Sneak Peek 8: The Circus in Me, by S.M. Bjarnson

Overjoyed to get under my covers. With a book stamped with my colony’s disapproval. I can hear my enforcer now, “Literature fills young mind’s with ideas that are not based on our beliefs or the beliefs of our God.” Fairytale romances, gave ideas to be something other than a domestic servant to future spouse.
Got me there, all I ever wished for was to be a servant. Take the pride, remove the dignity instilled in me. Be the commercial wife to these men whom I have no attachments to whatsoever. Sign me up for that parade, every day of my munificent life.
 Sarcasm, well that I’m still trying to figure out, let alone conquer. Humor I didn’t understand until the age of 18. The triplets at camp taught me blonde jokes, I didn’t understand how the color of your hair made you less intelligent. That was before I came to Idaho.

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 

Speak up!

Wait. Wait for the time when you are allowed to speak and show a distinct emotion or feelings. Wait, for the time that will become your own and somehow the words will fall out of your own mouth as astounding recreation of solitude. What am I searching for? Or whom, how will I know? The search engine blinks for the question I cannot seem to ask. Will I end up just like the others have, misguided in a wave of love… I do not know how the approach is too happen or if true love exists, but I taste it on my breath as if I had eaten it for breakfast. I can follow the rhymes and times of the rhythm which made friends once become lovers, but I do not understand how or when the idea came about.

Was it the touch that made them cave, or the notes upon the page? Either way, they had fallen down beneath the clouds, to become a part of the falling sky feeling in us all. One too many times our lives have come about into one another’s, and I cannot seem to let go of it, the idea of us. The feeling between our fingertips and the way we moved in the darkness, like we owned the light switch of happiness. Words, were carelessly placed among others ready for a dive in that was not theirs to swim about through, To Whom It May Concern we will all die very soon.

Characters in a play do not realize who they are. Have they lost all sense of stability walking through their walls, I wonder as I watch, performing in such a way, do they see the light around them I have held so brutally to my own. Among others things I grant a farewell, to those who not have lost, but those who have yet won.

Don’t push too many things or you may fall over yourself. The tide of change comes near, and you all run away in a chaotic fear. I cannot see, but maybe I don’t want too. As a blind fool once said, “I can be anything I want to be, no matter who says.”

Remarkable timing, remarkable lines upon lines of diseased places, places you have never been but write so carelessly about as if you brought up to be so cruel in their warm society of people.

S.M. Bjarnson 

Be a Author Today! S.M. Bjarnson

Today I'm going to write like I have never done before.
Awaken my soul it is ready to explore and endure.
Words will be filtered and my wish to become with be known.
My chances of survival rely merely on that of what I hope to scribble.
You are sure of yourself, the story line spectacular.
You deserve this win.
Wanting nothing more than to become and be known.
Sentences begin to come at you in all directions.
Pausing the chaos you organize the thoughts.
Your a performer for those in the imagination field.
The writer inside you tells a story not one could hope to write.
I am brilliance. I am the beauty in reading and writing.
There are such times when I doubt my plot, doubt my livelihood of being just an imaginary believer.
Am I worthy of the AUTHOR title?
Is it mine and do I necessarily belong to it?
Fears fade away and there is always that warm feeling reminding me that I am more than worthy, that this is my chosen destiny, that this is my birthright.
Words are printed onto pages but first written wildly upon my soul.
I emerge from the blessed waters of renewal.
Today, is a new day.
Live on.


S.M. Bjarnson