Sudden Denouement, The Sanctuary Project

We interrupt the literature to bring you two little bits of Real Life News from behind the desk of Jimmi P F Campkin…


I am both humbled and honoured to be chosen as a member of the SD community, a Global Divergent Literary Collective; featuring some remarkably talented writers (and myself.)  I urge all of you whom are not already aware of it to visit the website and have a look, subscribe, follow and support, and personally I would like to offer a thank you to Jasper and the team.


The Sanctuary Project

I am currently in the process of editing and designing a pair of photobooks, that I hope to be available at some point during January 2018.  This will not just be a collection of my photos, but I also intend to include pieces of my writing to accompany some of the pictures – both on a seperate page and actually within the images themselves.  Some of the pieces will be from my recent 250 Word Project, and others will be snippets and snapshots from my longer and earlier stories.  The hope, once I have decided on what pieces of writing to use, is to create a relationship between the words and the images I have carefully selected from the past four or five years of being an amateur photographer.

As a little, badly-shot-on-a-phone preview, here are the two front and back covers to date….


It’s going to be tricky marketing a photobook, as by their nature they tend to be expensive to produce and therefore expensive to buy.  And I want to create something of quality, but also something that people will feel happy to purchase.

But ultimately, this isn’t about me making money.  I know I’m going to be working 12 hour shifts in the hotel for a little while longer yet.  This is really the next stage in me trying to put my work out there.  I’ve tried, and so far failed, to sell my pictures as large prints and framed works.  This is something that can be more cheapy purchased and, more importantly, more easily shipped.  Even if I make nothing from them, if a few people were to buy them and (much more importantly) to find something from my images and my words that touches them or inspires them in some way, it would mean everything.

It’s all we ever want after all, whether we deal in words, music or pictures.  To connect.

Ever since I started thinking about writing as a career, I’ve long had a romantic attachment to having my work available as a physical copy.  Around the time the Kindle was released, a lot of people kept telling me to self-published and distribute electronically.  But, as SK Nicholas and many others will testify, there is nothing like holding your work in your hands, thumbing through your pages and seeing your name on a spine next to your inspirations.

I will post further news when I am close to releasing Sanctuary I and II, including the link from which it can be obtained.  But for now – since it’s near the holidays and I am speaking directly rather than through the voices of my many deranged, damaged and beautiful characters – I would like to say, personally…

Merry Celebrations to you,

A happier 2018 (politically, personally, productively…) to you,

And thank you for reading and following.

Without your eyes, my words get terribly lonely.

Life, Sentence


I thrash around my house trying to find meaning, plunging my hand into the freshly boiled kettle or dragging fingertips over the loose floorboards.  More terrifying than death is nothing at all; a spiritual and creative purgatory leaving me void, awaiting a second attempt that won’t be granted.  The stern glance of an examiner who washes the blood from the thumbscrew and says, that’s terribly interesting sweetheart, but let’s have another try…

I punch a fist through the thin ceramic of a globe, and feel the sherbet kick of sharp plaster in my veins and bones.  I flex a fist but the blood doesn’t run, it just sits like pricks or dots on the map I will never explore.  So, Volvograd is just a dot?  No streets, no feelings, no point, just a name painted on a piece of upper class pornography for the study.

When she walked in, the bonfire was struggling.  I’d piled twenty of the heavy classics into a volcano and penetrated a match underneath.  Even Lolita wouldn’t light.  I chewed my knuckles, my teeth crunching against the plasterdust from the Globe embedded in my bones.  I begged her to set me on fire.

I couldn’t feel anything.  I was immune to empathy.  Books, art and music passed me by like a fast train through a suburban station.  I watched helpless as everyone else boarded, taking them home.  I had no home.

She put a hand on my shoulder, and her warmth hissed on my cold flesh.



Undead Lovers

“You flew over the cuckoo’s nest long ago, and that’s why I love you.”

S. K. Nicholas


It’s a Friday night, and as we sit at our table in the restaurant, you shake your head oblivious to everything and pretend to play the piano. Drinking your single glass of beer that you’ll make last the entire meal, you’ve still got over half left but you’re already tipsy, and when you see me smiling at you, you stick out your tongue and go cross-eyed. What a little charmer you are. Reaching under the table, I stroke your leg and pinch the tights that cling to your flesh, and yet you’re so engrossed with this imaginary piano of yours that you hardly notice. Holding your knee, I close my eyes and see you before me with your legs wide open. You’re doing your thing, and I’m watching like a kid salivating in a candy store with a pocketful of dollars. Was this the other night, or the other year? I can’t…

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Teenagers in the 1950's much more elegant than teenagers now... Pinterest

Circulation of stars was more familiar during
those sincere days when our bodies felt the lust,
the smitten rose kiss, the dandelion slaps
on our naked, yellow tongues.
Telephones were intriguing, for addiction kills.
Fingernails did not chap, broken things did mend.
Inside the tubes of bars, ladies enjoyed
with a brew of solace and poised wise.
My teeth crack to see the irony today,
humanity dies, numbing the skies.
Sometimes when I walk on moist roads,
The oak and the cactus pigments my impeccable skin,
slapping mud onto my thighs, making me realise a sigh!
For life's revenge is time,
And nothing binds the state of time.

My latest work published on Duane's Poetree.
-My Valiant Soul

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Street Rats- Introducing Daffni Gingerich

Read her before she is famous, and you can say you were there first.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Ziegfeld Model - Non-Risque - by Alfred Cheney Johnston

From the depths of my churning stomach, he pulls out my childhood and makes me puke so violently it comes out of my eyes. After wiping my face, he kisses my acidic lips. That’s when the world stops and the words start to fall out of me. The mustard plants in the vineyard across the street bloom yearly. They’re beautiful so I sit on the fence and get lost in them. When with me, he’d stare for a good 20 mins before sneaking his dirty paws up my shirt. The wind would cause me to run through the flowers in whatever direction it blew. The sky is blue and I can taste grapefruits in the air. He grabs my arm and pulls me back towards him to say I could never get away. With his arms locked tight around me and my soul devoured by his eyes, I feel a shiver go up my dress…

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This Is Not Enough


In the flickering light I get flashes of your cat’s eyes, long teeth sinking down your jaw.  Snapshots of faces everywhere; lives experienced briefly and dismissed, like birds flying through one open window and out the other.  Bottles and chains, rings and shirts, the floor is sticky and slippery.

The bass breaks my ribs.  The treble stings my ears.  Onstage, a man in a sailor outfit rips it open to the navel with a surge of patchy hair and bubbly bad living.  Two women nearby look at his tits with distain.  I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin around.  In one motion you wrap your leg around my waist, grind the hem of your jeans into my thigh and twist my nipple hard enough that I drop my plastic cup on the floor, where it rolls languidly, lost with the others.

I look up but I can’t make out the ceiling, just pinging lasers and lit white smoke.  I stumble backwards against a table where two men dance, kicking me away.  You’re back with me again, a trickle of blood from a cut lip.  Before I can shout, you grab me tight as the song dissolves into scratchy atoms, lifting my shirt and pressing your sweaty midriff against mine.  We mingle but we don’t kiss.  We never, ever kiss.

Like an avalanche, the song restarts from a snowball and becomes a meteor.  We stand in each others faces, screaming.  Your breath stinks, and I don’t give a fuck.




I walk across grass fields, my hands deep in my pockets, boots filling with water.  No moon tonight, just stars peeking from behind the pollution of a dismal town.  This bare space of green darkens in the glare of the sprawl nearby; a shy lover shrinking away from foul breath.  I look around and realise I am invisible, but I can see everything.

The woods loom up ahead, uncertain, so I sit on a nearby dead tree and don’t disturb further.  Sticks snap and trunks creak, in the background the static hum of a pointless conveyor belt – cars and drunks.  I’m shivering.  I wrap my scarf tighter to my neck and carry on.

I climb the hill and look over my shoulder as the town glows fetid below.  I never really felt a connection to it and now I never shall.  I’ll forever be Other.  I’ll always be Something Else.  The footpath tiptoes out between tall concrete walls.  I find a dark gap, and wait.

The Man approaches, humming a song to himself.  He’s wearing headphones, the white cord glowing.  As he approaches the gap I emerge calmly from the shadows, jamming the knife under his ribs, pushing him against the wall.  We scratch our boots across loose gravel.  He threatens to cry out, but doesn’t.

I look into his eyes as they throb and pulse, pulling the hilt up to cut deeper.  My wrist is warm.  He will never hurt you anymore.  Like a dying candle, his eyes fade.