Introducing New SD Writer Skye (Melting Neurons)

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    The sun is a hornet sting in his eyes but his stagger started with that twisted sauce that dude hit him with at the coffee shop bathroom where he screwed Suzie in retribution against Samantha. The pain of that loss was still so fresh.

     Empty and meaningless body contortions while staring at the underside of a piss stained toilet. Should have stayed home that day too. She wanted someone to love her, that’s why she shook when you hugged her, apologized when she climaxed and asked for more.

     Two steps and a jerk of the muscles sends him down the sidewalk. Two more and the convulsions are there again in force, arms spasm outstretched and fingers go clenching at air trying smash it’s emptiness into something meaningful. Two more and the blood trails seeping from forearms that stink of vinegar and iron are drip dropping onto his shoes with a pitter patter of hope draining onto leather.

     His white v-necked shirt is clean if you ignore the spots of cherry red revealed as a splatter pattern seeping from the inside. His pants are sagging and baggy, deep brown with a tan cinch belt and pockets on pockets bulging with random items. His has Nikes, now personalized with scarlet across their tips.

     Fuck, fuck, fuck. Too much this time. Way too much. There. Priorities. Why? Needle. Get one. Man across the street, has the look. Get another rig. Block it out. Don’t think, just act. Shut it down.

     He asks the stranger if he has as a needle and of course he does, doesn’t everyone? The stranger says that he is clean of disease and has never used it despite the crimson hue inside the chamber. The stranger points out the blood running down his forearms and warns that it might draw attention.

     He stutter steps, two forward, a shuffle to the side, quick spin, dancing to the demands of the chemicals. Lips split open into a full bodied smile, lopsided to the left and sparks of intensity carve out a luminosity in his blue eyes that stretches past the borders of happiness into ecstasy beyond understanding.

     His face glows with inner fire, radiant passion – he’s got a zeal about him now that belies the shit show dance moves that propel him down the street at an uneven but driven keel. He’s on a mission.

     Samantha. There. By the bus depot, god she looks amazing even on the streets. I wonder if she still loves me. I told her she was Sparkles, that her fire was so bright I could see it in the darkest moments. Why?

     Her moan when he hugs her says “thank god you made it here and I found you, you idiot.”

     The sun is a hornet sting, the moon is a muse shining a halo of opportunity in the falling dusk.

     The zeal is faded as his eyes dull to the gray of the muse and her siren song of possibilities missed. They both rest against the wall inside the parking garage which hides them. His arms are full of her and maybe the stranger, his veins are on fire and his dreams are impressions of futures that could have been, envy soaks them. He’s going to die again, he knows it.

     He sits in the parking garage until the stars haze out and the moon disappears.

 

[Melting Neurons resides in Wenatchee, WA where he lives with his wife and stuffed owl, they both hail from Bend, OR originally. He has lived in more than 75 cities across the country at various points including Boston and New Bedford, MA. His writing centers around a lifetime filled with adventures in schizoaffective bipolar, addiction, and the dichotomy of being everything from a corporate executive to homeless on the streets for years. Someday he hopes his estranged children will discover these pieces, and he can regain a relationship with them. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and enrolled in Wenatchee Valley College studying English and Creative Non-Fiction.]

Peripheral Visions – David Lohrey

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Peripheral Visions – David Lohrey

 

They’ve outlawed torture because it doesn’t work,

but they forgot to tell my little brother.
I went to Madrid and wanted paella but all I found

was frozen pizza.
I traveled to Saudi Arabia and knew exactly what I wanted,

but found the road to Mecca closed to outsiders.
Americans claim to be welcoming. The kids in Tibet cry “hello,”

but when the Chinese visit Brooklyn, the kids shout “Fuck you.”

It’s the only language they know.
The kids in Harlem are no globe-trotters. They’ve never

even crossed the street.
Their female teacher doesn’t wear underpants, but her neighbor,

a man, wears panties. They claim it is the children who have a lot

to learn.
When the infants say they are not ready for anal sex,

their teacher makes them sit by themselves in the corner.
The six-year-old is sucking her thumb is told in no uncertain terms

to remove her thumb and find a boy to satisfy.
We’re heading for Broadway to watch a play with the provocative

title, Rotten. The actors throw tomatoes at the audience, after checking

first to see how they voted.
Righteous indignation supplants despair. Feeling superior sure beats

finding fault with oneself. The world is so stupid.
Diversity works like this: first, we take over. Children of the Empire visit

and are told they’re wonderful.
After the bombing, we legalize gay marriage. Napalm in the morning,

but the bathhouses are to remain open, announces the Pentagon spokesperson.
The President is trans. Her name is Annabelle. The debate question

she couldn’t answer was how it is she manages to look so fabulous.

She bursts out laughing and then begins to sob. After a break,

she gets a standing ovation.
It has been announced that everyone in the country lives in one city,

Houston, coast to coast; zip codes may vary.
Why bother with different names like LA and Atlanta. The whole

country is one big Houston: the bars, the malls, the adult bookshops.
Now that it’s been outlawed, kissing between men and women,

there are fewer law suits. There is no population growth. What have

we learned? Men can’t get pregnant.
Houston, Illinois has higher taxes than Houston, Texas, but New York’s

Houston is the worst. People there no longer keep addresses. Their

official residence is in Puerto Rico.
I was born David but call myself Dawood, Princess of the Desert.

I like getting my nails done. What I hate is driving in the slow lane.
And my husband likes to slap my ass. I won’t go into it. First,

he bites it.
I feel diminished by modern life. The lifestyle is belittling.

How can I develop an ego? Start by killing a mosquito.
People come to Memphis seeking Elvis. They leave having made

fools of themselves. Elvis did not die in vain.
The train leaves out of Union Station at 3. Get yourself a paper.

The toilets are certain to be broken.
I never wanted anything more than love. That’s why I’ve come.

You’ve come to the wrong place.
She may be rich, but she is bitter. She wants the nurse to wipe

thrice not just once.
If only my mother had been well taken care of. She lived ‘til 93

but could have made it to 105. I’m suing. She died on the way

to the hospital.
I just want love. My lips are luscious. My dick is huge. My nails

are dazzling. My bum is plump. What the fuck is wrong with me.

 

[David Lohrey is from Memphis, where he grew up, and now lives in Tokyo, where he teaches and writes for local travel magazines. He graduated from UC Berkeley and then moved to LA where he lived for over 20 years.

Internationally, his poetry can be found in Otoliths, Stony Thursday Anthology, Sentinel Quarterly, and Tuck Magazine. In the US, recent poems have appeared in Poetry Circle, FRiGG, Obsidian, and Apogee Journal. His fiction can be read in Crack the Spine, Dodging the Rain, and Literally Stories.

David’s The Other Is Oneself, a study of 20th-century literature, was published in 2016, while his first collection of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, was released in September 2017. He is a member of the Sudden Denouement Collective.]

Guest Writer: Able Elba

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[Photo: Able Elba]
Pulchritudinous Decline
Able Elba, 2018
 

And as the years fade,
fleshy encounters
with folds of listening and not being heard
creep up and frighten from behind walls and doors.
Pulchritudinous sags – crags – puckers –
a map of memories to cherish
and those I hope have the decency to stay behind
when I go.
[Writing began at fourteen, therapy after the loss of my father. Now, approaching thirty I extend a piece of my soul for the world to hold and do with what it likes. Seven years of art, music and writing education and here we are– further from the beginning with the penetrating recognition of how fast it has all gone by. Living is a burden and exquisite– all of which, I sieve through the arts. –Able Elba]
Her writings, art, and music can be found on her site: Able Elba

Introducing New SD Writer Ann Wuehler “His Taste

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HIS TASTE Ann Wuehler

Awash in clowns, I remember bits of him
in quiet fragments of the day.
How the stairwell hid us
and revealed our lust
to each other
like a good clean thing.
And his taste, his taste, his taste
and the slip of that skin, his skin
beneath the delighted surface
of each of my palms.
How I stumbled beside him
in the tired reaches
of early morning
without guilt or shame,
as we parted,
as we let go.
The tide smothers me
in clowns and mimes,
reminding me
I should bow my head
and pray to stern men
for forgiveness.
No thank you.
I am done asking
forgiveness
for what I
cannot regret.

Her work can be view at Ann Wuehler.

[A native Oregonian with ambitions and apparently a need to see more of the planet than a few feet beyond her back yard. I received my BA in Theatre from Eastern Oregon University and my MFA in Playwriting from the University of Nevada/Las Vegas. My Oregon Gothic was published in 2015 and my House on Clark Boulevard was published September of 2017. My newest novel, Aftermath, should be out, oh, soonish. I had an evening of plays this September with the Ilkley Playhouse in the UK. Bunny Slipper, a short story, was published in Whistle Pig this fall. The Moth and the Whale was published January 2019 in A Door is a Jar. My poem, My Feet Hurt, will be in The Rumpus. I am also co-writing a screenplay based on a short story from my Oregon Gothic, with the filmmaker who just finished filming a short feature of my play, Traces of Memory.]

Virility – Mick Hugh

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Virility

At night there is a silence gently broken by the moaning of the walls: Vast landscapes and skylines and pink insulation. At daybreak comes the screaming, the kid still in need of weening, a breakfast still in need of eating: toast for the road. Sit at a desk. Sit at a desk. Sit at a desk. Did you know that daffodils grow wild in the woods? Stare long enough while driving and you will see. A cultural project to beautify these streets: Days pass in the blandness of inner eyelids. At night in the quiet and your fantasies shrouded in dark, cut sharp by the quick panic of a deadline missed at work. The soft pillow: you couldn’t care less. Couldn’t care less for rose-colored lips. Couldn’t care less for well-padded paychecks. Couldn’t care less about a liver-rot death.

Your heart is the size of your fist. Learn how to throw it.

Mick’s Neon Fog

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

Literary Property

by David Lohrey


One doesn’t think of poets as money managers.

It must be nice to see one’s work issued by the government.

You have to give her credit for it, she made an industry

out of having had a hard time of it, even if today she lunches

with the likes of Oprah and Jessica Mitford.

Had there been enough good parts, she could have 

made a fine actress. She would have made a powerful Josie 

Hogan, you know, from that play by Eugene O’Neill, or that

haunting wife of Macbeth, or, better yet, Hamlet’s dear mother.

Instead, she became a bestselling poet.

Something about her reminds me of a circus, a tented

carnival with a snake-man called Scaly and a three-breasted

lady. Step right up and hear her tale of unparalleled woe.

Avoid the door on the right, or you might get her confused

with the tattooed midget in yellow tights and his aqua tunic.

Tell the tale of your miserable past: how

you were beaten and mistreated, and how

you experienced unwanted advances. Why not

explain once again what it was like to have to eat

barbecued bologna on Christmas morning?

Now there’s human suffering.

The royalties mount beyond anyone’s count.

Rake it in while it lasts. There’s the 5-bedroom townhouse

in a fashionable part of Harlem, the mansion down

in swampy Carolina, a wee property along the Hudson

and, rumor has it, a pied-á-terre in a posh section of Paris.

The newest new book is just coming out in a new

waterproof edition. The text, it is said, glows in the dark,

so it can be read underwater, or you can get one that floats.

It is scheduled to appear later this month in coordination

with her new show, Big Woe, the new Broadway Musical.

Have your say, as they say, but be sure to count your earnings.

Some might say it is too much to dare. When you wear earrings 

and things from Tiffany’s, it gets harder and harder to ask for 

sympathy. You might wind up like some of your devoted readers,

much too rich to notice a little girl in need of affection.


David Lohrey’s plays have been produced in Switzerland, Croatia, and Lithuania. In the US, his poems can be found at the RavensPerch, New Orleans Review, Nice Cage, and The Drunken Llama. Internationally, his work appears in journals located in the UK, the Netherlands, India, Malawi, and Hungary. His fiction can be seen at Dodging the Rain, Terror House Magazine, and Literally Stories. David’s collection of poetry, MACHIAVELLI’S BACKYARD, was published by Sudden Denouement Publishers. He lives in Tokyo. You can read more of his writing at Writing, Musing, Poetry

Sudden Denouement Seeking Submissions for New Writers

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Sudden Denouement started a little over three years ago with a vision of creating a platform for divergent voices. We have grown tremendously and have been gifted with amazing talent from around the world. We are now soliciting submissions for new writers. If you are interested, please send a sample of your work, along with a short bio. We are interested in those who write poetry, short fiction, or any form that lends itself to the format.

If interested please send submissions to:

suddendenouement@gmail.com

 

Iulia Halatz – All roads lead to Rome

 

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All roads lead to Rome

All roads lead to Rome
and poetry
-Delmore Schwartz

All words lead to Love
And the poetry in the afterLove

I wish I wrote poems
For the dreamers of barren lands.
They do not go to Rome
They go to places
That cannot be.

Maybe love is a colorless, odorless
shapeless haze
We see through
with the eyes of
the bricked sky,
pathless oceans
walled shrubberies
streeted lunarian trails
breathing and tingling
scents
In the perfect nightmare
of flowers…
Vines reward our sun
with the sweetness
of grapes
wedded in perpetuity with
the linear shades of amber.

From the Good Place
Where joy is an illumination
To the Place that Cannot Be
They would have worn
The silver claw
of the Moon
above their heads
nightly
daily
musingly
vibrantly….
Art by Ellen Rogers.

Iulia Halatz

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

 

 

Static

by Nitin Lalit Murali

I called my father today and told him that his death

will give me closure.

“Why don’t you jump off the balcony

while I’m talking to you? You’ll do us all a favor,”

I said, seething with rage.

Echoes of abuse never become whispers;

the past lies mangled like the hind leg of a deer

in the mouth of a lion,

the future is as cut up as paper put through

the shredder,

a voice in the dark

that’s as sharp as a blade screams, “Injustice!”

But does that give me a right to become the very man

I detested growing up?

A tormented, tortured, theatrical fool,

a disgruntled, discontented, disgusting do-nothing,

an uneasy, unstable, unsettled madman.

I wish there was more to life than

looking at my shattered reflection,

I wish there was more than drowning

in a green abyss of self-loathing and hate,

I wish there was someone who’ll love me

unconditionally and help me purge the

anger out.

But I’ve realized that this arid valley of dry bones

is the only place I’ll ever know.


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

Doping in shadow

by Oldepunk

doping in shadow

is it love or just thirst

I’m feral, impotent

turn, turn, turning

I am a quark

I am nothing until

counted

all the feels, like Lana,

so wretchedly exquisite.

razor-bladed surroundings, blank

faces pass so fast they blur

into Van Gogh ukiyo-e

hey you, still life

scrape away this Vernier scale

leave mass alone to ponder

weight, levitate

expensive conversations

feed the souls of our lonely

bottom feeding in retro

too young to know better

too old to care

bite into that scripture

mad dog driving

rushing home to….screen

divert, deviate, masturbate

unchained, infringed

so many fences

out of dollaz

but take no quarter(1 of 4)

doping in shadow

when you get this down, push

no matter the cost

is it hate or just hunger

you are unbroken, potent

let us begin

to explore(abhoreadore?)…..love or hate

thirst or hunger

in the end, we will

know.

introduce me to your

particular kind of damage

I like to hurt.

let’s do it in the light.

you can carve

your scars onto me

so you don’t feel all alone


An old punk trying to make sense of what I see and hear and think and feel. Words pulled from the ether. Introverted agoraphobic explorer.  Hockey and food junkie(snob).

Editor, Contributor and supporter of Sudden Denouement, a literary collective.

image courtesy of Pinterest