Centuries ago, just inside the Welsh border, existed a small village known as Gwylfryn.
In those days, people didn’t have names, but used where they came from and what they did as their ‘name’.
One villager, Gwylfryn Hunterre, was the hunter – so proud a marksman was he, only one bird defied his arrows; the great and mystical Phoenix.
Determined to mark the final notch on his bow, he set off early one morning and spotted the fiery creature flying above the huts in the village.
The bird didn’t stand a chance – Hunterre’s aim was perfect and the bird fell from the sky like a rock; landing on one of the rooftops, causing it to burst into flames, disrupting the usual peaceful harmony of the village. The fire quickly spread; soon the whole village was alight, causing the other villagers to frantically scurry around, saving what they could – although most was destroyed, including Hunterre’s reputation when he was renamed Gwylfryn Foolle, the village idiot.
This is a re-tweaked version of a story I wrote back in 2015, only re-tweaked slightly so that it fits Six Sentence Stories, where the prompt word this week is ‘Harmony’.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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