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The Purging of the Great Thorns

The sun was not merely a ball of burning gas to the folk of the Sandleford Warren; it was Frith, the Great Eye, the golden source of all life and the witness to every twitch of a whisker. But on this day, the air felt heavy, tasting of ozone and the cold, sharp scent of worked iron. Fiver, the small, twitching seer of the rabbits, sat atop the Honeycomb, his ears flat against his back. "It’s coming, Hazel", he whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. "A great white light. Not the light of Frith that warms the fur, but a light that eats the world. Man has grown too clever. He has stolen the fire from the center of the earth and pointed it at the sky". Hazel looked toward the horizon. He couldn’t see the, "Great Thorns"—the long, silver cylinders Man had hidden in the ground—but he felt the vibration in his paws. The world of men was screaming. They had built machines that could turn the grass to ash and the rivers to steam. They were ready ...
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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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