Welcome to Discover Sunday

The editors of Sudden Denouement welcome you to Discover Sunday. Twice a month, it is our honor to introduce our readers to exciting non-Collective writers who we feel embrace the Sudden Denouement spirit. We hope that you are as excited to discover these voices as we have been.

If you know someone whose writing makes them a great Discover Sunday fit, feel free to drop a link to their blog or Instagram feed below.



Sneak Peak: Mariah Voutilainen Reviews Sudden Denouement Anthology Volume I

“Sudden Denouement’s Anthology exposes and breaks many of the taboos of being truly and unashamedly human, giving us permission to look at and embrace them in the moment of reading. I was allowed a glimpse into the writers’ souls; comprehending their words was an exercise in the development of understanding human nature. This is a world in which the heaviness of life weights everything down until it is distilled—frustration and hate, love and unfiltered sex, bodily urges, addictions, the complexity of human interactions. Descriptions are brightly painful in some cases, transparently critical in others, but always smack of truth. Divergent work demands that there are no holds barred; the writer reveals everything, and cuts close to the bone, even his or her own, in order to create a pulsating, living amalgamation of words.”

Mariah Voutilainen, (re)imagining the mundane 

A Righteous End- Christine Ray

i woke in the place
where you play god
naked upon the white
marble sheets
stigmata roses
blooming crimson
in my palms
across my breasts
and sex
a fragrant garland
of my sins
left to adorn
this shrine
the holy spirit
dripped slowly
into my eyes
from where you
impaled me with
the crown
of thorns
you placed
upon my brow
crystallizing the visions
tasted of spiced honey
when it fell upon
my torn lips
parched tongue
you had roared
accused me of
taking your sacred
name in vain
when I declared
that you were not
my true god
merely an idol
a token
you tried to
baptize me
in the fire
cleanse me
of my affliction
but you are the one
smoldering in a
dark corner
all rage and ashes
while I resurrect
with the dawn
of the sun


Image courtesy of Pinterest

Christine Ray is a writing, editing tornado who touches down at Brave and Reckless, Sudden DenouementSudden Denouement Publishing, Whisper and the RoarBlood Into Ink, the Go Dog Go Cafe and Indie Blu(e).

Menace-Jimmi Campkin


The cornfield waves and shimmers before us. I have you on my shoulders and we’re having our Woodstock moment, wooping and crying, high and mighty. The angel dust kicked in over an hour ago and my skin still feels electric, sweat turning to pebbles and rolling off my cheeks and arms.

Faced with a blazing autumn sun, we curse all the gods we can remember; we fuck the Christian god, the Greek gods, the Roman gods, the names and faces of our so called creators we motherfuck out of existence. Only the sun matters now; the heat and the light burning our eyes clear of the filth we see every day in town, before we fill our veins and noses with the truth. Out here in this field we are the only junkies; never kicking down but only kicking up, only fighting the glass ceiling, only trying to win… looking for our hill to die on. When that skinny, trembling greasy cunt met us in the stairwell last week, you looked him in his marble eyes and said firmly we are one of you, and I ended up taking a knife slash across the jaw. Yellow and swollen it hums and seethes, weeping like the rest of this cursed society. Even infected with dirt, it is still more pure than the rest of our neighbourhood.

The town has suffered under a never-ending eclipse, where the moon blocked the sun and has remained there to punish us, to leave us sans soleil, but with cruel glimpses around the black edges of a light we no longer have a right to. That’s why we steal cars and Coke cans. We punch in the holes, fill our lighters, drain the sugary garbage into the soil, and go miles and miles find these places where the glowing radiation above can burn away our cancers.

Climb the tallest trees and you can see the monster under the shadow. We know about the rows of terraced houses, like the walls of an old castle, keeping out intruders; like the walls of a prison, keeping everyone in.

Later in the evening the shimmering globe melts the horizon enough to slip beneath and disappear under us. We feel the warmth as we lay on the soil, protected by thousands of yellow shoots now standing guard over us. I slide my fingers into your jeans. From the shining smirk in your eyes I can’t tell if you are soaking horny, or if you’ve deliberately pissed yourself again.

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.

All the little deaths and beautiful scars- erroneouschoices

Holding on tightly to the hand written letter, I looked out at the growing world and the birds were silent, watching too maybe. As my heart pounded a little in anticipation, I read the script on the outer part of the fold. “Read me gently” in his crazy penmanship that I remembered immediately. Sort of like the way he spoke, rough around the edges but his vowels were crafted to perfection.

I smiled at the first few sentences, “Hey love, I know this finds you beautiful but I hope this finds you well too. Do you remember when I told you that one day I’m going to finally have enough money to buy my house on a mountain where I can live peacefully alone? That I’d have an enormous library and someone that comes once a month with supplies and more books. There would be a little cot near the cliff where I can drink, and smoke, and read, and look down at some sad little village trying to make unendable ends meet. I’ll have paper so I can write to my hearts content. Maybe some can visit, but stays are only short. People taint you. Well, they taint me, and I bleed when I’m not in my own colors. Well…. I’m there kid, I’m there.”

We had spent so many long nights where nothing made sense but our hearts wouldn’t stop talking. And in the end we decide we had to kill Netflix or concluded that the trees only whispered and then we’d muse at what the world would be like if they only shouted. Once he told me he was about to make ribbons out of my dress with his teeth as my heart melted around his soul. This man, he was a love affair between a word and the meaning it masks, how the word helps the world stay hidden.

The sky is a bruise and coffee is godly. I wouldn’t ever say I didn’t miss him, even the birds were quiet for a bit while I wished him. But we had our time and now he has his dream. I love my letter, I put it to my face and inhaled deeply. Maybe it was my imagination but I smelled him. I kissed his words lightly leaving a tiny hue of pink over them.

The sky is a tempest and the coffee is divine. I took out my pen and wrote a few simple words, took a deep breath as I folded it and made it ready to send. Life’s like this. And people, well I’ll be damned if people that touched my thighs and my life hadn’t left indelible marks inside my heart.

Id love to be a bird on his shoulder and watch him smile as he read my note. “I have words in me that are in the shape of you.”

Read more at Choices in Error

Tempest is the word of all my days- erroneouschoices

His eyes charmed me. He was not a word person, he always asked what I meant by charmed. There’s something alluring about seeing novels, short stories and bibles behind eyes that don’t translate through their owners lips. Like an undiscovered island that you’re certain holds a treasure for you but you have to dig deep and hard to reach it.

I fear for myself, that one day my words will start a revolt and become outrageous, and I also hope they actually do. Some truths require a slow bleed and the way I’ve been bleeding out I’m probably the truest thing alive.

We’ve talked, he and I, about me being wild and worse, and much more. It strikes me critically that this minimal wordy man can see straight through me and communicate a thing so profound in poetic form without even knowing his genius.

For all intents and purposes I’m reserved and complacent at all times. The tempest beneath should be shrouded in decorum yet my wild is sweaty and seepy to his piercing island eyes. Remind me of me, please always remind me of me so I don’t fade away. I might die of grace

Read more at Choices in Error

Part my ribs- erroneouschoices

I adored all the things he did that made me feel like he was strong. It wasn’t only in the things he did but from the air of confidence he brought with him everywhere. If he was strong, I could feel weak but safe. Being the strong one was over-rated and exhausting.

As I watched him working under the hood of the car I knew I was as going to miss him desperately. My body started to ache and I wanted to make me think of other things but I wasn’t able enough.

Laughter is a kind of sex and that meant we had sex down pat. He was the best at getting a laugh but moreso a smile from my usual poker face. His eyes never failed me, filled with reckless they constantly ignited my abandon. And every time he bit his lip while concentrating Id salivate at the idea he was biting down hard on my lip and I’d have to press my legs together to temper the heat in my lady bits. I wanted to live the dream where we kissed any time we wanted and I know all his shoes and shirts and he’d feed me breakfast. And I was there, damnit, I was there.

Things are fluently fleeting and neverlasting, and when he kept saying he wanted to be the best man that he could be it kept making me think that is sounds so judgmental, so difficult and everything I don’t want. We never run out of sins in all this breathing we do while dying. The struggle to be the best would take away the light and breeze from being the not best.

Im well aware that the heart and brain fight like little children. But they also know each other better than bread and butter. Sometimes what the heart can’t do the brain fills in and visa versa.

I’m made of stubborn softness and sea breezes with a touch of pink to lighten the space between. I’m getting to know my heart better and my minds getting to know life better and madness tastes like him.

As the madness began to grow and the sanity dispelled, I knew I was going to miss him more than my mind, but not more than my heart.

Read more at Choices in Error