Revised — thanks, Stefan and Dawn. I read it tonight at my feature and it worked well.

HOME ON LEAVE

The whoosh-snap
of the rifle’s report dissolved
to a fastball’s thud
in my chest.

I only knew it was real
after it had happened.
The only way I knew that sound had been there
was by its immediate absence as I fell back.

This too:
my target
fell without making any sound.
He did not get up again.

I’ll be the feature at Jester’s Cafe tonight, out in the strangely appealing decaying Western Massachusetts milltown of Westfield. Reading starts at about 7:30 or so and proceeds apace. If you can make it out, c’mon by; I’m pretty sure I’m starting a manic phase, so it ought to be interesting.

One of the nice things about Jester’s is that the cafe is owned by and is part of a music store that has a reasonable if not particularly distinguished line of acoustic guitars which I can peruse prior to the event.

Heck, maybe I’ll even pick one up and blame the purchase on the impulse control issues so many of us with bipolar syndrome have.

Later for this. Right now, I have to go call the guy at the Bentley dealership back; something about credit approval.

Here’s a quickie/first draft, based on a writing exercise developed by Lynne Procope.

HOME ON LEAVE

It can best be described
this way:
the moment I knew everything
would be different forever was when the whoosh-snap
of the rifle’s report dissolved
into a fastball’s thud of pain in my chest,
and I realized that the sound of it and the feeling of it
were one and the same, and that
the only way I knew any of it was real
was after it had happened –
there was no sound while it was happening,
and the only way I knew the sound had been there
was by its immediate absence as I fell back. All that –
and of course
this too: my target
fell without making a sound of his own,
and he did not get up again.

Here’s a quickie/first draft, based on a writing exercise developed by Lynne Procope.

HOME ON LEAVE

It can best be described
this way:
the moment I knew everything
would be different forever was when the whoosh-snap
of the rifle’s report dissolved
into a fastball’s thud of pain in my chest,
and I realized that the sound of it and the feeling of it
were one and the same, and that
the only way I knew any of it was real
was after it had happened –
there was no sound while it was happening,
and the only way I knew the sound had been there
was by its immediate absence as I fell back. All that –
and of course
this too: my target
fell without making a sound of his own,
and he did not get up again.