As the last page is turned on The Sacrificing Mother, by S.M. Bjarnson

As the last page is written on 

The Sacrificing Mother

S.M. Bjarnson

As I sum up my first actual Novel, not novella, The Sacrificing Mother, I am almost at a loss. All my words have been spoken and yet there is more to be said about this journey, about this experience to the readers of young adult novels. 

One day, I remind myself, yesterday neglected to falter and tomorrow you shall rise again! One day I tell myself there will be plenty of days when one cannot concoct happiness into the pages she/he has written. One day I confirm there are plenty more just like this one coming my way. Wouldn't I engage to say that I would suffer this writer's depression of those many days for the decades of success that await me? I plead with myself I need this victory this win I have to claim as mine.

With every word flowing out as a chaotic struggle to sound a bit above water, yet remaining under the brink of solitude. IT bites at you and swiftly there is a quiet comforting voice in the background whispering to you that tomorrow is another day and you will survive this one so you may endure and enjoy the next one. I let myself know you have become strong. Your weakness only make you exceed limits only you are aware of. There is a beauty in this battle. A welcoming tone as the chime of the fight begins, you are startled at first wondered where this potential victim came from, you are your opponent.

You close your timid eyes wondering how quickly it will be to take down that which is yourself, inevitably. Your stance in position for a fair fistful. Were you obligated to take over this mortal enemy? Was it possible to merely avoid the situation and forfeit the war that raged among the heart and mind? Were you wise in your steps that you could so carelessly shake hands and let that be it?

Did you take certain precautions that would allow you to have a pass here?

Welcome to the Writer's Realm, fight for your life, or rather your words!

Consisting of structures you wrote and once loved silhouettes of images you portrayed, betraying you at every inch. Bandages bleeding from the coursing in my veins I was a viper stinging in my own thoughts. Poisoning the very thoughts that caused such a perfectionist writer.

My vision of stories blank as blackboards. The wisdom of my elders vanished as I took my first blow. Where were the faults I tried to correct? I wanted to search in depth for the wise words I once lost.

There were mentions of talents long forgotten.

The talent in which one grew like a plant that you watered and fed daily of light and literature. I confessed to having that very plant grow inside me once and now it had sprouted and took over the very being I called home. I commenced the silence. It tries to steal the very soul I live in.

I followed in my own footsteps and alas won out among the blood and tears of the fore comings. My bravery was a mighty win. My courage rang clear as my words were set free. My mind finally at ease. My world at a calm humble peace.

I stood on the podium, the day had finished with a stream of cruelly words.

I was victorious.

Love Story: Hula, S.M. Bjarnson

Love Story-Hula

            Fuji, the mountain of Hula covered most of the land in Japan. Hula was a dream to me, it was like a religion when you danced its way. Great and wondrous she would cloud over the people in japan. Leaving the world to Aw in her amazement to glaze the nation of Japan. Fuji is the place where the world seemed to be at peace it seemed to be calm and one with everything around it. Hula is that feeling when you wake up and you know and believe it will be a wonderful day. The feeling of hope. Hope, it lies in the movements of the dance.

Day came and waved its sun beams unto my face. Today was a new and yesterday didn’t matter. I arose to the mirror where I found myself staring back. Black mid-length hair, brown eyes as almost black, Asian was feature that 1/4 of the had in genes. Smiled and walked away from the person I saw in the mirror, but did not remember I pulled on another grassed skirt and take a breath of cleansed air. Hula again today, Hula again tomorrow.

            I hula right, I hula left. I can hula all around. 

            There's something about' my hula, that I love.

            It’s an amazing feeling that the world has forgotten.

"Let's go swim with the mermaids, Lakea". "Trip, come on the mermaids have gone away from the islands". "No they are still here waiting for the people to come back again, do you remember the story of the mermaids Lakea?” "How they would lead the sailors with their beautiful singing, their words sweet and humble". Trip takes a couple steps beyond her, he begins to sing a song; a mermaid song. "The cherry blossoms seem to be embraced with a fire, the sailors hum the mermaid song. As we dance around. The mermaids come and whisper in the cold ears of sailors, they fall into a deep spell of enchantment overboard. The mermaids sweep them under into their depths of underwater gardens. Sing oh sing that sweet toxic rhythm. Turn around, turn around, and see the secret melody. Hear its words, feel the beat. Seek its individuality. You knew once, you knew twice you saw it all across the day.

            There was a certain love that encircled me when I danced the hula. It took on a whole new meaning by love. I fell in love it was like a whole other meaning of my love hula.

Dreams are meant to be dreams to make us believe in something greater than our own realities.

When LOVE seeped into my heart, the world came to a slow. He saw me, he looked into my eyes and say my heart filling up with joy. Then he spoke so sweetly in his daring voice "I feel the same way, I always have since that day you danced the hula for me". He kissed my lips with such a precious kiss it was tender like just when the perfect ray of sun and you see your first love. It seemed that many times I glanced inside my locket of love and found that it echoed more than ever. I know pain too well. It comes and lingers around my heart. Mocking the temptations that are hidden in it. The love that is needed to be seen.

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Sneak Peek 11: The Circus in Me, S.M. Bjarnson

“My name and place are of no concern to you or the board members, you suppose I should confess my wills too. I am pure in thought and mind. My reputation or report does not fall into your hands. I send all undignified claims to God. You sir, my brother, elder, Ashlee’s padre, claim whatever name fits you best. Are in dire need of editing your remarks on the obligation others have to confide in you, for we are both made from His Divinity.”“No need to raise your tone, young lady. Do realize though physically we are made from similar materials, in spirit quite the opposite of ingredients. I will always float higher.”“You're confessing to me that I am below you as a human? Because you stand behind a desk and have Bishop in front of a calling? Does that make sense? Orate to me that I am lesser in God’s eyes because of a position?” Stricken with benevolent words, all of us equals.“Who are you to question Him?” Standing abruptly slamming down the mug of warm water.“Who are you not to question?” My spoken word soft and confident.

-S.M. BJARNSON

(Today is also my birthday! I wish I was in Las Vegas!) Yay :)  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sneak Peek 10: The Circus in Me, S.M. Bjarnson

His smile was quiet. Stare struck into my blue eyes. Something he saw every day and somehow he was seeing it now; guilt.
“Unless Jazz is bad too, then none of that whatsoever.” Gladly giving into odd ideas of my strange personality.
“Miss Livingston, there is an Honor Code set in place at BYU. Every student abides by the rules.” In my hands he placed another copy of the guidelines I abided.
“I embrace that you have proof of these actions Mr. Branch President?” Eager to understand what proof was evidence enough to lead me to his office. I glance down at his last name, Bleu. Calculations being precise. All facts and folklore coming into perfect harmony.
“Did your daughter make these complaints contrary to me? She is my roommate.” He gleams acceptance of the things I profess.“Such a beautiful name Tracey Aliza. You should go by that instead of this Trae Lae business.” What an awful name; Tracey Aliza. I was one of many. Born into the prototype of human beings.“I do follow the rules.” In his hands I laid the copy back. I had done nothing wrong, I corrected.“My daughter’s middle name is Tracey.” Ignoring absolute honesty.“Is she the 4^th or 5^th child in the line of kin? I am the 2^nd in my generation. I will tell you this because obviously you don’t understand the meaning of names.” My gut bulging with pride and power. His vision changed. More nervous than wearing a skirt four inches above knee length.
 “I am named Tracey because in a male dominate society, who think little of the female race, it deemed inevitable to confirm my father wanted a 2^nd son.” His silence spoke for itself. Ruled by souls and soldiers of generational men he acted as the rest did. I feared my gumption. 

S.M. BJARNSON

Different Courses to Maneuver, By S.M. Bjarnson

I'm so filthy tired, but I'll write the words on the page anyway.

Spoken here, uttered there.

You heard the words, I talked the rhythms.

We had different paths to cross, different journeys to overcome.

That's how we got here, it’s how you got to me and I got to you.

Feeling each other’s breaths we eat away the nervous flutter in the bellies of our minds.

Biting our lips for the temptations of lure to come to life.

It's what you want, what they bring?

Holding hands, coursing through the veins of time, we are all what we are meant to be.

Aren't we, to see that?

You want to run to the shore, search through all the old memories of places and times.

I'm gonna rush into the open waves, disappear into the empty swirls of yesterday.

All I want to do is swim into the horizon.

After all it was just one night, just one time.

It's all we ever were most of time, most of the day.

Nothing, but moments clashed together by the untangling air.

A goodbye look in your eyes, a quick see ya later kiss to the cheek, we both scattered in different ways.

Never to be caught again, in each other’s nets of time and whispering moments.

-S.M. Bjarnson

Photo Credit: Phone App Background Settings

Sneak Peek 9: The Circus in Me, S.M. Bjarnson

Ashlee set me up! I know she did! Was all I could think as I entered that office. Called in to meet with who declared leadership. Titles called to him as the Bishop or in this very case Branch President.
Escorted into the square office.
“Tracey Aliza it’s come to my attention that you’ve been having inappropriate relations with a fellow male student.” He waited for my response. As if there was a sign on his forehead that read please confess weaknesses and every imperfection.“Excuse me sir?” Confused is this how it works? Were we supposed to confess everything bad ever thought?
“There have been rumors.” His knuckles white crisscrossed over one another.
“Rumors? Sir?” Baffled as I was, I began to understand that it was not tolerated to have relations with the opposite sex. True to my nation, I understood this was just like the rules I’d grown to know.“Speculations you are acting unworthy, my dear.” I am most certain I have never been anyone’s so called dear. Let alone a man I have just made as an acquaintance.“Speculations? I assume following up on gossip? Are those corrections in order?” A rough patch growing in my throat.
“Gossip. We do not listen to such tall tales. Here on provable facts here.” Soon I would find out what sin I would plead forgiveness.
“I assure you sir, I am not involved with any male figures. I know not to speak to the boy students and all that Jazz.” My hands began to shake. I slapped them together tucking between the kneecaps. 

S.M. BJARNSON

Sneak Peek: The Tangled Tears 2nd Edition S.M. Bjarnson

Voices lingering around town. The school halted scheduled hours. Everyone in disarray, no one safe from being taken. If Winter was the first, who would be the next? If bad things came in threes, shouldn't I have been the first to make the sequence complete?

She was classical. I was more modern pop. I replayed the lyrics to my favorite song expiration for the beauty. Honest to only wanting to follow her spirit into the absence of light. Picking through dresses as many as I collected shorts. Her make up in perfect order, obtuse to the chaos lived inside my room.

My father figure gave disgrace on my absolute questions on morality and chances of survival. He looked not down upon me, but beyond. Through the vanishing wisdom I so eagerly earned. For everyday was a chance to teach and learn about the alphabet of the livelihood, she escaped from.

S.M. Bjarnson

Acephalous, by S.M. Bjarnson

The rain never seized that day. The rain pitter pattered long beyond what anyone thought was possible for rain in this drought, I searched for answers as well as much of words as I possibly could. The fact was it wasn't the rain we feared so much but the after fact of it all.

He woke in the sudden of the night, my son. Turning in circles in his little boy mind, searching for the answers no one seemed to give to us. But, there he was scouring the neighborhood and the outskirts of remote wire fencing, to let us know.

You would turn a corner and you would turn right back around, there was no place for you if the found out about you. He awoke in a stutter of words and fears, communications of his kind were unbearable to most folk around these parts. We are salvaged beings commanding retribution to the commander who pities us senseless where we had gone before.

Chances are they weren't looking for us, chances are they were looking beyond us, for what we couldn't possibly bear. A new frontier that was already linked to us, in a way we were the way, but possibly more in the line of direct connections.

I went searching for him, I rounded every corner if I would see him, knowing he would not be there. Frustration broke out, to panicked fear and an ongoing curriculum of doubt ran throughout my blood stream, at last I had spotted his hide away, in plain sight he stood, watching the beckoning war outside our own door front. He was calm letting me pick him up and chase away with him to a safety. Running home, flagrant bombs exploding around us, whose war was this again? No sound, but silent movie subtitles saying we are almost surviving.

I held him so close and dear, his eyes wide open to all the explosions, he never once began to blink or tear down his barriers.

We did have men on the inside, trying to detour all the bullets and ammo aimed our way, they were ombudsman, but the most good any of them had done was prolong the enchantment, they had not lasted long. Hung upside down by their feet in sycamore trees. Ornaments, of betrayal.

They had come. Bursting through our doors, rampaging through our loose luggage. Animals, deviating by the storm. Taking the women, using them for their games, we were all recusant beings. His little bed, train tracks circled around it, books standing upright in all directions, I wanted so badly to lay him down to quiet my own fears of the night. But, we were boxed in; a small kitchen punctured 45 women and their babies to the white ceramic counter tops and floors. Who knows where the men had gone. Who knows if there were any left, anymore?

We shuffled and bustled every which comfortable way we could afford too, Thomas Coy in my arms and I felt alone. I sat him down, he stood on my toes in front of me, and I couldn't help but to notice that none of these bodies around me were any I knew, were any I had ever known. I was trapped in a crowded room, my son and I were alone in, he knew the very same. We were the last ones to be pushed outside in a line, fire barrels burning bright around our corridor, and then he spoke to us. He called us by name in which we responded with lacuna eyes. The words were a heavy tone we once knew as children, he smiled and laughed engulfing our fear, along with our rage.

His words somersaulted over each other as if it were a big charade. We were all going to die today.

The dream came to me in the middle of the night, halting all relief for an escape.

He ran from as children do. Like it was some sort of hide and seek game.

Towers and barriers running in a maze we were all wondering where to go.

He led the way and I played follow the young leader. I was fearful, even mortified if I lost this begotten son of mine.

He saw no danger or death in his path, body after body they carried them away. His sight clear of all misfortune, his mind at ease from all troubling ailments ahead. It would be quite a while until I could tell him about the visions I began to have the night before the invasion. One day he will ask if I knew and it will require me to answer yes.

He ran too fast in the dream, he was gone out of sight. He glanced back merely waving to me to hurry along, but I could not and arrived in a vacant field with no one in sight.

He is gone my young son.

Has he disappeared? Has he been taken by another? Or did I make his life a secret?

There is a belief that we have changed. That somewhere down the winding road we are capable of redirecting a new path for mankind.

 If that is to be accurate and true, why are we all suffering and damned?

Was it yours or mine own fault?

Did we cease to make a big enough impression on our thought patterns to change the outcome from yet another disaster?

There will be a time I am reminded when he will choose to come back to me, to see his mother as I truly am.

To a time much better than this one is. To a world that is created far more mature than we may ever understand.

Until then I shall wait and watch as the sailors and soldiers tied to the bottoms of boats; drowning in such misery and despair they forget, no they convince themselves otherwise they indeed are dying from a natural substance; chaos. 

S.M. Bjarnson

Circus in Me: Sneak Peek 4

She was taken back beneath excitement to something of gleam or gallant. They gravitated toward her, wanting to accept her, partake of her journey. She shivered in her conforming seat, contemplating these lifestyles almost in a judging manner but not quite.

Her hand was never raised in disapproving motions. She merely volunteered to be a rescue. As you would a lost dog, a homeless cat or any other pathetic animal you couldn’t help find but adorable.

They like her, they pulled at her. Bringing her into an embrace she had never experienced. Doc, the ringmaster placed a comforting hand on her shoulder welcoming her into his family of misunderstood individuals. He lead her down the line of performers. First the Bearded Lady, Mona, then Doc the manager and caretaker of the animals, Katarina, the tattooed beauty. The triplet acrobats near her age eyeing her shape and figure. She walked amongst these odd individuals; her fear unbearable now. She came to the conclusion she must shout out for some sort of help, but what kind of assistance was she asking for? A departure? A rescue from these odd fools, who she seemed to belong too, or maybe just maybe a helping hand. The mystic, Arunia, smiled at her as she lent an open hand, her voice was simple, but pretty. She hushed Trae Lai’s fears; she was home.

S.M. Bjarnson 

Feeder of the Fish, S.M. Bjarnson

Feeder of the Fish

With those who seek guidance and inspiration look unto your Heavenly Father and Savior as a feeder unto his fish.

As we delegate our lives according to what fits us most and what we desire above all, we make certain judgments and make unique decisions to fit our beliefs.

Let me now relate this to a feeder of a fish.

The feeder tends to the fish helping them and guiding them through their troubled waters.

But, the feeder may not always be around exactly when the fish is prepared to dine and be nurtured.

Like us, we reach and await the spiritual food that the Lord has sent down to us.

We await the guidance and motivation that the Lord holds out unto us all, waiting for us to take in a taste.

Think for a moment now, that we are the fish in this pond or tank of water, our feeder being God our Lord, may send us inspirations and plant in our hearts guidance unto our beings.

As the bits of food trickle down the water front we are able to feast and strive to go the biggest pieces that look the most fulfilling.

We may feast upon the words he has sent down to us, but some do pass away and fall beneath us, unnoticed.

For when we wait for our feeder to come and he does not, we feel saddened and find ourselves in despair.

But, we must look for the inspirations he has already given us.

The words and phrases we let slip through our fins and fingers, the ones we ignored and disregarded from our presence, because we see them as too small and unfulfilled.

But, those bits of enrichment are the ones we need most in our souls most of all

I plead with you and unto you and unto myself as well, that we seek and search for the hidden meanings the Lord has placed before us.

Let us strive to find the meanings for ourselves and may we find our own inspirations and have our own understandings of the things we need to be enhanced by.

So, then may we grow and excel to our spiritual potential and our emotional beings.

So, I say unto you again, let us open our eyes unto the Lord our God and unto the inspirations from the scriptures.

Let your soul go free and search for the inspirations you are looking to heal your broken heart and troubled soul.

Search and seek and find your own guidance in this world. 

S.M. Bjarnson

Hula: A Love Story

Love Story-Hula

            Fuji, the mountain of Hula covered most of the land in Japan. Hula was a dream to me, it was like a religion when you danced its way. Great and wondrous she would cloud over the people in japan. Leaving the world to Aw in her amazement to glaze the nation of Japan. Fuji is the place where the world seemed to be at peace it seemed to be calm and one with everything around it. Hula is that feeling when you wake up and you know and believe it will be a wonderful day. The feeling of hope. Hope, it lies in the movements of the dance.

Day came and waved its sun beams unto my face. Today was a new and yesterday didn’t matter. I arose to the mirror where I found myself staring back. Black mid-length hair, brown eyes as almost black, Asian was feature that 1/4 of the had in genes. Smiled and walked away from the person I saw in the mirror, but did not remember I pulled on another grassed skirt and take a breath of cleansed air. Hula again today, Hula again tomorrow.

            I hula right, I hula left. I can hula all around. 

            There's something about' my hula, that I love.

            It’s an amazing feeling that the world has forgotten.

"Let's go swim with the mermaids, Lakea". "Trip, come on the mermaids have gone away from the islands". "No they are still here waiting for the people to come back again, do you remember the story of the mermaids Lakea?” "How they would lead the sailors with their beautiful singing, their words sweet and humble". Trip takes a couple steps beyond her, he begins to sing a song; a mermaid song. "The cherry blossoms seem to be embraced with a fire, the sailors hum the mermaid song. As we dance around. The mermaids come and whisper in the cold ears of sailors, they fall into a deep spell of enchantment overboard. The mermaids sweep them under into their depths of underwater gardens. Sing oh sing that sweet toxic rhythm. Turn around, turn around, and see the secret melody. Hear its words, feel the beat. Seek its individuality. You knew once, you knew twice you saw it all across the day.

            There was a certain love that encircled me when I danced the hula. It toke on a whole new meaning by love. I fell in love it was like a whole other meaning of my love hula.

Dreams are meant to be dreams to make us believe in something greater than our own realities.

When LOVE seeped into my heart, the world came to a slow. He saw me, he looked into my eyes and say my heart filling up with joy. Then he spoke so sweetly in his daring voice "I feel the same way, I always have since that day you danced the hula for me". He kissed my lips with such a precious kiss it was tender like just when the perfect ray of sun and you see your first love. It seemed that many times I glanced inside my locket of love and found that it echoed more than ever. I know pain too well. It comes and lingers around my heart. Mocking the temptations that are hidden in it. The love that is needed to be seen.

S.M. Bjarnson

P.S. I wrote this a while ago. I apologize for grammatical errors ans such. 

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