Semaphore-Jimmi Campkin

We build sandcastles just to destroy the pure, wet sand, dreaming of pineapples, messages in bottles and California.  Suntanned toes and blue lipstick, red dyed hair that runs in the rain and streaks your shoulderblades with plastic blood.  Lights twinkle over the harbour like your teeth in the sunlight.  You attract men, flies and trouble, and all three irritate you and spoil your fun.  You ask me, why can’t we burn down the local chapel on a Sunday morning?  And it isn’t rhetorical.  Hell hath no fury like an ex-Catholic.

Later that day, we conquer the sea.  You remove your red panties and pierce them with a shank of driftwood, plunging it into the oncoming tide in the name of Us… and what a concept that seems to me sometimes.  There is no Us, just You, hurtling around the Earth like a cannonball in the Hadron Collider, which you call the HardOn Collider whilst squeezing the blood out of my stiff cock, leaving it sore and limp like a dead chicken.

Today the sea is a flat plane of blue glass, and in the quiet the echoes are louder.  Clouds rumble overhead, keeping watch but never staying long enough to enforce justice.  I’m lying on my back as you fondle my balls with one hand and grip my neck with the other, asking me over and over again why I keep breathing.  It’s boring, apparently.  Breathing is boring.  I should just stop doing it.  My friends say you aren’t healthy for me.  But one by one they are going out, like Christmas tree lights, and soon it will just be Us again… or maybe just You, rubbing powdered glass into the slice you made in my arm with a fish-gutting knife, because…. well, just because.

 

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.

Those Days – Jonathan O’Farrell

Her attention wandered from the raised dais, momentarily.

‘So what, give me this moment, life is precious’.

He had come up, a little chilled,

but otherwise mostly un-nibbled by scaly denizens, of the deep drowned land;

and now found himself, sat next to her

back seats, the theatre of life.

During a brief interlude they slipped out,

Perfection, just long enough, out of whatever character currently portrayed.

Stood, still dripping a bit, at the bar she had previously raised

he held not the next shows’ programme, nor blueprint, or deed of ownership.

None, but a mug of steaming cocoa,

cradled, supported by bones

and simple, vulnerable flesh,

but that now warmed and alive.

And at sometime he pulled out an imaginary blank sheet of paper,

kept carefully dry

and unwrapped that idea, from within a fold in his soul.

Thus, the interval minutes turned to hours.

Hours of maybe sitting in the sun, basking in wordless skies.

Or little trips out to look and listen to the land, breathe, a tale or two, of two.

Seemingly, the sun moved

into the awaiting skin of that land.

Apparently it always does that.

Undistracted, during a firefly inspired, yet otherwise unscheduled meditation

he and she must have noted, that,

‘Oh, night – where did that evening go?’

No answer that time, to give,

other than ‘night, sleep well – perfection’.

As a result to this easy sum of planetary rotation

who knows what they plotted

and scrapped happily in a hungry waste basket,

ready, as ever, to receive

the scrunched up brown paper, a new world of map making.

There may have transpired crumbs of toast in a bed, or beds,

a copious number of kettles boiled,

little rocks rearranged, card games.

Wildly predictive texts read with mirth, at their late

and multiple arrival, like buses.

Car washed, paint brushes rinsed.

At times, horrors – a gaggle of unwashed coffee cups,

negotiated  by poised but gently flicking tails.

We can deduce very little my students of life

from what remains;

other than to say, games and fun played a very large part

in these lives.

Hello Miss Dreamer, at the back, yes, ha hum!

Perhaps it may have been inscribed in a journal

by one or other of them at the time,

in those uncounted days.

But the bee waxed birch bark tube

may not have survived well the consequent flood.

So we cannot know, for sure,

but we can piece together a few possibilities and imagine . . .

to our hearts content, the rest . . .

of what their bodies reveal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Help Us Support One of Sudden Denouement’s Own: Kindra M. Austin

We are proud to announce that Sudden Denouement Writer and Managing Editor Kindra Austin has been nominated for Writer of the Month on Spillwords. We urge you to visit Spillwords between today and March 26th and vote for Kindra.

While you’re there voting, we recommend that you read and rate powerful writing by SD members Aurora Phoenix and Christine Ray.

Congratulations Kindra on this well-deserved nomination!

Live Interview: Jasper Kerkau, Matt Eayre, with Justin from JustInspireTV at SD Event

Interview with Jasper Kerkau, Matt Eayre, with JustInspireTv at Sudden Denouement Event.

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Jasper Kerkau Writing

Help Us Support One of Sudden Denouement’s Own

We are proud to announce that Sudden Denouement Writer and Managing Editor Christine Ray has been nominated for Writer of the Month on Spillwords and that her poem, On Becoming a Poet, has been nominated as Publication of the Month. We urge you to visit Spillwords between today and February 26th and vote for both Christine and her stunning poem.

While you’re there voting, we recommend that you read and rate powerful writing by SD members  Henna Sjöblom and Kindra Marie Austin.

Congratulations Christine on this well-deserved nomination!

Introducing Allie Nelson – Addict

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Addict – Allie Nelson

It’s evening, and we’re both drunk as stoned birds, and you look like a young Hannibal Lecter and stink of corpses and rotting roses. I’m in bandages and heels, I cut myself on your broken bottles again, maybe because I hate myself or maybe because I hate you and I want you to see your precious little canary bleed red, dead, showing the coal mine of your palace is stranger danger. There’s needle pricks along your forearm and you’re ranting and raving about how I left you for your brother, the Prodigal Sun, and you’re the fuckup your dad kicked to the curb into a joint you call Hell with your bachelor buddies where all you do is fuck and kill and get high any means possible. I say your twin is worth a thousand yous and I’d rather you were dead by my hands than calling me jezebel and heirodule and all your pretty words for whore. Maybe you get off on me sleeping with all your friends and enemies – no, I know you do, because you own me and I own you and I only do as we please and you’re a manwhore that likes used goods – but for now you’re pretending it’s only us at night, not succubi or angels of prostitution or all the fancy terms rabbis came up for cheap ladies of the night that dress up in oxblood lipstick and leather and decorate your palace. I tried to join in on one of your orgies once and you laughed to high heaven at how innocent I was, too pure, and your wives stroked my hair and tweaked my nose and then you got back to your fucking. So much for sharing. I don’t know a damn thing about drugs and all the shit you drink and snort and smoke and siphon through your veins but silver daggers are pumping this clear heady substance into your banded arms and I’m cornered, horny, and pissed. I imagine you are the same, because what fucking loser castigates his wife for straying and throws temper tantrums then comes crawling back drunk for forgiveness and pleads for a second chance, a millionth chance, just take my poetry and books and roses and shittily made tacos and let’s pretend I’m the dragon, you’re the princess, and your fucking knight brother was burned to a crisp. You grab me from behind and I hike up the bandages and you talk about kids and how pretty I would be pregnant and I tell you to fuck off as I cum and you’re still snorting coke off my spine and we rut until I bleed and you’re raw. You mock me for missing a spot waxing but I know you’d fuck me if I had a sixties porno bush. You’ve made it a point to fuck me however I look, lathering me up to a soap with compliments and moaning and weakness as your seed spills out and I could sink my teeth into your manhood and drink down all the black sin inside you. You’re crying again, sobbing into my hair, saying how could I have left you for the better half, the sober one, the brother you hate and love in equal measure. I tell you to shut the hell up and let me sleep and that I only keep you around because you’re hot when you’re not an abomination. I’m pretty sure you raised me to kill you, and you love watching me in other men’s arms, but then you go and haunt my boyfriends and fuck me in their beds so who knows. All I know is that you think you have me figured out, but then I go and surprise you and you lose your shit and rant and rave like a rabid dog. Watchdog of the graveyard, you called yourself. The Scapegoat. Samuel the Judge. I hope the whole fucking Internet reads this and the Satanists know what a pussy their god is. The Devil’s a cuckold and cries at Victor Hugo and beats his women and is as disturbed as his favorite eponymous band. Addict Angel Extraordinaire. Waste of Space Junkie. This is just me spewing shit on the page to see what sticks but isn’t that what I always do?

I learned to write from you, after all.

https://dancewithtricksters.wordpress.com/

[Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipst.]

Eavesdropping on an Anarchist’s Monologue at the Post Office – Introducing Josh Dale

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Eavesdropping on an Anarchist’s Monologue at the Post Office

Here you are,
fumbling for change in your early 60’s,
to get the fucking technology to work
Shouldn’t you be in Orlando with a beer gut?

(Copy machine fails to cooperate)

Corporate America, pssh!
I’m minding my own business at the kiosk,
listening to the Republicans taking over shit for the next 30 years.
Are you an anarchist, sir?
Or have you been left behind?
Fucking Americans, wake up!
Mid. Term. Elections. Are. The. Most. Important.
I do want to vote,
will you, honestly, dear sir?

(He’s still fumbling around with an early 00’s copy machine)

I know the woman mailing Christmas
heard your fucking shit and goddamn Democrats.
I did,
and I’m not even trying to, sir.

Will you throw your torch into the pyre
or is that asking too much?
You’ve had your whole life to tear the system down,
why is the baton covered in dirt?

I wish I could just mind my own business
and get your fucking papers in check.
Maybe a coffee.
Maybe a Guy Fawkes mask.
Something.

Because your curmudgeon self
makes me think the deck is fixed
and you’re exactly where they wanted
you all along.

www.thirtywestph.com/masthead

jdalewrites@gmail.com

[Josh Dale holds a BA in English from Temple University and has been previously published in 48th Street Press, April Gloaming Publishing, Black Elephant, Huffington Post, The Scarlet Leaf Review, Your One Phone Call, and others. If he’s not petting his rescue Bengal, Daisy, he is perfecting his stir-fry recipe, hunched over in the dark like an alchemist. He is the founder and current editor-in-chief of Thirty West Publishing House and Tilde: A Literary Journal. He calls Norristown, PA his second home.]

Links to Poems, A Short Story, Interview, and Press

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/theres-always-a-reader-for-every-writer-josh-dale_us_5a157f71e4b0f401dfa7ec34

http://waxingandwaning.org/index.php/2017/03/05/3-poems-by-joshua-dale/

https://youronephonecall.wordpress.com/2017/06/12/upon-the-mirrors-edge-by-josh-dale/

https://www.scarletleafreview.com/poems6/josh-dale-poems

www.thirtywestph.com

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