Faith Don’t Lie- Christine Ray & S.K. Nicholas

Before you, the days blended one into another, each one as empty as the day before. Hell on earth.  A month of Sundays forced to my bare bloody knees to the cold, hard stone floor by a congregation of pious sleepwalkers, of judgmental sheep. You’ve met their kind. The ones who can’t see. The ones who can’t feel. The ones who worship their shiny toys like idols and pray at the twins altars of willful ignorance and empty contentment. They pointed their fingers at me, sewed a red letter on my chest, called me a heretic for wanting more. For declaring you a true prophet.

My faith don’t lie, so why should yours? At times like these I feel both dead and alive, and this is how I get my kicks. The knife I twist brings with it the lips of those I wish to kiss above all else. May they kiss me under and may the blade take me to another plateau so I can be at one with God, far from those who resemble what I wish never to resemble. Too many days pissed away. Too many hours left hanging by a thread. Just too much time pretending those wrapped in flesh and sin were like me, but they never were, and neither are you. You know it. I can see it in your eyes. Can feel it when you cry as your world comes tumbling down because the faith you seek is in them and not within.

You baptized me in the woods with the wine and the words of burning truth that bled from your mouth. Told me to dig my fingers deep in the rich earth, feel the hum of life all around us. As the bonfire blazed, you molded the shadows and revealed the secrets of your death and resurrection to my open eyes. I could hear the copper sing in your blood. Taste your holiness on my tongue.  I was filled with the crimson gold light of the spirit deep in my marrow.  I knew the excruciating glory of rebirth.

My faith don’t lie, so why should yours? They spit at the sky and claim the rain falls only on them. Them and their desperate need for affection never giving so much as a thoughtful ear in return. They see shapes while we observe miracles. They hear noise while we hear songs as old as the universe. Yet all they do is try convincing us the magic in our bones is mere illusion. That what we’ve got to give don’t mean shit. But we know that’s not true. We’ve known right from the start. It’s in our hearts and these visions that push us further away, but if we’ve got each other, the more adrift we become the better. So take my hand. Take it now and let’s find a beautiful place to get lost.

We turn our backs to the unbelievers, with their deaf ears and eyes that choose not see.  It is not our work to proselytize to the masses.  We will minister to ones like us, who cannot settle for the stale, tasteless bread, the white picket fences.  Those with fire in their blood, those who hunger.


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

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 availableon AmazonAdditionally, Nicholas is a member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective.

 

Phalanx-Jimmi Campkin

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I should resist, but she has the confident glow of a seasoned drunk, smelling of cheap vodka and cherry gum.  She does handstands and I watch those filthy, unwashed baseball sneakers form an arc; just missing a string to be a devastating bow.  She hovers upside down for a moment and her arms burst with blood and sinew.  She walks on her hands, legs now bent like a scorpion, as I walk slowly and solemnly behind her like an undertaker walking to a funeral.

My friends tell me she is bad news but I like bad news.  I read about murder every day, I slow down for car wrecks, and I love how the spot on her forehead is infected and seething from being picked by grubby fingernails.  I love how she pushes rusty nails under her skin.  I love how she took up my dare to stand under the wasp’s nest in her underwear as I threw rocks at it.  Stung thirty eight times and going into shock, she still demanded I kiss her through the froth.

Maybe we are the people society forgot, or maybe we were a mistake from God – tossed over his shoulder towards the waste basket but bouncing off the rim and crawling, evolving on the floor in our own way; born out of lost bacteria in the gutter, staring up.  For my birthday last year she gave me a dead squirrel, pancaked flat from the road, and shaved my name into its decaying fur.

She finally overbalances and snaps to the ground like a sprung mousetrap.  Nearby is the old bridge, crossing a narrow but steep cut through the land.  The drop is horrible – in that middle distance between survival and death where leg and pelvic injuries are almost guaranteed.  The planks of the bridge have gaps and my challenge is to make my way under the bridge from one side to the other using just my hands and my grip.  She insists she won’t tread on my fingers through the gaps, but she’s a terrible liar.  And I know her well.  My body is raked with red scars from home-made surgeries, so much glue and stitches without anesthetic using her mother’s sewing yarn, all from her challenges.

I make my way underneath the bridge just before it falls away.  It stinks of piss and an old mattress where tramps go to convince themselves it isn’t worth trying anymore.  I put my fingers between the hold ahead of me and allow my feet to dangle beyond the drop.  I see her above, as a break in the sunlight.  And isn’t that an apt simile?  I shouldn’t be doing this.  I’m shit scared.  I should resist.  And as I am thinking these things, I go for the second hold.


Jimmi Campkin is a “Writer, photographer, creator of SANCTUARY. 16bit child, INFP with clinical nostalgia and red wine for blood.” You can enjoy more of his work at jimmi campkin.com.

Montresor/Down Vaults- Basilike Pappa

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Since I was born

I’ve been a point definitely settled

(Roses are eaten fragrant)

 

Was it the same with you, Montresor?

Immediate risk of disappearance?

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

Repressed grimaces, forced smiles,

baptised in delectatio morosa.

 (violins playing obsession).

 

I bet you wrote poetry once,

dreamt of being a highwayman.

(Each laughing mouth a wound)

 

Into that hidden maze –the lifelines on your palm–

I kept myself a secret

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

movement – a measure of how long

until I turn myself into

(walls between a man and the Carnival.)

 

 

a weaver of grand jests,

the echo of rich laughter.

(Down vaults where the dead are)

 

Us: the smirk of a god.

We grew to be nightshade,

(loose teeth in the mouth of the earth)

 

but roses? Never.

We were eaten fragrant.

(we’ll stay awake and play.)

 

So be it, Montresor:

Let’s take them by the hand

(Come jingle all the way)

 

through corridors –our mind canals–

and whisper in their ear

(down vaults where the dead are)

 

tales of stone and mortar

below the river’s bed

(a little song called murder).


Basilike Pappa lives in Greece. She likes her coffee black, her walls painted green and blue, her books old or new. She despises yellow curtains and red tape. She can’t live without chocolate, flowers and her dog. Places she can be found are: kitchen, office, living room. If she’s not at home, I don’t know where she is. You can find Basilike up late with a notebook in the Silent Hour.

Discover Sunday: Goodbye, and Good Riddance/Devereaux Frazier

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The clouds coalesce on shores of blue

Thunder and lightning descend in waves

They turn grey and full of rain

Anguish and buyers remorse descend

I’m angry at myself for ever falling for you

I stutter, “but you let me”

Truthfully, I let myself

Because I’m in love with my own sins

And with you

Goodbye

And good riddance

The pain you caused was endless

But in my head, somehow it was worth it

Just to lie in your bed, just to see you wet

I forgot about my own health and heart

With thoughts of you filling every fiber of being

The mockingbirds were singing, and the crows

Found a gathering every morning on my porch

But I ignored all the signs, each and every one

The neighbors that saw you with another

The friends who read the texts to another

Sometimes I don’t believe

That people can be so cruel

And I need to nearly feel the sting of death

To realize that people don’t have the will

Or the compassion to be honest and open

Even when they’re hurting, killing

They make it feel like nobody else

So I endure, endeavor, and relent

Hoping dishonesty will keep them coming

 

You can find more of Devereaux’s work here

The Loss in Us- Oldepunk and Lois E. Linkens

Life passes, unfettered by the loss in us
I want to touch the echo of you with hands
time has counted twice
Morning’s claw does rive mine empty mind
From dreams more full
And coloured than time aware.
arid fantasy does drift away
to morning dew upon lip of leaf,
to glisten in rays of layered gold
We are creatures on a strange ship
In a curious place. See – the island lies,
All life and shade, its green banks 
Like shiny apples on a ghostly tree.
behold the Fleece hangs dimly
upon crippled limbs, brittle coppers
casting what little light they may
comforts aplenty beseech us to shore
It had once known splendour, too.
The jewelled hands of kings did brush
It’s ‘chanted thread. 
And so it seems, we none of us
Have waged with Time and won.
A parade of somber gaiety
These feeble celebrations deem us hollow
For if’n that mighty Ram may fade
We must gone quietly quick
As dawn to day to dusk to night
A welcome blackness
To close the tattered shapes of what once was.

Oldepunk and Lois E Linkens ( Italics)


You can read more of Oldepunk’s writing at RamJet Poetry

Lois is a poet and student from England. She is studying the literature of the Romantics and hopes their values and innovations will filter through into her own work. She is working on longer projects at present, with a hope to publish poetry collections and novels in the years to come. She is a feminist, an nostalgic optimist, and a quiet voice in the shadows of Joanne Baillie and Charlotte Smith. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkens.

Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member David Lohrey

The editors of Sudden Denouement Literary Collective know that our strength is our writers. We hope that you enjoy getting to know them through our new Writer Interview Series.

What name do you write under?

David Lohrey

In what part of the world do you live?  Tell us about it.

I live in Tokyo, Japan.

Please tell us about yourself.

I am originally from New York, then off to Memphis where I grew up. I was educated in California and lived out there for nearly 30 years. I left the country in 2009 and haven’t been back except for short holidays in Hawaii.

If you have a blog or website, please provide the name and the link.

https://davlohrey.wordpress.com/

When did you begin your blog/website, and what motivated you start it?

Just 2 years ago or so…I keep it as a repository only of my published stuff. I do not write on the blog directly.

What inspires/motivates you to keep blogging on your site?

I copy and past stuff onto there but it really only functions as a file.

When did you join the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective?

It has been a couple of years now.

Why/how did you join Sudden Denouement?

I was submitting around at the time and got a nice reply from Jasper whose support I found unique.

What does “Divergent Literature” mean to you?

Divergent suggests out of the mainstream, nonconformist.

SD Founder Jasper Kerkau frequently talks about Sudden Denouement writers using the ‘secret language’. What is it?

I think he means indirect or guarded. It suggests that writing is a survival tool.
What are your literary influences?

D.H. Lawrence, Doris Lessing, and Harold Pinter are favorites.

Has any of your work been published in print?  (books, literary magazines, etc.) How did that happen?

I submit daily, few make it.

Do you have writing goals?  What are they?

Right now my goal is to put together a second volume of poems.

Which pieces of your own writing are your favorites?  Please share a few links.

https://literallystories2014.com/2018/01/10/maximilian-or-maximum-security-by-david-lohrey/

https://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/33/poems/lohrey_david.html

http://tuckmagazine.com/2017/12/07/poetry-1162/
What else would like to share about your writing, Sudden Denouement, or yourself?

I am very grateful to find such a supportive community.

 

Only One of Us Gets to be a Martyr Part II-Sarah Doughty and Nicholas Gagnier

It was the defiance in your gaze that caught my eye at first. The way you did the opposite of what anyone told you, for the sake of proving them wrong. Sometimes you succeeded, and sometimes you didn’t. But it never stopped you from being you. Down to the core. Making your own way, on your own terms. Maybe that was what fascinated me for so long. What left me in awe. Maybe it was some of the things you said. What left me speechless.

(But I’m restless, 
full of 
condescension, 
ruling my own city without mandate or 
consensus, putting up 
fences, making 
contestants of 
first 
impressions,
taking something so breakable as penance
and helping it
be bent
in pieces.)

Being alive is not a competition, but death calls to my indecision.

I didn’t know how to respond to such a comment. Indecision was never a part of who you were. And I knew, in that very moment, that I would happily die in your place, just to rekindle those fires that burned inside you. Because a world without your fiery passion is not a world I want to live in.

(And yet, I’m obsessive 
with my tenses, past & future,
as ghosts of
the present 
debate
the 
metronomes that 
menace every last
paragraph
and 
sentence, 
trying to mention 
events without
saying
your
fucking name,
and I’m reckless, shaking
rowboats and the
dust from
sarcophagus
serenades) 

So, darling, let
me be
the martyr.

You deserve to rise and become so much more.


Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.

Nicholas Gagnier is a Canadian writer and poet, and the creator of  Free Verse Revolution. He has published several poetry books, as well as a novella releasing this July. Nicholas supports and engages in conversations around mental health and social welfare, preferring strong literary voices and self-expression to traditional narrative and poetry. He lives in Ottawa with his young daughter, where he runs FVR Publishing and works on a million projects at once.