S.M. Bjarnson's Blog, page 14
April 12, 2014
Sneak Peek 6 : The Circus in Me, by S.M. Bjarnson
“I will walk to your dorm.” Grabbing my jacket Briggs indulged in what people call gentlemanlike behavior.
Four wheeled automobile hummed downcast the street, creating goose bumps on the sleeves of my cover up. No intention to sail on home to visit old ma and pa, meant no regard for buying transportation. Everything was in basic walking distance. “Where do you live?” Look in opposing directions, checking clearance to walk across the street. Found wondering how much dedication for this specific stroll took.“Half a block or so.” Pointing at the absent air; no apartments in that direction. I became nervous, his smile remaining sweet.
Images of getting chopped up by a guy who denoted me the obscure Amish girl. Regret from knocking on my door becoming unbearable for Briggs.“Don’t worry, I’ve been here half the year. I think I know my way around.” Spooky music echoed off the pavement, our strides accord. I’ve been here 4 months and couldn’t fathom the name of this Christian college.
S.M. Bjarnson
April 11, 2014
April 9, 2014
MAKE WAVES OVER THE AIRWAVES by Balboa Press
MAKE WAVES OVER THE AIRWAVESby Balboa Press
The positive energy that flowed from your fingertips into the pages of your book is released every time a new reader opens up a copy. Promote your book on the radio, and that energy travels over the airwaves straight to the hearts and minds of listeners.Radio has always been a powerful way to spread a message, and while it’s one of the oldest forms of broadcast media, it’s still one of the most effective.Take a cue from Karen Noe, who went on a radio promotional tour for her book Through the Eyes of Another, first published by Balboa Press before being picked up for traditional publishing by Hay House. Listen to a sample of Noe's Hay House Radio interview below; then check out our breakdown of radio benefits.http://www.balboapress.com/WriterWisdom/ShelfImprovement/GetGoing2012Vol2Noe.aspx
The beauty of radio is its accessibility. Radio stations can be picked up nearly everywhere, from the biggest cities to the most remote countryside. And with the podcasts and Internet radio programs of today, your opportunities to pinpoint and reach new audiences have never been greater.Noe used the reach of radio to her advantage by sharing her message on several AM and Internet radio programs across the country, in addition to appearing on Hay House Radio.A book’s strength is in its potential to make a positive impact on the lives of others.Radio lets you reveal your book’s potential two ways: talking about how it can benefit others, and demonstrating it by answering questions directly from call-in listeners.Noe put both into practice in her Hay House Radio interview and, in turn, showed that her book has something to offer listeners.
Just as book signings put a face to your book, radio appearances can give it a voice.Your personality shines over the airwaves, meaning that the more engaging you are, the more likely listeners will be interested in your book.By exuding confidence and an interest in helping others, Noe added to her credibility as an author and as a medium.
I know this a little far fetched living in the twitter era, but if it helped connect to souls over the country like in Sleepless in Seattle, who knows the radio might bring you into the right hands of readers.
The positive energy that flowed from your fingertips into the pages of your book is released every time a new reader opens up a copy. Promote your book on the radio, and that energy travels over the airwaves straight to the hearts and minds of listeners.Radio has always been a powerful way to spread a message, and while it’s one of the oldest forms of broadcast media, it’s still one of the most effective.Take a cue from Karen Noe, who went on a radio promotional tour for her book Through the Eyes of Another, first published by Balboa Press before being picked up for traditional publishing by Hay House. Listen to a sample of Noe's Hay House Radio interview below; then check out our breakdown of radio benefits.http://www.balboapress.com/WriterWisdom/ShelfImprovement/GetGoing2012Vol2Noe.aspx
The beauty of radio is its accessibility. Radio stations can be picked up nearly everywhere, from the biggest cities to the most remote countryside. And with the podcasts and Internet radio programs of today, your opportunities to pinpoint and reach new audiences have never been greater.Noe used the reach of radio to her advantage by sharing her message on several AM and Internet radio programs across the country, in addition to appearing on Hay House Radio.A book’s strength is in its potential to make a positive impact on the lives of others.Radio lets you reveal your book’s potential two ways: talking about how it can benefit others, and demonstrating it by answering questions directly from call-in listeners.Noe put both into practice in her Hay House Radio interview and, in turn, showed that her book has something to offer listeners.Just as book signings put a face to your book, radio appearances can give it a voice.Your personality shines over the airwaves, meaning that the more engaging you are, the more likely listeners will be interested in your book.By exuding confidence and an interest in helping others, Noe added to her credibility as an author and as a medium.
I know this a little far fetched living in the twitter era, but if it helped connect to souls over the country like in Sleepless in Seattle, who knows the radio might bring you into the right hands of readers.
April 8, 2014
Oracular Advocate, by S.M. Bjarnson
Melancholy bombs fell in between our monotonic screams. Did you feel it, did the others hear it? Are we alone in the midst of a pain I am the only one that seems to be feeling? Rambling heads carelessly washing away eccentric dreams we had had for ourselves. I walked down a road, there was no end to the madness I had made up in my head, and the chaos outside of me was only the beginning of this mass destruction. Ashes fell from the begotten sky we lay there taking in each breath of poison, as if this was our medicine for redemption. It was like a lie we were never given the truth about.
I shook you awake; the familiarity of each other’s bodies had no come to the point of romance, let alone attraction for one another. I barely finger your arm as you awakes, estranged from the surroundings enclosing us in. The glare in your eyes was one I had not seen. Don’t help her, my gut said, step away from this lady with careless independence; you are not worth the death threat. But as I shifted my potential moving, you grabbed hold of me. As if to say, don’t tell me how awful the world really is, I’m blinded by the fact you care, I’ve seen this before. I know the ending. You moved and I pressured you again, “Get up or you will die.” You blinked at my enforcing character, the leader I was never obligated to become. A faint whisper escaped your lips, “I can’t.”
It was quiet that day; bombs began to fall, uttering from the gray blue skies. One month before the rest of the world had received the same notion to take advantage of the United States namesake. The silence of most days blended in with each other as if each moment was a wrecking ball of coincidental justice. A materialistic covering had been invented, thus blending the sly explosives to their outside environments, making it visible to the blind eye. They began dropping on our homeland, beating the other realms cry, to claim our nation’s soul as something other than free and respected. Knocking us off our feet, the government insisted we go quietly, not making too much hullabaloo about this decision. Where our freedom of speech had gone and our right to face our betrayers in a line of accusers, vanished and we had no rights to defend. You could hear the quaint whistling sound, seemingly to bring a small portion of peace to the people in the aim of fire.
We were standing on opposite sides of the train tracks. You stood upon them, staring deep into me as if I was to be blamed for this catastrophe. I heard the train coming; the earth shook beneath my working footprints. Trains captivated you, how they rumbled down one main course of passageway. They were constant beings in a world of mixed and matched harmonies of change. Fluctuated movements in a millennium we could not begin to name. The shapes of the clouds ran along the dirt road as we tried to guess which one belonged to whichever shape still coexisted with our names. Their shadows weren’t dark, but the edges gave us momentary relief from the hot desert heat. We had no idea what was at the end of this long road. We came to the conclusion it was best not to acknowledge the end of it. An event like this would bring a family close together, a closing image of a group hug, would be long awaited in this turmoil. The erosion of the exotic places had taken effect precisely. The Grand Canyons stood upside down as a mountainous cavern; the ending militia used it as a leveling ground, what they called the cleanup project.
Generations of deceased corpses lay down among the river’s edge. Tossed merely like an unheard Holocaust, mashed between levels of unseen lovers and unheard democrats. Who I wondered, would I be stacked against? Eventually, we would end up holding the hands of our enemies, because in the end we were given the same sentencing, a lifeless one. The only really thing we had left to hold onto was, a name we couldn’t share. The start of all the destructive behavior came like a slap in the face to a young man's curse words. We all saw it coming, but after the fact, we sat silently wondering why it had happened, what we had done do wrong. Hurt, by the elders before us, taking no consideration for the being of our wellness. The campaign of our leaders led us to believe the fault was upon our rugged shoulders. That somehow our words and opinions had created all the chaos that was brought to the nation. As if the man in power had given up and shredded his unlimited power on the refugees of sarcasm.
You were there, her, a Goddess reborn into a new human form. You gazed down behind me, as if to pick up the lifeless person beyond my trembling figure. I was adjusting my perception to your outlook; I didn’t know who I was anymore. Then, again did anybody else these final days, when they would catch a glimpse of their faces overflowing with oil smudged tears. Filling up with not only frustration and anger, but also regret and weakness began to spread like yawns on Sunday evening. Did it even matter the explosion went off, maybe we were all the same, tide pools of people no one seemed to warn or care enough to save. We were the fold, after all what did we have to look forward to anymore or live for; I stood in the closing stages of mankind’s pursuit, the concluding factor of a brotherly tale betrayal and unremorseful circumstances. By the end of the bitter dry month, our nation's capital stood 3ft above the ground, Pike's Fish market, sat among the dust blowing into the Pacific Ocean air. Every major city had been intended, hit, and declared dissolved. We graveled not in a place of mercy, a place of harmony, or a place abandoned of safety. Instead, the nation’s people stood upward, moving forward, we were mere survivors, unable to tell the story of destruction. No warnings of the accidents were given. We had no challenge or progress to run and hide away from the enemies that had become not foreign, but fellow. Rebels, chaos creators, and free thinkers took care of the individuals whose ungodly actions, we seemed to have been pushed and prodded in front of, as if the responsibility lay upon the weakest link in a chain of mercenaries. Making them see the suffering, we were all presented. Our punishment was not their pain; rather their misguided mistakes had caused us our own introductory of humiliations.
You had a light that glowed like the moon. Your soul seemed like a dark alley you distracted yourself far from. Your name was nothing, but anything it wanted to be; nonetheless I did not own it as a possession. Black hair filtered out of your head, like straight DNA strips of obscure splendor; some unique viral disease, yet to be determined by geneticists. Maybe, your name was just the same, misunderstood and somehow peculiar. Rather a chaotic beauty, than a classic one. With a face like Yours You really didn’t need a name for it. Your soul created its own milieu, a world outside of its own. A world I wasn’t familiar with flashed across your weary face. Your aroma flummoxed me in such a way I couldn't tell if it was the faint smell of fading roses or just the dying ones.
The world was a different place now; feelings had been subdued into the idea of being numb and nonexistent. Times played by the marks of the old dying moon. Tidal waves were unrealistic to the daily tsunamis happening around the coastal lands. We had safety, but no struggle for survival. For best protection, stay in the mainland’s of the western states. The Nevada Desert was the option I had randomly selected for me to benefit from. Once a dead land always seemed to stay as such. Eventually, the last remaining would flee to the crowded borders, coming back from once we all come from a differentiation of lands. Earthquakes shake the glass windows and scatter their presence upon the empty terrace.
You stood oblivious to the rumble of the c haos. Your very mind stood in the midst of the dying world. You weren’t saddened by the fact the only home you ever knew was falling before your, crumbling down to the ruins we all assumed were only in the history of our father’s generations. You stood there in a wandering awe, why Mother Nature was acting in such a temperamental way or why she had neglected to protect her encompassed soul. The off balance of the axis rotated its happiness around us as the sun beamed in its good morning charms of sometime solitude.
Us, as a community had no point in fighting. The army was disbanded, but given an ultimatum and evidently chose to stay in plain sight. By the end of it all, there was no point to strike again. The population diminished in a matter of microseconds, and here I stood one of the last to survive. An engineer, by trade, a man none the less of score, I was determined to live out of hotels and never settle down to America’s ideal plan of living. But, by the end of every world way, I sat perched on my tiptoes, wondering when Miss Miracle would come walking down the alley to me, out of the blackness of my past, the soul. But, she never came and suddenly I’m here striding beside you, wondering why I was given a last chance at life with someone so delicate and uncontrollable, as you. Well, of course that was before the oil spills and gas prices rose, evidently we all ended up drowning in the blood of manmade machinery. The world had become debt collectors, come to demand the ransom we put on our own heads. America was deemed to fall, the blame fell upon the heads of your once idolized, and honorable comrades. Who had failed your message of freedom, once again? Trust was placed in the hands of a greedy man who giddily made promises and ran away with our joy. Our trust was built by some type of precious gold, a material unrealistic in the account it could not buy happiness. Some type of treasure auctioned off to the highest bidder, with the most persuasive corruption and figurine of power.
Ashes would suggest that someone once lived here, maybe, a house, a plant or two, a person or few. Flowers lay side by side among no real platforms of the evidence that once belonged here. Colossal, would have been the waste. Endless is the time and energy needed to pick up and put back together an old society of comfort. Days and weeks went by and in many cases the lost items of valuables was the increasing ritual of mourning, as if their dirty tears could bring back the things we had all lost. Our hope, most of all shared a bed with the wreckage of homes and houses. All that seems to be left are flat grounds, shifting by the shady leaves, as unwanted dirt particles danced under the tuck of the sunrise.
Your voice trembled, like an attic door that had not been open in several years. You looked at your reflection in the daunting waters as you tried producing a type of language we would all understand one day, hope and love. You wondered if something had changed, maybe you had grown significant over night. Maybe, you finally mattered to this human being. You stared up at the sky and wondered if life measured up or were you just playing a game like the rest of us, a role someone else had casted. You had a dialect; I had yet been accustomed too. Not so much one that was being reborn, rather one that has always been alive. A foreign language not yet ready to be forgotten, but not ready to become embraced, either. When you spoke the words and phrases came out of your lingering mouth like a quiet rhythm of unnecessary flutter, tied together with foreseen riddles I would one day appreciate.
Gaping insignificant holes lingered around the departed bodies of our time. We are alone, as everybody else had figured. Control had faded, rules itemized to the notion of periodic failure. The further other countries began rising in power, the less we knew what we stood for anymore. The only realistic reason to survive was prominent for the countenance of foreign aliens, taken mercy upon the left behind. I chuckle at my joke; people clipped coupons while their family members began to die beneath them. Nobody laughed, giggled or chanted in a while. They kept hope, talking as if the end was near, as if it we were all still awaiting such an arrival. What they didn't seem to notice was this was the end, the very end. No comebacks, the restart button broken, as we sat in the midst of the ashes of our own injurious minds. What will come of the replenished words, I have once spoken to you. Who may hear the speeches I professed to you about who was to end up glorified by the ending times of war and hunger. Who else knew, besides you? I shall die alone in the triumph of my own waves of courage and regrets.
A man with two small children came running up to us yelling, “OU LA VILLE!? OU LA VILLE?” Meaning where is the village at. “Calme-toi?” Putting hands up as if to communicate using mass finger signals to tell him to calm down. The deranged middle aged man, clearly noting his insanity stopped in his proverbial tracks. The word I should have used was, Vider, which meant empty. But, what I pronounced to him was la desperation, for it had merely disappeared upon the new dew.
You kept stumbling and I kept walking on what could have been territorial borders of some noteworthy destination, once upon a different time. I wonder what small infraction must be puncturing your hip. So many times I've turned around almost wishing to see you running down the road to me as if you were not extinct like the rest of them. Them, who are unable to evolve into this greater species of tomorrow or whatever, came after the dusk of dawn. Whoever thought I would be one of the tag along to survive one of these mass explosions, and you’re with your mute words as if you was dropped here by mistake to survive. I, believe they were mistaken, when they pointed and picked he shall live, let that one go on his own way. As a child, I was poked as a weakling, unwilling to defend against those who casted the last pebbles.
We are the very last, but then again we sit at the very tips of the fingering options of the very beginnings. We were all that was left, saved for death or things alike. At first all I saw was a wave of black and there I was flooded by a leak of oil, in the middle of North Dakota; catching the empty breaths in the misfortune of not only the Capital’s supply, but my own. An epidemic had broken out and here we were pushed in the middle of it all left behind to fight an invisible battle we all had no intentions of defending, let alone supporting.
We walked and with great stride reaching the river front. The dawn of the day had struck earlier this numeric year. The time wasn’t evident, but we know not to keep track. Endless days filled the streams between moments and seconds of time we once knew or had once owned. People scanned down the aisle, like we had reached the new land, Eden. The edgy volcanic ash fell through my rough fingertips like the falling waters of a rain storm. The sky had become grey, the stream line of new aged birds gave us little hope things were promised for change. A single small white flower popped up between the rubbish, finally we all seemed to see the sky for what it really was; an opening.
You whispered in my ear, to speak ever so closely with me. But, all you placed in the curvature of my ear lobe was a warm kiss. The brush of curiosity rushed upon my cheek bone, a delicate touch so secretive that it had to have been by mistaken, not considering the options of being physical with such an obscure women in my defense. Although, your place here was not entirely hidden, your behavior and motives showed you were stronger than the rest of us; after all maybe you were here, the one to save us, even me.
S.M. Bjarnson
I shook you awake; the familiarity of each other’s bodies had no come to the point of romance, let alone attraction for one another. I barely finger your arm as you awakes, estranged from the surroundings enclosing us in. The glare in your eyes was one I had not seen. Don’t help her, my gut said, step away from this lady with careless independence; you are not worth the death threat. But as I shifted my potential moving, you grabbed hold of me. As if to say, don’t tell me how awful the world really is, I’m blinded by the fact you care, I’ve seen this before. I know the ending. You moved and I pressured you again, “Get up or you will die.” You blinked at my enforcing character, the leader I was never obligated to become. A faint whisper escaped your lips, “I can’t.”
It was quiet that day; bombs began to fall, uttering from the gray blue skies. One month before the rest of the world had received the same notion to take advantage of the United States namesake. The silence of most days blended in with each other as if each moment was a wrecking ball of coincidental justice. A materialistic covering had been invented, thus blending the sly explosives to their outside environments, making it visible to the blind eye. They began dropping on our homeland, beating the other realms cry, to claim our nation’s soul as something other than free and respected. Knocking us off our feet, the government insisted we go quietly, not making too much hullabaloo about this decision. Where our freedom of speech had gone and our right to face our betrayers in a line of accusers, vanished and we had no rights to defend. You could hear the quaint whistling sound, seemingly to bring a small portion of peace to the people in the aim of fire.
We were standing on opposite sides of the train tracks. You stood upon them, staring deep into me as if I was to be blamed for this catastrophe. I heard the train coming; the earth shook beneath my working footprints. Trains captivated you, how they rumbled down one main course of passageway. They were constant beings in a world of mixed and matched harmonies of change. Fluctuated movements in a millennium we could not begin to name. The shapes of the clouds ran along the dirt road as we tried to guess which one belonged to whichever shape still coexisted with our names. Their shadows weren’t dark, but the edges gave us momentary relief from the hot desert heat. We had no idea what was at the end of this long road. We came to the conclusion it was best not to acknowledge the end of it. An event like this would bring a family close together, a closing image of a group hug, would be long awaited in this turmoil. The erosion of the exotic places had taken effect precisely. The Grand Canyons stood upside down as a mountainous cavern; the ending militia used it as a leveling ground, what they called the cleanup project.
Generations of deceased corpses lay down among the river’s edge. Tossed merely like an unheard Holocaust, mashed between levels of unseen lovers and unheard democrats. Who I wondered, would I be stacked against? Eventually, we would end up holding the hands of our enemies, because in the end we were given the same sentencing, a lifeless one. The only really thing we had left to hold onto was, a name we couldn’t share. The start of all the destructive behavior came like a slap in the face to a young man's curse words. We all saw it coming, but after the fact, we sat silently wondering why it had happened, what we had done do wrong. Hurt, by the elders before us, taking no consideration for the being of our wellness. The campaign of our leaders led us to believe the fault was upon our rugged shoulders. That somehow our words and opinions had created all the chaos that was brought to the nation. As if the man in power had given up and shredded his unlimited power on the refugees of sarcasm.
You were there, her, a Goddess reborn into a new human form. You gazed down behind me, as if to pick up the lifeless person beyond my trembling figure. I was adjusting my perception to your outlook; I didn’t know who I was anymore. Then, again did anybody else these final days, when they would catch a glimpse of their faces overflowing with oil smudged tears. Filling up with not only frustration and anger, but also regret and weakness began to spread like yawns on Sunday evening. Did it even matter the explosion went off, maybe we were all the same, tide pools of people no one seemed to warn or care enough to save. We were the fold, after all what did we have to look forward to anymore or live for; I stood in the closing stages of mankind’s pursuit, the concluding factor of a brotherly tale betrayal and unremorseful circumstances. By the end of the bitter dry month, our nation's capital stood 3ft above the ground, Pike's Fish market, sat among the dust blowing into the Pacific Ocean air. Every major city had been intended, hit, and declared dissolved. We graveled not in a place of mercy, a place of harmony, or a place abandoned of safety. Instead, the nation’s people stood upward, moving forward, we were mere survivors, unable to tell the story of destruction. No warnings of the accidents were given. We had no challenge or progress to run and hide away from the enemies that had become not foreign, but fellow. Rebels, chaos creators, and free thinkers took care of the individuals whose ungodly actions, we seemed to have been pushed and prodded in front of, as if the responsibility lay upon the weakest link in a chain of mercenaries. Making them see the suffering, we were all presented. Our punishment was not their pain; rather their misguided mistakes had caused us our own introductory of humiliations.
You had a light that glowed like the moon. Your soul seemed like a dark alley you distracted yourself far from. Your name was nothing, but anything it wanted to be; nonetheless I did not own it as a possession. Black hair filtered out of your head, like straight DNA strips of obscure splendor; some unique viral disease, yet to be determined by geneticists. Maybe, your name was just the same, misunderstood and somehow peculiar. Rather a chaotic beauty, than a classic one. With a face like Yours You really didn’t need a name for it. Your soul created its own milieu, a world outside of its own. A world I wasn’t familiar with flashed across your weary face. Your aroma flummoxed me in such a way I couldn't tell if it was the faint smell of fading roses or just the dying ones.
The world was a different place now; feelings had been subdued into the idea of being numb and nonexistent. Times played by the marks of the old dying moon. Tidal waves were unrealistic to the daily tsunamis happening around the coastal lands. We had safety, but no struggle for survival. For best protection, stay in the mainland’s of the western states. The Nevada Desert was the option I had randomly selected for me to benefit from. Once a dead land always seemed to stay as such. Eventually, the last remaining would flee to the crowded borders, coming back from once we all come from a differentiation of lands. Earthquakes shake the glass windows and scatter their presence upon the empty terrace.
You stood oblivious to the rumble of the c haos. Your very mind stood in the midst of the dying world. You weren’t saddened by the fact the only home you ever knew was falling before your, crumbling down to the ruins we all assumed were only in the history of our father’s generations. You stood there in a wandering awe, why Mother Nature was acting in such a temperamental way or why she had neglected to protect her encompassed soul. The off balance of the axis rotated its happiness around us as the sun beamed in its good morning charms of sometime solitude.
Us, as a community had no point in fighting. The army was disbanded, but given an ultimatum and evidently chose to stay in plain sight. By the end of it all, there was no point to strike again. The population diminished in a matter of microseconds, and here I stood one of the last to survive. An engineer, by trade, a man none the less of score, I was determined to live out of hotels and never settle down to America’s ideal plan of living. But, by the end of every world way, I sat perched on my tiptoes, wondering when Miss Miracle would come walking down the alley to me, out of the blackness of my past, the soul. But, she never came and suddenly I’m here striding beside you, wondering why I was given a last chance at life with someone so delicate and uncontrollable, as you. Well, of course that was before the oil spills and gas prices rose, evidently we all ended up drowning in the blood of manmade machinery. The world had become debt collectors, come to demand the ransom we put on our own heads. America was deemed to fall, the blame fell upon the heads of your once idolized, and honorable comrades. Who had failed your message of freedom, once again? Trust was placed in the hands of a greedy man who giddily made promises and ran away with our joy. Our trust was built by some type of precious gold, a material unrealistic in the account it could not buy happiness. Some type of treasure auctioned off to the highest bidder, with the most persuasive corruption and figurine of power.
Ashes would suggest that someone once lived here, maybe, a house, a plant or two, a person or few. Flowers lay side by side among no real platforms of the evidence that once belonged here. Colossal, would have been the waste. Endless is the time and energy needed to pick up and put back together an old society of comfort. Days and weeks went by and in many cases the lost items of valuables was the increasing ritual of mourning, as if their dirty tears could bring back the things we had all lost. Our hope, most of all shared a bed with the wreckage of homes and houses. All that seems to be left are flat grounds, shifting by the shady leaves, as unwanted dirt particles danced under the tuck of the sunrise.
Your voice trembled, like an attic door that had not been open in several years. You looked at your reflection in the daunting waters as you tried producing a type of language we would all understand one day, hope and love. You wondered if something had changed, maybe you had grown significant over night. Maybe, you finally mattered to this human being. You stared up at the sky and wondered if life measured up or were you just playing a game like the rest of us, a role someone else had casted. You had a dialect; I had yet been accustomed too. Not so much one that was being reborn, rather one that has always been alive. A foreign language not yet ready to be forgotten, but not ready to become embraced, either. When you spoke the words and phrases came out of your lingering mouth like a quiet rhythm of unnecessary flutter, tied together with foreseen riddles I would one day appreciate.
Gaping insignificant holes lingered around the departed bodies of our time. We are alone, as everybody else had figured. Control had faded, rules itemized to the notion of periodic failure. The further other countries began rising in power, the less we knew what we stood for anymore. The only realistic reason to survive was prominent for the countenance of foreign aliens, taken mercy upon the left behind. I chuckle at my joke; people clipped coupons while their family members began to die beneath them. Nobody laughed, giggled or chanted in a while. They kept hope, talking as if the end was near, as if it we were all still awaiting such an arrival. What they didn't seem to notice was this was the end, the very end. No comebacks, the restart button broken, as we sat in the midst of the ashes of our own injurious minds. What will come of the replenished words, I have once spoken to you. Who may hear the speeches I professed to you about who was to end up glorified by the ending times of war and hunger. Who else knew, besides you? I shall die alone in the triumph of my own waves of courage and regrets.
A man with two small children came running up to us yelling, “OU LA VILLE!? OU LA VILLE?” Meaning where is the village at. “Calme-toi?” Putting hands up as if to communicate using mass finger signals to tell him to calm down. The deranged middle aged man, clearly noting his insanity stopped in his proverbial tracks. The word I should have used was, Vider, which meant empty. But, what I pronounced to him was la desperation, for it had merely disappeared upon the new dew.
You kept stumbling and I kept walking on what could have been territorial borders of some noteworthy destination, once upon a different time. I wonder what small infraction must be puncturing your hip. So many times I've turned around almost wishing to see you running down the road to me as if you were not extinct like the rest of them. Them, who are unable to evolve into this greater species of tomorrow or whatever, came after the dusk of dawn. Whoever thought I would be one of the tag along to survive one of these mass explosions, and you’re with your mute words as if you was dropped here by mistake to survive. I, believe they were mistaken, when they pointed and picked he shall live, let that one go on his own way. As a child, I was poked as a weakling, unwilling to defend against those who casted the last pebbles.
We are the very last, but then again we sit at the very tips of the fingering options of the very beginnings. We were all that was left, saved for death or things alike. At first all I saw was a wave of black and there I was flooded by a leak of oil, in the middle of North Dakota; catching the empty breaths in the misfortune of not only the Capital’s supply, but my own. An epidemic had broken out and here we were pushed in the middle of it all left behind to fight an invisible battle we all had no intentions of defending, let alone supporting.
We walked and with great stride reaching the river front. The dawn of the day had struck earlier this numeric year. The time wasn’t evident, but we know not to keep track. Endless days filled the streams between moments and seconds of time we once knew or had once owned. People scanned down the aisle, like we had reached the new land, Eden. The edgy volcanic ash fell through my rough fingertips like the falling waters of a rain storm. The sky had become grey, the stream line of new aged birds gave us little hope things were promised for change. A single small white flower popped up between the rubbish, finally we all seemed to see the sky for what it really was; an opening.
You whispered in my ear, to speak ever so closely with me. But, all you placed in the curvature of my ear lobe was a warm kiss. The brush of curiosity rushed upon my cheek bone, a delicate touch so secretive that it had to have been by mistaken, not considering the options of being physical with such an obscure women in my defense. Although, your place here was not entirely hidden, your behavior and motives showed you were stronger than the rest of us; after all maybe you were here, the one to save us, even me.
S.M. Bjarnson
April 7, 2014
Achieve Your Dream, by S.M. Bjarnson
I found this quote this other day!
To achieve your dream, you need to do everything from this point forward from the perspective of your purpose.Isn't that so true! You want to be great and wonderful but you still look at yourself as plain and boring. You change your outlook on the surroundings and there you have a new vision to perform better actions towards.! -S.M. Bjarnson
April 6, 2014
April 5, 2014
Sneak Peek 5 : The Circus in Me, by S.M. Bjarnson
From the main male character's perspective: Briggs
S.M. Bjarnson
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
April 4, 2014
April 3, 2014
Shifting Your Belief - S.M. Bjarnson
"Simply changing your belief can shift your internal conversation from thinking of your dream as impossible to seeing it's possibilities." -Unknown
I am greatly inspired today! Hopefully I can get April's blogging chaos out of the way and am determined to edit at least to page 120 in The Circus in Me. Definite hard work, struggling with characters and all that melancholy drama. So here is a quote I found along with other clever spurts of wisdom as I missed out on Wednesday! :) SO there you go!
S.M. Bjarnson
Creativity Is Madness: Shots of Awe
Creativity Is Madness: http://youtu.be/US18sczUnTk
