Passing too Close

The searing sound of a whisper, hissed and sibilant, and then a red
line across the skin, like the lick of a whip.

Bullets passing too close can kiss.

This, he knew.

The crack of a gunshot sound, echoing like pulseless thunder, and then
the heart, startled into cessation, and the pain of it starting again.

Fear passing too close can wound.

This, he knew.

The electric fury of an argument, tension rising and crackling like
some barely subdued storm, and then lightning flashing, snarling and
tearing through the sky between almost lovers.

Anger passing too close can blaze.

This, he knew.

Silence and echoes, wondering and dreams, and then the maddening hope
that reaches through the flesh of a man and destroys the heart that
beats within.

Love passing too close can kill.

This… oh, God, this… he knew.

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3 responses to “Passing too Close

  1. The second last line should have been the last. This can be said of nearly every near fatal change in direction of any decent novel anyway. What we lose we don’t find, this one is not magnificent nor failure, the crowd has a decidedly listless buzz to it as though it is expecting something. Give it.

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      • The best writing is wrecked and ruined and just a little shy of perfect. It’s the imperfections and the nearness to gold that makes it shine you know. I like your writing, but in the interests of not being too much of brown-noser, I have to say that I hate your name. This is not the name of a talent. And now I must be off, for my one-week old has started to cry… Sleep sleep, I remember you fondly… though not sure I will ever know you again…

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