SPIKE and HatredSPIKE and HatredSPIKE and Hatred4 years ago in Settings More Like This
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."
The man left the room, the glowing embers of crazed lust in his eyes and sick satisfaction running fresh through his veins, leaving the boy, Spike, lying in the bed that has witnessed more dark deeds then sin. They had become more frequent lately, these nightly visits from his uncle, Charles. Those nights when he prayed for sleep, not for relief of exhaustion, but so he could sleep through the staining actions that he preformed. But strangely this night offered him that retreat, which had unfortunately come later than needed, and as sleep over took his cold and trembling body he fell into dreaming.
He could hear scratching, scratching on the sickly white walls that surrounded him, and outlined the large room that he was in, his bare feet, chilled against the wet linoleum and
Spike - Be All Sins Remembered"We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep."Spike - Be All Sins Remembered4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Shakespeare (The Tempest)
The gallows pole. A snakelike rope bound on it, quite stretched. The victim hanging by the neck wasn't present in the picture yet, still to be drawn. Spike sketched the scene he had stirring in his mind for some days now, a living picture from a half-remembered dream.
The work in the arts class that morning was about drawing a picture with the theme of free will. Normally Spike would avoid sharing the content of his thoughts with a teacher, but he couldn't get rid of that image and was urging to put it on a paper, it didn't matter if somebody else would see it. The teacher would probably tear the picture apart, but fuck it; after all it wouldn't be the first time he presented morbid pieces of art. "No artist is morbid", he remembered Sam saying to him in some occasion, "an artist can express everything. Oscar Wilde said that." Though Spike didn't consider himself an artist,
Waking to RealityAUTHOR'S NOTE: I figured I'd stick this here, just in case the beginning of this deters you. Read on before determining that Spike is totally out of character, ok? I promise, it makes sense in the end!Waking to Reality3 years ago in Drama More Like This
Tall and skinny.
Aggressively hunched posture.
It's him, all right. Spike.
I hesitate to think of him that way, but I can't help it. No one loves him like I do, I know that And I know he doesn't feel the same, but I can't help it. He's He's always been 'my Spike'.
Not in a possessive way, though! Just In a way that I care where no one else does. So I'll do what I can to take care of him like no one else does.
Thing is I can't believe he's here. At the tree house I've come here every day for the past two weeks, and he hasn't been here. I doubted he'd ever want to see me again after Well All that
I figured he hated be, but There he is.
The sound and the silenceThe sound of a heart breaking is not like glass shatteringThe sound and the silence3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it's a loud, roaring scream of despair
and then silence
for the longest time, all there is, is silence.
But slowly, slowly a beat returns.
Faint, unsteady and fragile.
Like the tentative flutterings of a baby bird's wings, as it learns to fly.
So afraid of falling.
But slowly, slowly, the beat gets louder.
Like a drummer in a marching band.
Nervous and hopeful.
The sound of a heart beating again is like a soldier being welcomed home.
Covered in scars, but happy again.
Ready to face whatever lies ahead.