[Sometimes a story mixes with life and becomes something else entirely.  This excerpt from a story writing session might be something like that.  But in the end, all stories are about the human spirit.  Here’s a piece of mine.] I can’t hear myself think.  I feel a deep dull thudding in my brain as if the machinery was jammed and trying to roll past something blocked, something broken. A metallic boom down in the bowels of my mind. Whose words are these? The questions of a questioner go unanswered.  Where is the spark of my soul? Nothing is missing.  There is no menacing evil within and yet fear fills my…