A Beacon in the Dark

Night reached the dry gutter, swallowing the spectrum once cast by the glass prism. I halted where an iron drainage grate arched low over the silt, offering shelter from the draft. Grounding the butt of my rifle into the grit, I brought out the antique brass monocle. A pale beam from a distant streetlamp angled down through the iron slats above. I knelt with steady deliberation, wedging the brass monocle into the sand beside the chandelier prism until its heavy lens caught that stray shaft of light. The beam struck through the glass facets, throwing a faint, steady speck of amber against the cold granite wall. With my back braced against the curb stone, the night post is marked.