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Weekly Contest #39
Spike is shaking as he writes the words I confess, I’m guilty in a notebook on his lap. He looks up at the barred window, which hangs like a painting on the wall depicting a waxing crescent moon in a dark blue sky, adorned with shimmering stars. Today has been perfect; he’s seen the sun blazing its golden light on the lush trees. Tomorrow it’ll rain, storm and thunder, until there’s only silence to hear, and darkness to see. He shudders thinking of what’s to come and continues to scribble. This letter is not to clear my name, nor to cleanse ...
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