BattleDaughter

In Mr. and Mrs. Ponnlan‘s back garden there stood, for years and years, a tree. The tree, named Simon, had stood still for so long, seeing nothing but the same quiet garden and the same quiet house, he felt as if time had stopped. At first Simon liked the idea of time having stopped, meaning he could live forever, but soon boredom struck and he started longing for the flow of time again. To feel the time flow, Simon thought, he would need to be a part of the ever changing world outside the garden. And so Simon longed to see the world outside his dull backyard. For many months he stood and longed, but had no means of making his wish a r

I always wash. Everything they hand to me I wash. They, I do now know who they are. But they always hand me things. Little things and big things. I wash history and make it very clean. I wash away all the little wars and plagues, and suffering and death. I wash time again and again to make it like new. It never wears and tears like some other things. I wash the unclean souls that wander into my water, curled up in soap bubbles like children unborn. I wash away their sins and regrets. I wash away their unhappiness. When I have nothing else to wash, I wash myself. The soap froths and runs down my hands. Sometimes I think I remember something

There is something wrong with me. I can feel it. There is something out of place. But what? My thoughts feel aimless. Like they're floating around without purpose. Just thinking in the right language is hard, glimpses of foreign words push hard at the back of my tongue, longing to come out at the world. I'm not even writing in my own mothertongue. My mind is a haze, my determination vague and what little I have left of rationality soon to be gone. Only my fingers remember the steady beat on the keyboard. Only they remember how it is to scratch the soft surface of paper with a pen, only to leave marks of ink that hold subtle fragments of my

I breathe as I was born only until I'm wrong And in a world of games - of real lies and fake names - that won't be long I bear my soul to sin I'm perfect although human deep within Confide in me I am to blame for everything You know nothing

Is that blood on your hands? Again? Who did you kill this time? Answer me man! Oh damn. You have to stop this, do you hear me? Now don't you tell me that you disagree. It's not too late. I know it's not, not by a long shot. You say you are the devil and could kill even me. I know that you are hurting. You are. You must be. When you take a human life, so much like your own, and watch it disappear into the dark unknown, it must hurt so bad, it must wringe at your soul. You say that you can't feel it, that you're like a black hole: hollow and fully out of control. You have been feeling this pain for so long you can't remember h

Over this silent land the ash is falling. The rumbles are gone. The mountains have closed again and the fury of this earth is quiet. Sootblack. Ashgray. The only colours left in this burning landscape full of sheep. Now every sheep is the black one. Digging for grass and only getting ash in their eyes and their nostrils burning, it cannot be. Only yesterday this exact spot was green. Only yesterday the land was still asleep and lulling in the cold winds of glacier breath. Counting the dying sheep it falls asleep again, this silent land, and dreams of loud eruptions of the past.

Untitled, so is my world. The entire universe untitled. Abandoned, this untitled world. The universe is empty, and even time can not be found. Once there was a single tone, a wandering sound, that echoed through here. But now it's gone. The melody of life has gone.

I can hear the sound of falling dust, and silence - when it reaches me - has grown old. A stream, so has time become, runs endlessly, silently, obediently. I crawl towards it, my hands dirty, scraped by the rugged ground. When I touch the water I turn to dust.

(Þögnin) Þögnin er eins og bit; eins og hvítar tennur sem læsast hljóðlega um tilvist mína, sem sökkva hægt í gegnum holdið og rífa sundur hálsinn. Loftið hvissast út um hljóðpípurnar, svo hefur þögnin unnið. Þögnin; grái úlfurinn, óargardýrið sem breyðir úr sér yfir sjóndeildarhringinn, en dregst svo saman í kaldan steinklefa. Ég er í klefanum, og eini félagi minn hefur enga rödd, sem skiptir engu máli því hún hefur aldrei neitt

- Wait... I know you. You're David Little! You sneezed on me in third grade! - Oh god. - Yes, oh god. - In third grade? And you still remember that? - Of course I do! It was an icky, jucky, sticky sneeze with snort, bugger and throat slime in it! I had nightmares about the insident for years! - Good lord... - Exactly. And may I presume that you remember me? - Huh? - Do you remember me? - Well... - I´m the kid you sneezed on in third grade! - I know that, you just said it! - You sneezed on me! Are you going to tell me you don't remember who I am? - Well... I sneeze a lot... - On people? - Well, no... - Then you should re