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.


A Town in Some West

Arta gravure 1854



If I were a town in some west,

I’d be in love with a river

who’d wrap his arm around my waist



We’d have all the gold,

and a plain to call our own,

and a sea to want



If I were a town in some west,

I’d drizzle grief and rain my worst till I felt better,

and my river would drink with his arm around my waist

so tender.


But I’m no town in some west,

I’ve no gold on my breast,

or the power to mess with the weather,

and there’s no one to wrap a true arm around my waist




© Basilike Pappa, 2018


(Image: Pinterest)


Shinbone-Jimmi Campkin

Jimmi Campkin hotwires my heart.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

DSC_0024 2.JPG

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 tadpoles in the dark green of a midnight dip.

She’d hotwired the car in a dark corner of the drive-thru.  Under the artificial glare of neon bulbs, we’d seen the young couple fingering each other damp before sucking away their respective juices and hitting the fries.  All she needed was a cigarette lighter and a hairclip and we had a car.  A good car.  A V6 apparently, whatever that means, with two belts of cheap vodka and an automatic transmission.  I didn’t mind.  It meant she could grip my cock and still keep one hand…

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Erich Michaels weaving a web of poems and memory.



I took my poems and pinned them to a giant cork board. Butterflies of every hue. Like a conspiracy theorist or a detective hunting a serial killer, I connected the poems with string. My crazy wall. I connected them by how old I was in the memory that spawned the poem, by themes of love and loss, by which of the two poles I steered towards, or away from, if the poem was looking in the past, thoughts of the future or grounding myself in the present. It started out looking like a spiderweb, and I plucked the strings of love and watched the poems thrum and give off chords of joy. Then I strummed the strings of loss and a mournful sound issued forth, making the room waver and dance. The strings of depression hung limply and could not be played, but the beauty of their draping form stood…

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Panda Eyes

To find yourself alive in the midst of S. K. Nicholas’ strange and curious stories.

S. K. Nicholas


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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Looking For Your Next Read? Try These From Sudden Denouement Publishing

Heartstring Eulogies

Sudden Denouement Publishing has some
exciting titles available right now,
and more on the way.

Here’s a sampling of a few of them.

Machiavelli’s Backyard by David Lohrey

“We are radical practitioners of right thinking,
determined to destroy Western Civilization. We
must step back to move forward: first go the arts
and the Decorations, then the courts, the laws
and institutions. By the time we’re through,
they’ll be nothing left but vaginal jelly
and sawed-off shotguns.”

Superstition by Rana Kelly

“He told me my eyes
Are the color of whiskey
So I razed every still
From Eire to Alba
In rage
When he left me.”

I Am A World Of Uncertainties
Disguised As A Girl by Nicole Lyons

“My thoughts have turned
from racing to raging
to beasts beating
their great wings
against the cool shadows
in my mind.”

And Coming Soon!

Anthology Volume I: Writings from the
Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Head over to

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If I cut a word in two… Iulia Halatz

Her cerulean, lingering touch…

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your limbs

softened with

iron syllables.

I wouldn’t have lusted

for your shiny dark eyes

like the sea

lit by two moons…

We could wake up

to what we were…


breathing the air of

another planet…

basking in an estranged sun…

When winds

herald the evening

the stirs are in the


and the communal

place of storms.


braved a lackless sea

for naught

My kisses tell you

of another small

and drifting planet

where water

falls from the sky

and blows away

the ink of dusky clouds.

The sands tug

at my feet

and quarrel like ghosts


blindly in the whirlwinds….

There is a hole

in the world

where you stood

brazenly stealing

the burnishing silver

of two Moons.

Yet you continue

to hurtle constellations at me.

You fumbled for Orion

and you stumbled

as I inhabit

my spell-forged star

to enhance

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