Pounding Novels & Stories

He remembered how he felt when he was standing in front of his school door. His mother pounded her chest with her fist, once more. Harder this time. Melo’s vision pulsated as his mother continuously pounded at her chest, harder and harder than the last time. His mother and father gritted their teeth, making eeking sounds, piercing his ears. He opened his mouth again, forcing even a small squeak to come out, but nothing. He tried once more and as the sound of her rhythmic pounding of her chest and the gritting teeth grew louder, he pressed his palms on his ears and gathered the twisting turmoil building in his chest and let out one loud blow,

I watched the guy's every move. The way he shuffled his feet, his posture and even the way held his fists. The bell rang, and some music started blaring again. It was 'Awake by Godsmack'. He jumped for, and I ducked just in time for him to miss. I shot back up and remembered what Liam said. Kicking is my strong point. I can thank six years of soccer for that.

Goodbye, thumbs. Biting his tongue against the anguish he knew was to come, he banged his hands, thumbs out, into the headboard. Crunch. The bones broke with that very first punch. He sucked in a breath, but, like Grace, he did not mumble a sound. Punch, punch. Each new hit caused even more pain, ripping tendons, tearing muscles, and mashing bone.

" I started sweating badly. " Sh*t" .... " What's wrong Fred ......" She asked worriedly . " The breaks of my car stopped working Aria ...the...." I trailed in pannick . I pannicked badly as I tried to Control the car as it moved out of the road and that was the last thing I remember ....and the scream of Aria before everywhere went Dark . TBC

My shaky hands are quick to grab onto Domino who jitters wholly from the sudden forward surge. What’s going on? Is it an accident? My alarms begin to kick up so noisily that I wince and cower from the banging barrage ripping my head apart. It’s so incessant that I find it hard to concentrate on anything else, shutting my eyes tight and gripping my head that’s on the verge of splitting open in two. ‘What the hell is this pounding pain?’

Feeling it go deep and through my chest. Thump! The loud sound of my punch hitting the punching bag echoed over the loud music in my ears, and the vibrations tore through the muscles of my right forearm. Another rivulet of sweat rolled down my back in my soaked gym shirt, reminding of how high my body heat had gone. I paused to grab a bottle of water, then saw that the one closest to me was empty. I cursed under my breath and turned around to grab another one… but I froze when I spotted someone at the other side of the gym.

Prove your worth and stop being "the elf" I shut the voice out and focus on the path in front of us. The silence is overbearing, and though I try, I can't hear anything. Then, like it's everywhere at once, a hammering sound pounds through the air, and they both wince. I look around us, trying to trace the source. I can't. It goes on pounding rapidly away, like a death knell in sync with my fastening heartbeat. I hear something and I'm pointing my arrow in the direction of the sound at the same time they both turn, fangs bared, claws outstretched.

The word feels like a physical pain. He moves once, an inch deeper, a slow, grinding rotation of his hips that forces another wave to swell. I gasp, fighting the urge to collapse. “Don’t lose count now,” he warns. He unleashes the rhythm, a deep, fast pounding that steals the air from my lungs.

Pain means I’m still here, that I'm still alive. I lift my arm with everything I have and strike the beam. Clang. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed by the debris, but I hit it again. Clang. Clang. Each strike sends fire up my arm, but I welcome it. I set a rhythm, pouring all my desperation into it, letting the noise become my voice. Clang. Clang. Clang. I try hitting rhythmically.

Music thudded faintly from overhead speakers, but his rhythm drowned it out. Thud, thud, thud. Each punch landed with a smack that made heads turn. His knuckles, wrapped tight in tape, blurred as he battered the bag. Shoulders heaved, lungs burned, but he kept his stance sharp; jab, cross, hook, reset. The veins in his forearms bulged with effort.