Sandr's Portfolio

A place where I can post my original works.

[sandr-spade]

Words - Original Short

Words poured from her mouth and she could not stop them. No one could. They poured from her mouth at ever available opportunity and They hated it. So They taped her mouth shut. That would stop them.

It didn’t.

One night, in the gentle arms of sleep--a wonderful mistress in her own right--the tape ripped off and the words came tumbling forth. Where once a creek had been, there was now a deluge. They poured with no meaning and no purpose and again she was forced to emit these words endlessly, a marching parade of black ants on a white tablecloth. Words words words. She devoted hours to learning new words and seeing what old words looked pretty still. She picked up small words from the concrete and told them they were loved. That they were important. That they could be a sentence on their own. That they were useful.

They weren’t. Not all of them.

One word was useful but unloved. She had learned it from someone somewhere, a spitting barb that stuck in her brain, burrowed deep, and hibernated. It was green bile and red blood. It was irritated skin and tear-soaked sheets. It was candle flames and the handles of knives. It was ripped paper and snapped pencils. It was broken hearts and forgotten dreams. It was long too, oe of her favorites.

She tried to stop the words one day. She tried to dam the river and the sources and shit fuck shit it hurts I don’t really wanna do this fucking hell please someone save me please...

And the words were replaced with bile but the letter were there, like some sort of perverted alphabet soup.

That word is what she woke to, floating in her muddled brain and trickling from everyone’s lips. She opened her mouth and choked on the tube that kept her there. I’m sorry, she wrote, so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t wanna. Please...I’m sorry.

And the words swirled behind the damn she had built and she hated herself for it. She sewed her mouth shut, leaving space for the important words. And the damn she built blocked them all.

Then one day, the damn eroded. She couldn’t give any more. She let go.

It wasn’t a deluge for sure. The typeset ants marched one by one out of her mouth and into the world and she smiled and tried to encourage them. But the first word was that word, that little word that was bile green and blood red and broken and beaten and forgotten and forgiven and everything while nothing.

She opened up and let the rest come but the first and the almost last and the mole and the worm and the word and the world came spilling forth and she shouted it to the sky because it was. And it was her and it was false and it was true and it was everyone she had ever known only a little bit but it was her, so much her and she laughed because it was.

And it was true and it was useful and it was her.

And it was depression.

[sandr-spade]

Houseguest -  Original Short

“There is,” she said, “a certain feel to this place. A...je ne sais quoi, if you will. It cries for something but I cannot place it...”

“It cries for a good coat of paint and some air freshener.”

She crossed her arms and harrumphed, looking askance at her companion. “Some fun you are. We finally get our own place, it’s a lovely gothic piece, and you’re being a sourpuss.”

“It’s a right Goethe-ic mess all right. The mass amount of colors that are going on in that corner alone exemplify--”

“Alright, shut up!” She interrupted, crossly folding her arms. “If you’re going to be a butt about this then I suppose I’ll have to eat the cake all on my own!”

“What?! No!”

Her smile brightened the whole place. “Yeah, I think I will,” she turned on her heel and sighed dramatically. “If I’m the only one who can appreciate the beauty of our new home then I’m the only one that gets to eat cake!”

“Mme. Antoinette, how dare you!”

Her laughter was bells and tinny bits of metal tinkling together, a sonorous cacophony so perfect that I couldn’t help but join in with my own bray. She looked around, as did her companion, her eyebrows bunched together for safety. Her companion bristled.

I slid away, leaving them to their own devices. I was too afraid of her leaving. I liked this one.

Maybe she would stay. Maybe forever.

Maybe she would stay.

[sandr-spade]

If xie could quell xier internal screaming long enough, xie could possibly get something done. Unfortunately for xie, xier internal screaming belonged to the the damned souls of the innocent and, to be honest, they were starting to piss xie the fuck off.

[sandr-spade]

Kötturinn Dauða - Original Short

There is a saying in my town. "Gammal-Bård fears the cat’s death.” No one knows the origin of this phrase and every generation it seems like someone interprets it differently. The generation before mine translated it out as “pride is the greatest sin”. The generation two before me said it meant “nine is the number of heaven”. My generation believes that it means “cat’s are the devil’s worst nightmare”. As such, they’ve taken to keeping cats as pets because they believe it will protect them for evil.

It’s a pity they’re all wrong.

Our town has more cats than people. Oops, did I say “our”? I meant “my”. My town has more cats than people. It’s because no one knows how to properly take care of them. The streets are covered in cats; old cats, mangy cats, new cats, cats covered with the scars of a thousand battles, old toms who lord over their little pride, lithe hunters, females begging to be filled. My town has a population of twenty-five humans and over a hundred cats. People call it a freakishly happy place. It’s so damn irritating.

(I’m sorry, I’ll try to stay on topic now. It’s just so hard sometimes. I know...I should stop. I’ll do my best)

Back to the saying. "Gammal-Bård fears the cat’s death.” No one seems to understand that they’re saying it wrong. The phrase in its  "Gammal-Bård óttast e-ð Kötturinn Dauða.” It translates out to “The old devil is afraid of the cat’s death” but people forget that sometimes a noun can also be a name.

Kötturinn Dauða is a person, as sure as you or I or even cats are people.

(Don’t look at me that way. Cats are people. I’ll have you know that the mayor of my town is a cat and we do just fine!)

Kötturinn Dauða is the head witch of cats. They are beautiful and strong but a vengeful witch. If you harm a cat, Kötturinn Dauða will find you and make ou pay. It’s easy though because cats are masters of liminal spaces. They slip through the slits in the fabric of space and weave in and out of them with all of the grace of needles in the hands of a master seamstress. Kötturinn Dauða uses this to their advantage.

Cats make good allies, moreso than dogs. You want a cat on your side. Bad things happen if you don’t. If you anger a dog, you’ll just get attacked then and there. Maybe it’ll hold a grudge. Maybe it’ll sic its friends on you. Maybe. Not with a cat though. Every cat that you pass will have heard whispers of your deeds. Every cat you come across will know that you are fjandmaður, that you are scum, that you are not to be trusted. Vermin will find your home a pleasant place to be because cats will give it a wide berth. Your luck will decrease because the black cats will cross your path in multitudes. Your marriage or relationship will fail because you angered the ones who pull Freyja’s chariot, she who watches over the love of this world.

Dogs will attack, but cats will make you suffer.

(I’m sorry! I know I said I’d not get all off track but you’ve got to understand cats to understand Kötturinn Dauða. Without one, the other is null. ... Alright...I’ll just get back to it then.)

Kötturinn Dauða is the child of cats and the cats that walk this earth are their kin. They were born in the den of a wild cat and were raised with them, learning their ways. Kötturinn Dauða can see liminal spaces and the slits in space and can send their cats through to do their will. Kötturinn Dauða is herald, a witch, a myth, a reaper. If you attack at cat,  Kötturinn Dauða will find you and remind you why this is not allowed.

Who is Kötturinn Dauða? Have I ever seen them? Nah...

You’re lucky if you never see Kötturinn Dauða. That means you’ve been good to the casts in your life. Living in a town where cats outnumber people makes you very aware of their presence. In a way, we’re all Kötturinn Dauða...sorta...

They call this town Griðarstaður Kattarins. I mean, it’s not too far off. We are a haven for our feline friends. It may have to do with Kötturinn Dauða and it may not. Who knows. I think it’s more of a coincidence than anything else.

Also...I saw what you did to Butterfly out there. I don’t think you should stay more than you already have. Why? Well, it’s not too hard to believe in Kötturinn Dauða when you are them. No, I’m not that old. Kötturinn Dauða is a title anyway. I’m just the Kötturinn Dauða of this generation. Time will pass and I will grow old and the next Kötturinn Dauða will come and then my time will end.

You thought they had nine lives? Nah. Kötturinn Dauða has a hundred lives. So long as cats exist there will be a Kötturinn Dauða.

No, I didn’t lie to you. I’ve never seen Kötturinn Dauða. I’m blind. I know, you couldn’t tell cause I didn’t act it. Now...I suggest you leave, and take your recording equipment with you. Not the camera though; that can stay here. Stories are fine. Words are just black on white but pictures are evidence and I’d rather be left alone thankyouverymuch.

Have a day. Not a nice one; just a day. And be careful out on the road. It’s supposed to rain cats tonight.

[sandr-spade]

In the Spirit of the Season (nsfw) -- Original Short

Her fingers caressed her skin, tracing her curves and drawing his eyes to all the right places. “You like?” She asked, her voice a low thrum or unrepressed sexual desire. He nodded, unable to speak for fear of ruining the moment. “Would you like to see more? More,” she brushed her lips over his neck and sighed, the breath raising goosebumps, “of me?” He nodded again and she stepped back from him and laughed.

She grabbed her full breasts and pushed them together, thumbs brushing across her areolas lightly. Her nipples stiffened, as did his penis and she laughed again. She dug her fingers into the soft flesh and moaned softly. Her tongue darted across her lips and she met his eyes, her own half-lidded. He panted lustily. She pulled her breasts off.

There was no blood involved; one moment they were attached to her chest and the next they were not, muscle and fat visible as she discarded them to the side. They made a wet sound when they hit the tightly woven carpet. His jaw fell as she reached up to her head and grabbed her hair and peeled it from her scalp, taking two layers of skin with it. She threw it aside and swayed her hips as she gouged large strips of her arms off, grabbing strands of muscles and pulling them out like loose strings. He said nothing, continuing to watch in a stupor.

She leaned back, her ribs pushing through her skin and poking outward, a copse of white trees among red soil. She shows him the wide folds of her sex, glistening and ready. He was entranced. With a simple motion, she split herself down her seam, tearing open her body for him to see everything that she was.

The two halves of her writhed around until they were next to one another, clasped hands, and stood up. They turned to face him and attempted to smile but their jaw had fallen off in the split and their head was only on their right side. Their tongue wagged loosely as they danced for him. He said nothing.

Their eyes rolled in his direction and their brows furrowed, pinching upwards in a pleading gesture. “Don’t you like it?” Their eyes asked. “Don’t you love us?”

He just watched.

They hopped around in a circle and undulated as gracefully as one human separated in two could. They ground against one another, labia majora hitting labia majora and sending shockwaves of pleasure through their divided nervous system. Their right side dragged their teeth over their ribs, across their pelvis, down their thigh, and stopped at their left knee. Their right side mopped their left knee with their tongue by moving their right upper torso. They let out what could pass as a sensual moan from their tattered vocal cords, their torn lungs inflating with a shuddering wheeze and then deflating with a gurgle. They danced. They put on a show. They fell to pieces.

He looked at their remains--her remains--and waited. His patience rewarded him and soon she stood before him, spectral and whole, and blew him a kiss.

“Now it’s your turn,” she whispered. He nodded and stood up, sensually removing his clothes as she reclined mid-air. “Show me more of you.”

[sandr-spade]

When She Came Back -- Original Short

When she came back, her muscles were taut with fear. She had seen portals like this before: dark and dangerous things that twisted one inside out and all around until what came out was to the original as shit was to food. A huge fucking mess and a pain in the ass to clean up. That she came out on the other end, unharmed and relatively safe, was a blessing.

When she came back, everyone commented on how thin she had gotten. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that it was from running and hiding for days on end with no food. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that she had tasted human flesh and, at one point, hunted humans out of necessity. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that some of that thinness was the constant companion of death. She didn’t have the heart to care.

When she came back, she realized how loud life was. Out there, where the scavengers were her friends because it meant another meal--albeit a rotten or molding one--everything was silence. Noise meant death. Noise meant danger. She had become able to hear the sound of a breath meters away; the sound of humanity in general was deafening. She couldn’t sleep for weeks until one of her family--that is, one of the people she remembered as being friendly and possibly related to her--go her sound-cancelling headphones. Finally she could breathe now that the oppressive sound of life was quieter and more distant. Finally she could sleep. Finally.

When she came back, little time had passed. She left for school one morning, fell into the world that became her home for a few years, and then fell back in after whatever cockamamie task the ‘higher beings’ had decided she needed to do was finished. For her it had been years; for them it was days. No one seemed concerned enough for her liking.

When she came back, all her trust was gone. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you” it is said. She bit the hand that fed her and the leg that housed her and the arm that praised her and the ribs that asked her “what’s wrong?” She bit and attacked everything within reach. She had no reason to believe that any of these “kind” people weren’t going to hurt her. A year in the slave trade had taught her that if anything was not to be believed, it was kindness.

When she came back, she cried. Not for being released from her personal hell of years. Not for being torn away from the place that shaped her into a killing machine and then discarded her like a paper towel. Not for the emotional trauma that was laid across her in that world like a thin layer of dust across a collection of knicknacks. No, she cried for loss. She lost her home, her friends, her adoptive family, and her purpose. What was she to do in this world full of blue-collars and black ties; of uniforms and licenses; of regulations and lines; of rules and order? She had no credentials! “I vanquished a great evil in another realm” did not look good on a resume and would likely lead to her being institutionalized. Everything she had done was for naught and she had no purpose any more.

When she came back, she saw her face for the first time. She had been her constant companion over those many years, always silent and stoic, never judging a single person. She never left, even after so many did. She followed her like a puppy with the promise of a bone but acted like a cat who was just coincidentally in the room with you. She always was there and much like a comfort, she felt her embrace time and time again. They became closely acquainted and she even flirted with her on occasion. Multiple occasions. They may as well have been date-mates by the time she came back, they knew each other so well. It was twenty-five days, thirteen hours, twenty minutes, and five seconds from when she first came back that she finally gave in and went to her. At last they were together and she was happy. She was home.

When she came back, she went away. This time there was no back to come to. This time she was home.

[sandr-spade]

And perhaps it was the way he looked at her, as though she was the universe spun into a single corporeal form, that caused her heart to swell. Virulent feelings welled behind her facade and, much in the way that a tower of blocks will fall when pushed, the dam she had built burst and the truth came spilling out. Violently it swallowed him and nothing was left behind but the bare bones of what was once a “perfect” relationship.