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The Twilight Hours

It begins the same each night during the twilight hours, the mist curling up around the spires. the grey ghost pricking up its ears; it too senses the coming onslaught.

He has been asleep for only a short while and is again this night, awakened, compelled by insidious, all-consuming, fear. He reaches for his phone, his fingers groping wildly in the dark. Blue light pierces, assaults his eyes. There is no going back now.

With his free hand, he swipes through, readies, bracing himself. It is the same each time. He is a hostage and cannot tear himself away.

The screen comes into focus. The @TheRealDonaldTrump tweet storm appears in rapid succession cascading down the page.

Jane reaches over to comfort, her touch kind and patient, 'Let it go Bernie, my love, let it go".

Story by:

Karen Schauber

5 July 2018