Excerpt from Superstition- Women and Horses/Rana Kelly

trembling skin.
come on to me,
slow slow slow,
and know.
wild-eyed and rolling, ready to bolt.
shattered, heaving sides.
shiver, shiver, shake
down your spine.
frozen, still ready to shake loose and hurt me
just in case.
because you know.
run my hand down quaking flanks,
speckled sweat, kiss your face, stroke your lips
storms and lightning in your eyes.
you know the sting and slash of whip-
boot heel, knee, fist.
whatever he had round at the time.
i feel it too, i felt it too.
sweet sweet girl.
with deep and shuttered eyes.
it’s the tight line of your spine when i reach for you,
and you lean and slide, reel and wheel, away.
gather up your strength little girl.
gather up your wind, show it to me.
silent now, lower your face to me.
lower your face to me.
breathe deep, don’t let him see you frighten,
don’t let him see your fear.
low low low, i blow on your skin,
touch the velvet under your eyes.
rim my finger on the seam of your ear.
hh shh shh. it’s all right.
lower your face to me.
ease down your eyes,
drift them down slowly.
lean to me, give me some weight.
i know the look of you-
coiled and strung
like hanging meat.
hooks and things-
until you break
until you break.
i know you.what i was.who knows us.
who knows what men can do
but women and horses.

Superstition is available from Amazon.com, Amazon Canada, Amazon Europe, Book Depository, and other major book retailers.

Paperback, 89 pages/Published August 5th  2017 by Sudden Denouement Publishing

Rana Kelly was born and raised in the Deep South, and now resides in the Southwest.  Her poetry, personal essays, short fiction, and photography has been published in anthologies and literary magazines far and wide over the years, from Caesura to featherproof press, FM to Ceremony Collected. Her first novel, Until Her Darkness Goes, was published in 2015. She’s currently writing her second novel.

Excerpt from Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective- Say Yes/S.K. Nicholas

Nose on nose on a balcony that overlooks a disused garage that swims with rats and pornos and junk. Black eyeliner, black tights. Red lips and a ponytail that swings like a pendulum. The smell of your hair and the feel of you pushing yourself against my groin in those hours that escape us upon waking. We sleep outside to be closer to the stars and because when we make love and taste God you want him to see you as a soul and not just a body. Pyjamas not skirts. Flirtation not chitchat. Tigers, dragons. Sushi bars and wet lips. Dimples and your smile and the absence of you when you’re not around and you’re never around but I have my words and my words will become you and that’s just how it is. The evenings are beer and wine and the warmth of your breath against my neck in the back of a taxi and then your arm around my waist in some bar with paintings on the wall I could paint with my dick. Nearly falling off your chair, you snort with laughter and bite my ear. What’s the worst thing about getting old? My hair going curly. The second worst thing? The knowledge that my mind and body are two different things and that the older I get the more conflict there will be between the two. Arguments. Frustration. To sleep. Would you sleep with me? Would you let me take off your socks and massage your feet while we sit in silence too drunk to do anything other than picture ourselves as different people? I hope so. Tears that stain the pillow. The beginning, the end. A writer, a fool. A hand around your throat. A doorway that could be a vortex that could be a portal that could be an opening to something those we have known our entire lives have never come close to. Do you remember when we were strangers? Can you recall the time you caught me staring at your mouth in the canteen at work not long after you first started? You asked me if I was okay, but I was lost in the future that danced upon your lips and although I didn’t want to be crude, I knew already what was to follow and it caused me to become lightheaded. Two hearts. One mind. That night we were under the stars and I wrote GN-z11 on your arm with a pen and urged you to get it tattooed- you never knew what it meant and I never told you. Well this is the place we shall go after we die and there we shall be free. Free to love without the presence of prying eyes. Type it into Wikipedia, and tell me you’ll say yes.

Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective is available at Amazon.com, Amazon Europe, Amazon Canada, Book Depository, and other major book retailers

S.K. Nicholas  is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available Amazon.  Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

Hamburgers- Aurora Phoenix

there was a wham and bam
but no thank you ma’am.
I should have protested
but how does one cry out
from the sodden synapses
of brain steeped
in collegiate excess
and marinated in good-girl
I chop at the roots
of agglutinant shame
that grew a little more
intransigent with each
midnight- egging “why?”
I gnaw at noxious rhizomes
planted in schoolgirl lessons
\strategies to safeguard sanctity\
when my sexuality
nascent and unfettered
could turn

-rapier in heat –

prick against me.
I cuss a blue streak
\my warrior midlife self\
at Victorian misogynistic notions
that swaddled me in responsibility
for those who strained
to strip me.
swear mightily as I may
I can’t drown out
the habitual penitent on kneelers

should I have asked him
to go for hamburgers?

Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”

Fluff- S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

Beware the moon, boy. Beware her swollen belly too as she stumbles into the room demanding the last of your Jaffa Cakes. Even if you really love someone, you should never give them the last of your Jaffa Cakes. It’s just one of those things you never do, right? As she hobbles around in a temper while you stuff the last of the cakes into your grubby mouth, she tells you to massage her feet, of which you then duly oblige. She moans and groans and purrs like a cat, but the second you unzip yourself and rub your cock against her pinkies, she calls you a pervert and turns her back with a huff and a puff. Building herself a nest, she quickly glares at you then buries her body deep into the bedsheets. The sheets haven’t been washed in weeks. Every time you try, she begs you not to. She says the scent of your smelly bodies is too much of a good thing to just wash away. After a while, she emerges from her nest looking all flustered and promptly removes her top. She’s got fluff in her belly button. You try flicking it out but she gets upset and pretends to cry. Pouring two glasses of wine, she downs hers in one swift gulp then curls into a ball singing one of her songs as you sit by her side doing your best to write a handful of lines that will no doubt become progressively worse with each mouthful of Chardonnay you knock back. The next morning they’ll all be scrapped, but for now, as the blue moon keeps watch through the window, you do your best to tap into the secret vision while letting her know you want to merge. You keep touching her. Keep reaching through the folds of the duvet grabbing her bits telling her how much you want to fill her up. She calls you a beast and a filthy swine, and yet when you retreat, she comes out and nuzzles herself against your leg while batting her eyelashes like she don’t know what she doing but she knows alright. Shedding the rest of her layers, she spreads herself and pushes your fingers deep inside and then she makes you kiss her wet bits and as you’re struggling to breathe, she raises her face to the ceiling and laughs as your own face turns as red as a tomato. Guess it serves you right for not giving her the last of your Jaffa Cakes. You should always give the one you love the last of your Jaffa Cakes. It’s just common sense.

S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.comas well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available on AmazonAdditionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

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

Sweet- S.K. Nicholas/A Journal for Damned Lovers

Yeah gone lick her neck an’ when she roll about the bed I take her little fingers an’ slid em in my mouth an’ when she smile showing dem milky teeth I touch her face letting her know she be mine an’ me be hers an’ there’s this music on the screwy radio that lift me higher an’ higher an’ when she take off her clothes I jus’ sit there touching myself knowing I’m low but she be heaven yeah she heaven cast in orange sunlight an’ dust an’ when I push her legs apart she squeeze her nip nips an’ stick her tongue out at me an’ when I feel how wet she is it’s like life touch me somehow like I alive but ain’t no time to think cause she grab my ear an’ push me down yeah she make me eat her sweaty mush mush while she spread her fingers through my hair like I spread her lips an’ when I lick she grip an’ twist me like she wanna cut me an’ see blood so red like these lips I suck sticking in stained fingers all the way in to the knuckle so she arch her back an’ wiggle her toes yeah she wiggle her toes an’ chew ghosts an’ when she kick her feet the electricity come tingling through her spine like life be fine an’ when we clean up an’ go for food in some greasy spoon we eat chicken doused with salt an’ talk about Ghostbusters 2 an’ that river of slime an’ I tell her it’s like her bits an’ she says bits? an’ I’m like yeah your bits an’ her lip curls an’ she grins kicking my leg under the table an’ just like that I know she dig me an’ I dig her for she ain’t no ordinary soul cause she know the stuff that need to be seen an’ she see it even when they say she can’t an’ that’s why I love her an’ we gonna do this all on our own yeah we do this all by ourselves so there I go leaning over the table an’ here she come right back at me an’ when we kiss I feel her smiling ‘gainst me so I lick the grease off her chin an’ press my fingers into her glowy skin an’ she look me in the eyes calling me her sweet an’ life be fine yeah life be jus’ fine.

S.K. Nicholas is the creator of Myredabyss.com, as well as author of two novels A Journal for Damned Lovers Vol 1 & 2. Both of these books are available on Amazon. Additionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

Slick- Kindra M. Austin

Running on midnight, oil

peels ‘neath my flit feet—

heel to toe, heel to toe; but

toil and tarry with nary a mile made distant.


Sluts like me are always found

out, cos spouses see the webs of deceit

weaved with widow-like legs wide open—

not as stupid as we

pretend. Oh!


We do pretend our husbands’ best friends, or

brothers-in-law, or bosses all have hearts

appended to their throbbing dicks.

‘And that dick’s heart beats only for me.’



Slut found out

living in a small town,

sucking on spoils—

I’m gonna fucking die here,


I’ve defiled my own name.


© Kindra M. Austin

Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here), a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

In Waiting- Kindra M. Austin

I waited at the back of his throat—

waited to hear him confess my name so I could come out from behind his teeth, and defend my claim

over him. Illusory love o’ mine

kept me cleaving to the bitter of his tongue; for all of her disdain he swallowed, I did

wash in, waiting.


We used to get shit-faced, and fuck each other mad, down by the river in

dew slick grass,

monstrous ‘neath the white-gold moon.


He’d give it to me good ‘til I was

howling, and scratching

bloodstained claws at that discerning watch

slung up high in sleeping cerulean.


I waited at the back of his throat—

waited for him to confess my name.

He didn’t.


Every time he chokes, he’s reminded of me.     

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.

Judas Came to bed-Hannah Wagner/The Hero’s Inferno

At first I was surprised to see him

Each time we met I thought would be the last

Slowly I became attached to his presence

I waited for him like a fiend for their dope

He wasn’t like the history books said

He was more like a great dark wing

Soft and alone

He carried me away

I looked up to see the stars for the very first time

When Judas comes to bed the red rose sets fire to the forests


People said we can’t help you now

You are walking hand and hand with the devil

But I have seen the devil, drinking Bulleit

Sucking on figs and taking the skin off the poors back

Rest assured when Judas comes to bed I am closer to god


When it Is over he is remorseful

A rain storm comes down to cleanse him

I watch but do not join

Preferring to wallow in our sweat


Each night he pulls the drapes back on his heart

I reach to touch the pulsing ruby of my dreams

Just as quick he jerks the curtains back

Like a spooked horse


Gone again until the next act

When Judas comes to bed time itself does not exist

When Judas comes to bed we are both two and one

When Judas comes to bed he leaves nothing but an olive branch

Hannah Wagner hails from Salem, Massachusetts. She is an actor, poetess, dreamer, among many other things. She thinks there is a little witch in all of us.   Hannah writes for The Hero’s Inferno

Intervention-Georgia Park/Private Bad Thoughts

“Georgia, you are a wonderful person
and a loyal, supportive friend
but you have the worst taste in men.
Honestly, i think you should just
stop dating.”

“But my new year’s resolution-”

“Yeah, you need a new one. Here’s
an example of an acceptable goal:
To become a poet.
and unacceptable:
To fall in love again.
do you see the difference?
This is 3 months now,
you’ve been suffering
and I honestly think it’s just
because you’re goal oriented
but you can’t control
his douche-bagginess
and we don’t want you
to see him again.
Here, read us
some of the drunk texts
you’ve sent.”

“‘…wherez ur feeeelings1…’
‘…god will smite uou!1…’
‘…i am a HUMA PERSONNN…’
Ahem. Yeah, ok. i can see
what you’re saying.
But I still don’t think-”

[Georgia Park is creator of Private Bad Thoughts, curator of Whisper and the Roar a feminist literary collective, and a writer for Sudden Denouement. She is a wonderful poet with an enormous heart. We can’t imagine this journey without her. Please check out more of her wonderful work.]