Comments on: When the Pounding of Fear is Knocking at Your Door http://roberttgasperson.com/articleblog/2007/09/04/when-the-pounding-of-fear-is-knocking-at-your-door/ a little bit of everything Thu, 20 Nov 2008 13:05:09 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.3.1 By: Robert http://roberttgasperson.com/articleblog/2007/09/04/when-the-pounding-of-fear-is-knocking-at-your-door/#comment-1892 Robert Fri, 07 Sep 2007 00:43:57 +0000 http://roberttgasperson.com/articleblog/2007/09/04/when-the-pounding-of-fear-is-knocking-at-your-door/#comment-1892 I am wondering if maybe the headline is something that directs your thoughts before you write. I don't know. I my start just naming the entries by the word prompt. What do you think? It may also just be the nature of writing about the same word. I am wondering if maybe the headline is something that directs your thoughts before you write. I don’t know. I my start just naming the entries by the word prompt. What do you think?

It may also just be the nature of writing about the same word.

]]> By: Shubultz http://roberttgasperson.com/articleblog/2007/09/04/when-the-pounding-of-fear-is-knocking-at-your-door/#comment-1796 Shubultz Thu, 06 Sep 2007 01:54:50 +0000 http://roberttgasperson.com/articleblog/2007/09/04/when-the-pounding-of-fear-is-knocking-at-your-door/#comment-1796 Hey again! Once more it seems like our stories have a rather interesting similarity, though it isn't quite as amusing as the previous prompt. ^_~ Glad to see you're still going to post these. ----- “Please kill me,” were her first thoughts upon waking up. It was that headache again, the one that appeared when she was the tiniest bit overworked, the one that felt like a pickaxe striking her over and over in the back of the head. It would always rear its ugly head whenever she truly needed to get some work done or whenever she finally had some time to herself and there was no stopping it. It consumed her mind and pushed her body to the absolute limit of its pain threshold. Some people might have likened it to a hangover, but she told them adamantly that it was different. She’d been hung over before and this was a hundred times worse. No exaggeration. No matter how much she doused herself with painkillers or put herself into a chemically induced sleep, it kept pounding away. And this one didn’t wear off with time, although occasionally it would disappear mysteriously for an hour, a day, or even a week if she was lucky. She had no idea how she dealt with it. Just when she thought she’d reached her limit, somehow she was able to keep going. The only thing that kept her from putting her pistol in her mouth was the hope that maybe the doctors would be able to do something soon. That maybe there was something out there that could fix it. Maybe today when the results of her latest MRI came in they’d be able to figure out the problem and give her some wonder pill to take care of it, or even an operation. At that point she’d willingly do anything if it meant possibly removing the pounding ache in her cranium. Hours later, when the post finally came she was waiting next to the mailbox. A very disgruntled looking postman shoved four letters into her hands before moving on to the next house and in a flash she was back inside among the safety and comfort of her pillows and down comforter. Two bills, a piece of junk mail, and the letter she had been eagerly awaiting. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents, rereading the pages several times before the truth finally sunk in. She had a brain tumor. There were treatments, of course, but the chance of success was slim to none. She was going to die. Hey again! Once more it seems like our stories have a rather interesting similarity, though it isn’t quite as amusing as the previous prompt. ^_~ Glad to see you’re still going to post these.

—–

“Please kill me,” were her first thoughts upon waking up. It was that headache again, the one that appeared when she was the tiniest bit overworked, the one that felt like a pickaxe striking her over and over in the back of the head. It would always rear its ugly head whenever she truly needed to get some work done or whenever she finally had some time to herself and there was no stopping it. It consumed her mind and pushed her body to the absolute limit of its pain threshold.

Some people might have likened it to a hangover, but she told them adamantly that it was different. She’d been hung over before and this was a hundred times worse. No exaggeration. No matter how much she doused herself with painkillers or put herself into a chemically induced sleep, it kept pounding away. And this one didn’t wear off with time, although occasionally it would disappear mysteriously for an hour, a day, or even a week if she was lucky.

She had no idea how she dealt with it. Just when she thought she’d reached her limit, somehow she was able to keep going. The only thing that kept her from putting her pistol in her mouth was the hope that maybe the doctors would be able to do something soon. That maybe there was something out there that could fix it. Maybe today when the results of her latest MRI came in they’d be able to figure out the problem and give her some wonder pill to take care of it, or even an operation. At that point she’d willingly do anything if it meant possibly removing the pounding ache in her cranium.

Hours later, when the post finally came she was waiting next to the mailbox. A very disgruntled looking postman shoved four letters into her hands before moving on to the next house and in a flash she was back inside among the safety and comfort of her pillows and down comforter. Two bills, a piece of junk mail, and the letter she had been eagerly awaiting. She tore open the envelope and pulled out the contents, rereading the pages several times before the truth finally sunk in.

She had a brain tumor. There were treatments, of course, but the chance of success was slim to none. She was going to die.

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