writing was born in that caged existence – not a choice but a soul-saving necessity.  I write as Aurora Phoenix at Insights from “Inside”]