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Into the Shadows

The cold Bethlehem night hummed with frustrated murmurs. Inns overflowed, their doors shut against the weary. Mary, heavy with child, leaned against Joseph, her breath coming in ragged gasps as another innkeeper shook his head apologetically. "No room, good people. Not a single corner". Across the crowded square, another figure knew that same crushing disappointment. He was a man of striking contrast: black hair was placed above a face etched with travel, and eyes the startling colour of indigo seemed to absorb the dim lantern light, reflecting a deep weariness. He was not old, but his shoulders slumped with the weight of countless rejections. "Nothing, sir", a voice boomed from a doorway he'd just approached. "Try the next street, maybe, but I doubt it". He'd heard it a dozen times tonight. His dark features, perhaps his silent intensity, seemed to put people off even more readily than the general lack of space. He wasn't belligerent, mere...
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Shadows in the Digital Hearth

Shadows in the Digital Hearth


In the heart of Rochdale, where shadows stretch and wane,

A woman with a pram, her gaze clipped by disdain.

Queensway pulses, a macabre dance of starlit screens,

Whispers of strife weave through burger shop dreams.


Smartphones flash like strobe lights, capturing the fray,

As the flicker of empathy dims, lost in the fray,

A bus revs its engine, a beast on the street,

While the harbingers of discord rise from their seats.


He, a mere passer-by, caught in the web's snare,

Innocence tainted by a digital glare.

The driver, a giant, unchecked in his rage,

Unfolds the day’s drama, the scene from a page.


And in nearby shadows, another foe stalks,

With a child at her side, she joins the cruel talks,

A confluence of chaos, where pixels ignite,

The pulse of community fractured by spite.


Terror compounded in whispers and threads,

A friend turned accuser, as doubt’s specter spreads.

Wayne Croston Fielding, with vengeance as muse,

Turns ally to adversary, feeding the ruse.


Each tap of a keyboard, a dagger unsheathed,

As the Bay Horse pub, darkened, breathes underneath,

Victims shrinking in light, shunning the glare,

In this digital hearth, where none seem to care.


Yet hearts beat below, amidst plastic and hate,

In the throes of the night, they decide their fate,

To rise like the phoenix from ashes of spite,

To challenge the shadows and reclaim the light.




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