Candice Louisa Daquin Reviews Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Sudden Denouement Publishing

Sudden Denouement (SD) is a writing collective started on WordPress (WP) among fledgling and established writers and poets who came together in mutual appreciation of the genre of writing poetry, specifically poems that are honest and express emotions without compromise or apology. In this sense, SD was unique among WP authors as being the first attempt to collectivize those specific voices and generate a mode by which writers could advance and gain exposure using a safe platform and not being judged for expressing themselves honestly. “We are stray smoke in hurricane water.” (Stray Smoke, by Mitch Green).

One may imagine this is common-place but even in the world of creative writing and poetry, there are standards and expectations and many poets who tended to write about emotions were labeled as being too self-involved and depressing. Poetry collectives often focus on publishing and highlighting poets who are studying for…

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Just Released! Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

It is here! 29 writers. 138 individual pieces of poetry and prose. A true Global voice from Finland to India, via the UK, Japan and others. Front cover isn’t bad either…

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

The Sudden Denoument Literary Collective is thrilled to announce the release of Anthology Volume I: Writings for the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective!  This long-awaited anthology is a thoughtfully curated compendium of the best writing published online by the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective from its launch in August of 2016 through April 2018. It includes 138 pieces of cutting-edge poetry, prose and short fiction written by 29 diverse writers from England, Romania, Japan, India, Finland, the United States and Canada. Thirty-one of the 138 pieces were written exclusively for the Anthology. This volume captures the astonishing raw power of these individual and united poetic voices.

Now available on Amazon.com and Amazon.com.uk

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Driplets

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I inhale the smoke and gasp under the lights in this jet black room.  Sweating bodies and dead flesh grind and bump around me, so much cadaverous globules.  The first pill hasn’t kicked in yet – I can still taste dry ice and hairspray – so I pop another and dream of my future.

Above me on the stage, the party is just getting started.  But I don’t party.  I’m looking for sensation, real feeling.  I see empty men and indifferent women, just so many appendages and openings, no more atuned to love as the assembly instructions for furniture.  I’ve already seen a Princess, but the low bass throb is reacting badly with my shoes and I’m struggling to move more than five yards a minute.

It doesn’t matter.  She comes over to me, just as the second pill kicks in, and her eyes turn into a pair of gold coins ringed with black.  Leaning on a table, my opening line isn’t brilliant.  Are you blind?  Can you see?  It’s fine if you can’t…. I’m not prejudiced.  She’s sympathetic but confused.  I’m confused but sympathetic.  With firm hands and long nails pinching under my armpits, she hauls me out of the bonfire before the strobe dilutes my memory.

Dragged across the floor, I can see the artifice of this place.  No ceilings, just vents.  No lights, just effects.  My trousers are sticky with beer and other questionable things.  I have a flashback memory; fourteen years old, first time getting loaded on beer stolen from my parent’s fridge, listening to music on my headphones whilst lying on my bed and feeling as though I were floating into the song… like melody could be fluid, and something one could swim around.  I felt my immature quilt cover melting around my arms and legs, the pillow swallowing my head, falling into the rabbit hole of a greater sensation of feeling.  I’ve never felt better than that teenage drunk.

She drags me into the Gents and rams two fingers down my throat, her long nails lacerating the roof of my mouth.  I instantly throw up foam and blood, as a concerned man with aftershave and soaps for sale looks on.  She rubs my back, tells me Everything Will Be Okay, and buys some wipes from the dude.  He won’t accept her money, but she has a way of making things happen.

What’s that Smiths lyric?  Under the iron bridge, we kissed.  This isn’t an iron bridge and we don’t kiss.  She drags me outside and we meander, supporting me as best she can, until we sit under the ruined arch of an ancient church.  The fresh air ploughs into my senses and I feel like I am drowning.  Even the stars in a cloudless sky move too fast.  She sits with me, holding my hand, and asks me questions.  I try and answer them all flirtatiously, but she just laughts.  She wants to know who I am.  When I sit still the echoes of the bass still pinball around my head and send me off-balance.  Her arm around my shoulder isn’t affection… it’s protection.

At some point, I ask her for her number and she hands me a card with a wink.  I go for a kiss, and she darts away from my lips and plants a wet one on my cheek, grabbing a handful of my expanding groin in the process.  I look up and mumble something about the moonlight.  I can barely focus on the damn thing, glowing and bulbous above us.  She looks up and points, tells me about footprints that will never be erased and flags that will never stop fluttering, if we can just believe in the impossible…. something something.  Something something?  Why can’t I remember….?  Fucking hell.  Why can’t I remember?

I woke up in the gardens, not far from the arch.  I opened my eyes to a dogwalker, crouching nearby to pick up some shit and eyeing me pathologically, trying to assess whether I was still alive.  Underneath the crook of a low shrub, dry from the morning dew and still wrapped in her denim jacket, I rolled out from my little grave and surveyed the morning with a thumping headache and slime on my lips.  I felt something sharp in my pocket and I remembered, the card she’d given me.

It was blank except for a lipstick kiss and words scrawled in biro; TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. 

 

Meet Sudden Denouement Collective Member Nicole Lyons

I may not know poetry but I know what I like. I’m very fussy. I like Nicole, which is why one of her books sits proudly in my bookcase.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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?
Nicole Lyons

In what part of the world do you live?
Beautiful British Columbia, Canada. I live where one must dress for all four seasons in one day.

Tell us about yourself.
I have the heart of an angel and the mouth of a drunken sailor. I am loyal to a fault and I always bet on the underdog. I dislike crowds and most people in general, and if it wasn’t for fear of depriving my daughters, I’d move us to a cabin in the woods near a secluded little lake to live out the rest of my days.

Where do you publish your work?
The Lithium Chronicles

When did you begin your blog and…

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Signing Out

” To see the world and this, this just doesn’t fill that void for me. Well, come to find out the sky never touches earth.” All this, and Angela Lansbury.

Daffniblog

Black tea and bouncing from thoughts that have nothing to do with each other. I’m signing off but not in a way that would make any sense because you see, I still have to write. But this whole idea of discipline and critical thinking shuts me right down. The idea of networking and pretending this whole thing is some professional endeavor is really tinkering my fairy. And maybe if I wanted this as bad as I used to want to save my mom I’d stick it out but as these days drone on none of this really matters anymore. Do you know what I want, to support a family. To see the world and this, this just doesn’t fill that void for me. Well, come to find out the sky never touches earth. So this void will have an unrequited love for me until the day I die. Yes, I…

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Panda Eyes

No one describes ennui better, or more eloquently. No one else can make feeling lost feel so familiar.

S. K. Nicholas

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I’m near the village where she used to live with her dad. Haven’t been here in years. Feels much the same as it used to, though. The same roads and parks. The same ghosts. Apparitions. Call them what you will. Getting off the train, I walk along the main high street and pop into a newsagent’s to pick up an energy drink and a packet of crisps. Yeah, I guess some things never change. Sitting on a bench opposite the river that runs for miles in both directions, I eat my cheese and onion crisps and drink my can of battery acid before lighting up a smoke. The world has moved on, and yet in many ways, things remain as they always have done. I’m older, that’s for sure, and the faces I once knew have long since passed, but the ebb and flow of life is a gentle one…

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Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin — A Global Divergent Literary Collective

We’d swum upstream, arching through the reeds and the little currents swirling around the sharp rocks just below us, grazing our elbows and knees. The river meandered under the watch of hills crumpled and confused like an unmade bed. Nothing moved except the wind and the water; and two undernourished, hopelessly drunk, hopelessly pale little […]

via Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin — A Global Divergent Literary Collective