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.

Sneak Peek 5 : The Circus in Me, by S.M. Bjarnson

From the main male character's perspective: Briggs

Captivated as my being allowed, I disguised how absolutely incarcerated my feelings went for her. She was the most unordinary gal, I ever touched.
Our walk brought us to the corners of where I once spent helpless nights strolling the sidewalks alone. How I made my way to her very dorm that night, though I saw her through the window seating solo on the Friday night mixer.
In perfect unison our feet stepped along the depths of puddles. With her the night glowed less hollow and dim. I told her my apartment was close, making deceiving comments along the way. It was farther away from her home than she would stroll. Appeared on her doorstep soaked to the bone in October mist.
Reaching out for her I cringe, letting control lose its way. I shook in the silence of my soul, she struck me as a mirage of sorts. Roomates abandoned the household. Twerking off to some wannabe jerks. Trae Lae didn't even know what that was; maybe I could show her. If they knew how jerkish a real man could be, oh how they would run and cry. For the girls who liked to be pushed around, they’d come back for much more. A rather awful growl came up in my teeth. I clenched onto it to use for better executions later that night. Her skin in amazing glow. The thought of her never being touched began to make the carnivore in me unbearable to tame any longer.  

S.M. Bjarnson

Circus in Me: Sneak Peek 1

How we had gotten ourselves into this mess, I was already planning for the escape. My parents had not come by; they had no intention in supporting a defiant son, let alone loving one. His movements were none existence, twirling my brown hair around my index finger. Who knew what a calamity this would provide my unwilling guardians, it was what they were, were they not? Guarding us from harm, pain, from life.

       The execution was confirmed and we had no verdict to object to it. My father signed and declared his first born son as mythical as his mistakes. They didn't stick around long after that; he was already deceased in their images.

       The town would not forgive the patrons involved; his best friend was a cast away as he would have been. Drinking and driving in a community that had no tolerance for the first one, let alone the second. Remembering that night only brought up anger and frustration towards the victim that became my brother. Did he somehow realize he was alone to blame for this? Were we all flashing guilty cards with the victims’ names?

       I turned back to what the weather had caused for us today. She seemed to roam over the individual county lines, making promises of better wishing times and novelty practices of where we could go from there; no promise was ever kept. I remark on the notion of this delicate place, the times we’ve spent here wishing the cuffs would be loosened or dissolve altogether. We were prisoners of our own time. Not the time they stamped into these metal bracelets they called love.

       My hand print comforted his; he had been estranged for a week now, his hand already tingling to the beneficiary of its fate. I pressed firmly into his palm, imprinting on it more than love. The radiance of the moon quickened by his window as the machine took he's last breath for him. I sat gallantly among the stars as the white sheet covered his mercenary head. Tears trickled down my white cheeks as if for some reason, I had been the one claimed for death's plate. I questioned myself what the point of this was, why the long trial had run dry and I was sitting alone in a room with a corpse who had been my brother.

S.M. Bjarnson

Write, because you need too!