rendered in a letter, the snow soon melts. the entire area of distribution is developed during a completely different era than the small businessmen’s. they are presented with face, name, and address. not as individuals with personal responsibility, but as a group. it just grows larger and larger this ring. with all human refuse inside. just you go to the nearest bare spot, a piece of flat land that once lived up to its name. when the wind was cold the big forest shielded us


it all gets different. the first day I sat on the lawn mover, ran up and down the slope. this is reason enough to scrutinize this history. in spring we face a long muddy shore. over the years it is cultivated into a black legend. at the center it swells around a petrol station, a kiosk- and grocery store, and a small red house, a side track in the greater financial game. that is the problem. I was the oldest child and made a fire


after much toil I can start. a rope, although brand new, is easily cut against the rock. this is repeated once a week. one thing only filled my head, if we are not too tired maybe we can carry the things in our own hands. during summer we move back and forth. the government-supported colonization continues. years around. where the reindeer was left to graze next to the dam edge. none of this was said. last year is already gone


the luggage unloaded in the mud, great mires divided. I hope that the book can fill a gap in this sense. you never kick a lonely horse. or it’s wrong. water rises around the years, marks people, the resources of the region are so ingrained in us. that played such a central role in this story. a good period in the forest region. you get the feeling there is something standing between the lines. I would rather die, but I would rather live. or else its soon their turn


the snow had been melting for a while, pedlar mentality was not widely spread. they had been teasing, saying incomprehensible things. perhaps because animals will not harm me. this relationship is similar in many other areas. humans and animals grow tired, trained in the era of large scale capitalism. they have continued to exist. the bare spots by the lake, all over the world. and my home has never been so tidy. now I hope someone will blow up the house


soon we picked small, dry branches. they were forced to let go of the land. some carries from below, some from a few miles away, a third one takes what’s at hand. I don’t shake hands, then I have to wash a long time. there was this guy and a girl with three kids together and a house. and yelled that now let’s show the bastards. we would have been able to help them with that, so the lake didn’t wash them away. then I realized that hell is coming.


the lake was small and frozen, disunion and poor insight ought to be the probable reason. in a certain part of the garden, like a rat or a dog digging its burrow. pots, tree forks, firewood is carried down. a loudspeaker transmitted recorded obscenities about my deceased mother, mixed with threats and drunken talk in finish. down there all the muddy clothes and tools are also carried. I was a little girl of ten. the radical workers and small farmers was surprisingly calm so far. this was where they wanted us


either the one or the other it’s always something. I was a child in a mans body when I ran for the axe. we had to be humble, learn from the farmers to dig in the ground and from the illiterate to use their cunning tricks. the lifespan is shorter than around our home. when I cared for them no washing ritual was needed. before the snowstorm gets too rough and the days too short, we are pushed into a blind alley where we can only trust ourselves. the time of the intellectuals was truly gone


to never be belived, and a poor writer. I was of great help to my parents, sitting in beak boots looking suspiciously into the camera. wild and widely in the village. seems like it was no coincidence. now this naiveté we had then bothers me. a dam and reservoir contains a lot of water, there we could wash ourselves. I almost fell over when I heard the name. it is the modus operandi of the family. that point to a fairly well organized society


how the actions shall be formulated is not for me to say here, the sun was already high. but so easily could we go there and see that everything was in order. it is their way of life to seek fights. a sunny day is pleasant of course, but you don’t feel part of the society. for us there is nothing else than life, without it you are dead. and have to start over again. what is left but to throw stones


the cloudberry bogs, hay fields vanished. at times we cut to at least get a piece up, some you never find again. that which sat foot in their house turned out to be a planted story. a look into the implication of a raised water level. knotty birch trees remain, that offer no shelter from the wind or anything else that you get from dammed up rage. there is a reason why things get the way they do. I spent a peaceful night in this house


they drown great areas. to finally suffocate them. mother could keep calm and rest some more. an iron pipe, a cry for help. in the once living forest. humans crumble under inhuman environments. in summertime I walk the yard to erase the tracks of feet and hoofs. but there was not talk of a storm, not enough words, they should be straight and lean, not to damage the canvas. we didn’t seek they were just there

© David Vikgren