Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.

Silent Hour is mostly night.

There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.

Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.

It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.

It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.

Silent Hour is me.


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Sonata: Excerpt from Eric Syrdal’s Pantheon

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

She has seen evidence
of the beast
everywhere around her
Through the streets
of the city
it leaves its evidence
on the grey landscape

Scorch marks on the concrete
broken scales on the playgrounds
teeth shattered and discarded
in the gutter
shades of green and brown
but often clear like ice

She hears its wings
scraping on the sides
of their tenement
at night
While everyone but she
is sleeping

She’s heard its low growl
The heavy air of its presence
in the hallway
right outside her door

Pure of heart…

Her blood formed a natural
resistance to the beast

When the pressure of
the outside world bowed in
on her
The air would thicken enough
that she could hear its voice
speaking to her in rich whispers

But her life was solid and
secure behind the ramparts
she had spent the dearest
years of her existence building

And so…

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Sharp- A Weyward Sisters Collaboration

Playing with blades together with some sharp ladies.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

I am playing with knives
again
sharpening them
lovingly
against brown leather strap
admiring the way
hair splits cleanly
upon the well-honed edge
(Christine E. Ray)

Listen!
Sounds like a violin–
fine strings ‘gainst steel bow
I play concerto
splitting hairs
(Kindra M. Austin)

I’m trimming those frayed ends
sharpening those
pointy convictions
giving them a sharp edge
a serrated opinion,
ready to pierce you
where it hurts you more
(Megha Sood)

Cold steel on skin,
I blossom,
stare down the line
take aim
at friend, foe and fortune
with my throwing knives;
multiply and divide,
split and survive.
(Kristiana Reed)

I like a razor
but xyraphi sings to me
of shreds, edges, ends
sweeter than any cutlery.
An x is an eraser,
that’s why I draw it long
to keep it clean and short
and shave me complication.
Oh, how…

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Montresor/Down Vaults- Basilike Pappa

Going downstairs today on Sudden Denouement.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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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…

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Now Available: Nicole Lyons’ Blossom and Bone

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Sudden Denouement Publishing is thrilled to announce that Nicole Lyons stunning third book of poetry, Blossom and Bone, has been officially released.

Praise for Blossom and Bone:

“A beautifully crafted work of art that will punch you in the
face with its gritty realism before soothing your wounds with
elegant prose, thought provoking lines, and sublime imagery.”
– Samuel Decker Thompson, author of Our Fucked Up Hearts

“Lyons is connecting on a primal level here, all the while brilliantly
splitting herself along dual lines. She draws an effortless
parallel between desire to live and acceptance she cannot beat
death.”
– Nicholas Gagnier, author of Leonard The Liar

“I knew from the first page that Blossom and Bone would rekindle
the love affair I had with ‘HUSH’ and ‘I am a World of
Uncertainties Disguised as a Girl’. Lyons words lasso and then
cajole your heart. Old or new…

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Puncture-Kindra M. Austin & Jimmi Campkin

Kindra M. Austin and Jimmi Campkin. Just read them.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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I know damn well where the bastard’s been, but I ask him anyway, just for shits and giggles. He tells me to take a short walk off a long pier—idiot, stinking of another man’s piss and strawberry nudy-bar incense. He’d sat in his car getting blotto before going inside. I know because this particular club only serves soda. What a ridiculous image: a carpark full of man-children rubbing premature hard-ons while sucking down whiskey or beer, and snorting snow off of steering wheels. I wonder how many make eye contact with their fellows as they walk across the pavement, and enter Titty McGee’s.

Hate is a strong word, and only suitable for a wretched fool.  Earlier that evening, whilst going through a drawer, I blew the dust and little balls of melted cotton from my thigh-highs and looked at them through the diseased light of a yellow lamp.  They hung…

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The Loss in Us- Oldepunk and Lois E. Linkens

Oldepunk, Lois E. Linkens and their poem of layered gold.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

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…

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The Dance of True Love

The magic of SK Nicholas.

S. K. Nicholas

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The animals move about me as if made of water. In slow-motion, they move through the night guided by the lights from where they came. From where I came, and she too. Perhaps we were both born in the heart of the same dying star which is why we were always meant to find each other, time and time again. Perhaps our souls are made of the same stuff, which is why the music we make speaks to the animals the way it does, bringing us together where others would’ve drifted away. With the moon peeking through the branches of the trees, the trees part to reveal the blinking lights of some faraway town. So many lives I have never known. So many lovers, some being born with others on the verge of destruction. The music they make drifts to my ears, tickling my brain in strange new ways. I…

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