Endless cycle of suffering no matter what I do

This may very well be hell with no way out

Broken irrevocably everywhere

Anger feels so good yet part of me is still painfully aware

It's disgusting and animalistic to dig deep into a loved one knowing they'll forgive us in the end

 My eyes open, only to feel the  intensity of a pitch black night,  weighing down my thoughts.  Oh my thoughts, there are so many. They swirl around in my mind like a tornado, threatening to crashed down upon everybody else.  They all scream at me,  vieing for the attention, for the chance to become ideas, habits even.  Intelligence can be dangerous if not used wisely.  I learned that later that day as I attempted to use my newfound knowledge of the world to become all powerful.  After waking up and discovering that I knew everything I felt like I knew nothing.  It made my mind weak to have so many different thoughts and so much knowledge.  I knew everyone was thinking and it was killing me inside to know what they really thought about me...what they really thought about themselves. I couldn't help them because they couldn't know that I knew it all. It was destroying me.  I knew everybody else's fate,  and when I couldn't warn of them made me cold.  I became the human being that my newfound knowledge had warned me about all those years.  I was a evil, manipulative, vindictive human being, that knew everything but wanted to know nothing, because it destroyed me.  The grief was followed by a hunger. A hunger that nothing could fufill, but the need for more knowledge and more power.  In the end, I let it destroy me, because I couldn't live anymore as long as it felt like I wasn't living.  And having that much knowledge, it didn't feel like I was living. I didn't expect anything anymore because I knew it was going to happen. There's  no surprises. Nothing exciting. Everything became dark and gray.  Eventually my mind became overruled by unbearably powerful thoughts. My mind exploded into a thoughtless oblivion. And I let it. I was done living in a world where I couldn't live without my overly, intelligent thoughts interrupting. I was done. So I said goodbye and welcomed death like and old friend. 

The windows were starting to freeze up and the temperature continued to drop outside. Snow was layering up quickly and before we knew it the bus was completely covered. The heater was still working fine but we don't think there is enough gas to last the night.

John: What are we going to do when the gas runs out?

Ty: Let's not worry about that right now. Do you want some hot chocolate?

John: I would love some.

He pours water into two mugs and heats it for a few minutes. Then, he dumps two packets of mix in and puts a few marshmallows on top. He handed one to me and sat back down with his own.

John: Thank you.

Ty: Not a problem. Maybe it will warm you up.

John: Hopefully.

He scooted even closer to me and we are now huddled together extremely close. Both of us were warmer and happier this way. The bus was now so dark that you could only see and inch ahead of you.

John: I have a fear of the dark.

Ty: I am next to you so you’re alright. Don't be afraid.

John: Trying not to, but the images in my head tell me something different.

Ty: Push them away. Think of our walks in the woods or when we would sneak off to this bus so we could be together.

John: Got it. Do you know when the snow will stop?

Ty: Do we have the laptop?

John: Yeah, I shoved it in my coat.

Ty: Can I see it for a moment?

John: Yeah.

I hand over the laptop which is a bit slower because our box is in the house. He went to the weather site where there was an alert. This alert said that the temperature and snow is dropping alarmingly fast. It said to stay inside, keep warm, and if you have to go out wear warm clothing because frostbite is common.

John: Well I don't think we are safe.

Ty: Me neither.

John: What do we do?

Ty: We have to stay, it would be more dangerous if we tried to leave.

John: Why am I always scared?

Ty: Just who you are and it gives me a reason to be closer to you.

John: You don't need a reason to do that, you just do it.

Ty: True. I do believe that this bus will run out of gas soon and we might have to run back to our home. And I have a feeling my power will not work in this snow.

Just as he said this the bus's power went out and the heater stopped. We felt the chill start to creep in.

John: Ty?

Ty: I guess the time is now.

John: No, Ty I cannot do this, the snow has to be at least three feet high and the winds have to drop the temperature even lower.

Ty: You know we have to because we will freeze in here. Take my hand and we can run there in two minutes.

John: I am slower than you, so you run ahead of me.

Ty: I don't think I could do that.

John: Keep your head down and keep your hands in your pockets.

Ty: Can do, ready?

John: No, but let’s go.

I saw him open the doors of the bus, a blast of cold wind hit so hard it knocked up down. Ty began to run and I was a few steps behind him before I tripped and fell. The snow toppled down on my body. Icey chills sent up my whole body, my legs and head were numb.

Ty Point of view:

I made it the entrance but John is not behind me. Maybe he stayed at the bus or maybe he got stuck. My legs are going numb but there is no way I will sit and warm up until he is sitting next to me. I turn around and scream his name to which I got no answer and I knew something was not right. Retracing my steps I found a pile of snow that was blocking the path and the more I looked I noticed his shoes. Not caring how cold my hands are I start throwing the snow to uncover his unconscious, frozen body. Quickly, I race back to our home and block up the door. And I try to heat the place up by boiling some water. John was covered in frost and everything was cold. I tried to find a pulse but there was not one, he was dead. I held him and just cried. He was the only person I could tell everything to and the only person I ever loved. A tear of mine hit his face and John sat up with a big breath. I hugged him tighter than I ever have and I never wanted to let go. Nothing could explain what just happen, he was dead and now I am sitting looking at his bright blue eyes staring at me.

John: You might want to loosen your grip on me, I think you may break a rib or two.

Ty: Sorry, I thought you were dead.

John: Clearly not, you would not loose me that easy.

We sit there trying to keep warm and nothing could take my grip off him. I did not want to lose him again. His body is still ice cold so I put rags dipped with warm water on him. I kissed his ice cold lips and we sit there trying to survive the night.

now before tackling the bars of iron, this dumb bell

will offer ye an outdated vignette to buck up your dell

lush us app pet tight for those who consider sins worthy of hell.

nada one iota of truth (er...maybe just a half an eye yoda) based on fact

thus, i made up what my bland childhood lacked

thus into a figurative corner this blithe spirit got backed.

Both parents (but especially my father – the renown Chemist B.B. Harris and to a slightly lesser extent the late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms Kuritsky - the gal whose troth he pledged while holding some bubbling sinister looking flask in hand on their first guinea pig type date) encouraged incurred genetic yen that burned from without the buns of this son.

No matter a bit tentative to experiment willy-nilly (wonka like) with rather explosive materiel, I received truckloads of ammunition (in tandem with benevolent benediction) to foster dare devil and derelict pyromaniac precocity!

Those formative forays assaying, assessing and carefully calibrating this, that or the other liquid or powdery substance found me meticulously measuring and weighing the substances using kitchen midden malodorous kid gloves actually kitchen middens.

Frequent disappointment arose from yours truly as well as momma and papa when the net result (of these early attempts to blend powders and/or liquids) merely fizzled and self extinguished into a near inaudible poof.

Continual daily practice eventually bore successful fruit in the form of near perfect results.

Success in the hotly contested field sans Pyrotechnics requires a striking resemblance to any other vocation. One must be able, eager, ready and willing to maintain that burning passion no matter any unforeseen setbacks or heat from an objectionable source.

I do sheepishly admit to (ahem) you that on occasion the outcome went awry.

Nonetheless, they prided their potential fire branded wizard in the making with kudos and praise with DYNAMITE.

Practice from indiscriminately creating unpredictable concoctions, these lethally marshaled nonchalant opportunities provided quintessentially random results though usually very wimpy.

As proof positive and proud testimony, they proudly pointed (upward) to the kitchen ceiling. There such handiworks practically covered the entire ceiling with variegated splotches.

Quite accurate to assume that father and mother coached, goaded, and nurtured exploratory ambitions and tried not to stifle (at least consciously or deliberately) my early stage ambition toward a scientific artiste (eventually on the lamb) bent.

As a home schooled and (to some extent self taught chemically romanced muralist), I grew up (not surprisingly) in a Unitarian household that paid close attention also adhered to the pioneer spirit.

The near limitless boundaries of life, liberty and the pursuit of understanding an underlying credo, which allowed, enabled and provided one near endless experimentation even at the risk of life and limb.

Aside from nearly burning down the house amidst talking heads practically in dire straits, an instinctive reflex found me immolating myself, occasionally singeing the canine fur of Lady, Schultz, or Socrates, et cetera no frightful catastrophic outcomes occurred thru the milieu of mixing deceptively harmless looking inert raw materials.

Trial and error (quite successful with the latter) via blithely cooking dicey elements forming goulash hiccupping laboratory mishmash practically eliminated any pained regret to take daring risks (such as getting married – ha) in later life.

Despite this favorable and lovable upbringing, my mother (ever the protector and/or proctor of our family and an excellent chef boy r dee to boot) still managed to insinuate (as gently as possible) the necessity to be careful when igniting flammable materials lest some uncontrollable conflagration ensue.

She (mom) did frequently confess to feeling ever so slightly jittery and uneasy with my slapdash amateurish homebrewed pyrotechnics and much preferred to steer my attention toward a safer hobby such as the edible objet’s d’arts i.e., the much more drab field per how to present and aesthetically appealing and nutritious meal.

Fondness to prepare food and pretend to be a faux renowned cook (this confession admitted rather baldly and obviously deduced) actually competed for my most favorite avocation activity and spare leisure time.

In other words, this chap did relish designing his own recipes mainly from leftovers in tandem with unpronounceable multisyllabic organic compounds that filled numerous sized dishes and aged apothecary bottles respectively.

Without question though, the passion plus less riskier factor to combine and potchka dry and wet ingredients together did rank as a considerably safer medium that still allowed, enabled and provided me an equal opportunity to test reactions, than those earlier iterated potentially explosive hazards.

Nonetheless, my cavalier crusading overactive appetite, hunger and thirst to discover causative outcomes (even with purportedly innocuous looking household cleaning supplies or easily acquired inert materiel) nearly witnessed an apocalypse at blanked out Level Road on one particular occasion our domicile to become rent asunder into an ashen funeral pyre, yet for the grace of some divine force no family members nor pets succumbed from smoke.

Best for me to sprinkle this expose with the essential highlights and let the reader be amused (and chuckle to her/himself at how she/he possibly conducted a similar antic during their age of innocence and precocious childhood) with miraculous intervention from the pranks of yesteryear.

Although decades now removed from the inferno in question, I can still vividly recall the horrific shell shocked sensation that nearly paralyzed my being and kept me stock still for what seemed like eons.

Mere fractal like fragments just barely recollected upon that indelible frightful charred brush with death.

Unsure even to this day, what exactly sparked the fiery maelstrom. Only vague hypothesis can be formulated quite some decades post that near cataclysmic event.

Perhaps the dial to bake or broil got set overly high.

Maybe while the need to use the bathroom could not be deferred one more second, the rising contents inside a pan splattered over the side? This possibly set an eruption in motion?

Anyway after the flames got extinguished even the most hardened and skilled sleuth found great difficulty to pinpoint the source even after spending countless hours sifting thru the scorched rubble.

As a result, all fingers immediately pointed at yours truly.

I can still recall with clarity that loud and near deafening boom, which blasted off the oven door.

Sounds from this out rage mimicked angry birds cawing, whereby forked flames shot and spiked out in all directions analogous sans straight out of Compton or a California wildfire!

Hot embers of fire burst forth with scintillating fascination (including accompanying pops) like some July forth celebration. In addition, an intense heat nearly melted the paint off the walls, but mercifully managed to stay clear of those frescoes ala king.

Fire engines raced, aligned chutes and ladders (none felt sorry to monopolize the crisis), and broke windows to rescue and give candy cane striped marshmallows to those trapped inside.

This treat (a little trick of the trade) known to help stick-to-itiveness whenever havoc struck, especially pertaining to the hungry licking fiery sharp toothed flames in the throes of consuming innocent lives from the paws and maws of death.

Thank Dog Smoky the Bear sprung out of thick choke filled air! Although considered a fictitious character, he donned life like qualities that quickly muted this mortal male.

Although rather squeamish to pay obeisance to hero worship, I duly attest that these series of unfortunate found me (a mere measly bipedal hominid reduced to muttering ruff doggerel) cowering in the face of said action figure stamping out vestigial smoldering embers upon the alter of Ares threatening the warp and woof extant on this animal planet asper taining to this Ape.

No matter this innocuous spark triggered an out of control fatal impact inflaming bark to be stripped from weeping willow, other flora and fauna just barely managed to escape the wrath of being scorched.

All creatures great and small thankfully survived this serious conflagration, fiery instigation from a potentially deadly demise.

So…any amateur explosive scientists wannabe please be mindful to match your wits with unexpected dangers that could unwittingly spark a raging and possibly towering inferno.

postscript: i will try to call ya on turds day i.e. thursday. take care ma darling. oh...TIS BEST not to dial me home telly phone numb burr.

Morning breaks over the ocean on the bright Somali shore

On a peaceful street, the people of a city by the sea

Go about their daily business, much like every day before.

As two trucks entered the city, no one spared a second glance

Death rode in amongst the people, catching them quite unaware,

In a pair of blasts so massive, hundreds didn’t have a chance.

Shockwaves traveled thru the city, folks for miles around paid heed;

Huge black billows roiling skyward in a gruesome, deadly dance

Useless killings, for a reason the most faithful cannot see.

© 2017 - dustygrein

** The horrid events in Mogadishu on Oct. 14, 2017 deserve to be remembered, as do the hundreds who died in that senseless pair of truck bombings. This acrostic poem is dedicated to those victims and their families.

I think every adult, and maybe kids too, come to a point in their life when they wish they could start over. Be someone different, do something different, live somewhere different. While all of those things sound exciting, at the end of the day, we remain the same and our problems follow us. However, it's still fun to dream and wonder.

I'll never forget the CIA came to my house. A new name, new place, new life and belongings and I had one week to make it happen. Thank God my kids are so young they won't know the difference, but what about their grandparents? Their aunts and uncles? How will I ever explain?

Location was easy. I've dreamt of living in France since I was a small girl. A gorgeous historic flat in the heart of Paris, with a cozy cottage in the Loire Valley during the summer. We'll have our fill of La Vie en Rose, eating butter laden baguettes and sipping on steaming mugs of coffee.

Heritage won't change. I'm proud of my hodgepodge roots. I see no need to change them. Names will change, but heritage won't. I'll proudly wave the Scottish, Portuguese, French and Fillipino flags of my heritage. I'm all that is American. They'll help me feel like my old life isn't too far away from me.

Job, again, was easy. A writer just managing to keep bread on the table, but determined for more. Writers are dreamers, and dreamers are never satisfied. There's always more stories to tell, and goals to reach.

My new name. What's in a name? I've always hated that question because a name holds so much. Before I was married "Ali Roberts" was my name, and all of my experiences up to that point along with it. It represented all of me and who I was. When I got married, "Ali Pennell" took such a long time to get used to. Who was Ali Pennell? I didn't know. She was new to me. Was Ali Roberts still in there? I sure hoped so, but I also knew there were things I wanted to grow into and maybe Ali Pennell was the girl to do it. So, a new name. That was the hardest decision for me. Ultimately I decided on a name that would keep my old life close while keeping the door to new adventures open: Josephine Sharon Murray.

The smell was unbearable, like sour milk and sulfuric eggs washed down with the juice of dirty socks. Danny moaned as his senses slowly started waking up. How long had he been here? The ground was cool and damp pressed against his cheek. He was spread across a dark earthly floor from what his weak vision could make out. What he wouldn't give to have his glasses.

"Nasty gash you've got there boy," the raspy voice from before came from across the room. Danny shoved himself up onto his hands.

"Ah!" Danny yelped and collapsed back onto the floor. His head felt like a spinning top. "I'd take it slow if I were you, boy. You lost a bit of blood out there," Ingrid Pearl croaked. Danny pressed his and against the back of his head. His hair was matted into clumps, and he could feel the tender slice across the center of his head.

"What are you going to do to me?" Danny asked. "My dad will be looking for me and no one messes with my dad."

"Ha! Indeed. I know more about Harvey Jones than you do, boy," Ingrid sneered.

"How...how do you know my dad's name is Harvey?" Danny wished he could see where she was.

"Never you mind that, boy. Can you stand?" Ingrid asked. Danny didn't know what to do. Should he play invalid a little longer? Should he muster all the strength he's got and run for the door? Where was the door? Ugh!

"Um, yeah I think so," Danny said as he slowly pushed himself onto his knees. He swayed a little, the cut on his head starting to pulse in time with his heartbeat. He reached out into the fuzzy haze and grabbed what looked to be a table. His hands slipped across the top, his fingers covered in something dark and grimey.

"Ew," Danny moaned. He didn't want to wipe the mystery gunk on his clothes. If he made it out alive his mother would tan his hide for ruining another shirt.

"Here boy," Ingrid Pearl placed something soft in his hands. Danny jumped. A cloth napkin, Danny guessed. He cleaned off his hands and shoved them in his jean pockets.

"You broke these, but I figure better to be able to see some than nothing at all," Ingrid said as she passed Danny his cracked glasses. As Danny slid them onto his nose the room around him came into view.

The earthly floor was nothing more than packed down dirt. The shabby wooden walls looked like they belonged in a tool shed, not the walls of someone's home. A grimey yellow light swung from the ceiling, casting a sickly light around the tiny space. A frail rickety cot sat in the corner, covered in a flimsy thin blanket with no pillow. A small wooden table with peeling green paint and a matching chair with uneven legs were pressed against the opposite wall. There was an old fashioned wood stove, like the one he guessed Laura Ingalls would have used, against the far wall next to a small shelf holding a single ceramic bowl, a wooden spoon and a little mug. How does she survive a midwestern winter in a place like this? He could feel the cold air creeping in through holes in the walls.

"I suppose Harvey Jones' boy would know nothing of humble living, ay boy?" Ingrid huffed as she hobbled over to the wood stove. Danny hadn't noticed the pot of boiling liquid. Danny's throat squeezed. Was she really going to eat him? Chop him up and boil him in a stew? Ingrid picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot.

"What's in there?" Danny asked.

"Why don't you come over and see. If you're brave enough to knock on my door, surely you're brave enough to see what's in this pot," said Ingrid. Danny hesitated. He couldn't tell if Ingrid was crazy or just a crotchety old woman.

Danny walked confidently, albeit slowly, over to Ingrid. The smell grew stronger with every step. When Danny was close enough to see inside, acid boiled in his stomach. He couldn't believe his eyes. Heart pounding, palms sweating, vision blurring, Danny turned around and vomited all over the floor.

To be continued...

#dannyjonesandthebridgewitch #halloweenseries #fictionwriting #fiction #miniseries

As i rest my head on your chest i can hear the beating of your heart; its a rapid thumping. As i look up at you, you wink those green orbs that captivate and fascinate me. As you lay there and i lay on top of you i start to memorize the curve of those thick black eyebrows that are neatly kept from becoming two fuzzy caterpillars, I memorize the dip and rises of your upper lip and the fullness of the bottom one, I memorize the way your hair is easily messed up and that it makes you look ever so handsome, that perfect smile that give you two perfect dimples and your perfectly groomed beard. As you lay there i thank god i found the man that loves me.

This empty hallway, echoes of your voice.

Shadowed with rust,

the whispering calm, crash of waves,

In the distance.

Remind me of my younger years,

Remind me of my strengths & fears.

Armed to face another day,

Bold, due to your memory.

These bright, open meadows remind me of you:

The calm, gentle wind blowing through.

Combing through grass, subtle wind,

Just as you ease my soul, from within.

The strength of the tide has pulled you in,

But none of us Is free from sin.

And, this, we know was not just you,

A powerful force overcame, overthrew.

Fierce as we may feel to justify that day,

May we all see the horizon-

As although the sun sets, our eyes on,

no one can deny it's magnificence.

The essence of your shadow is the moon,

Illuminating us in darkness.

Even in the blackest, most solitaire night,

In your harmonies, we find solace-

In your remnants.

I find comfort from within, knowing

You will sing to us again-

Howling at the gates

Of sweet heaven

#chriscornell #poetry #art #originalart #soundgarden #audioslave #templeofthedog 

*Please click image to see a more broad view of the original artwory k I did, as well <3