For @mariannewest/day-479-5-minute-freewrite-monday-prompt-beacon
Mount Balefire. There is always a beacon atop Mount Balefire. And down, into the canyon, though there are no roaming dogs, you will find the Cafe of shuttered windows.
The dogs once roamed these streets, howling at every open window, wishing to be fed. No more. The dogs have run tot he sea. Only cats and men live here, keeping safe the land from which the beacons come.
Look. A light atop the hill. Is it a lie? Is it a mistake? Should every man run to fight? No. No, the man who lights the fire must simply have hurt his arm. And he must have stumbled and lit the fire. I cannot believe that any thing will every change.
But why then, do we have a Mt. Balefire?
The wind roars. Wondrous roars. Wondering on the wind, a wanderer. He is cold through his bones and into his muscles. The wind sweeps him away. Behind a shuttered window, a drenched old man, for there are only men and cats in this town, dries his coat on a hearth made of swept clay. The clay came from kays away. There are no clay pits in the town. Only stone and mud and that mud is soft, verdant soil. Good for growing, but not for building. He finds a new set of stones set outside his door.