I have a long arm but no muscles, and I can throw things further than any athlete. I was born in ancient times to knock down walls, yet I never use a hammer. I’m not a plane, but I can make things fly; I’m not a feline, but my name starts with a cat. What am I?

I'm screwed to the wall to hold up a shelf. After all, I can't hold the books all by myself.

I am a place where stories glow and shadows dance upon the wall. I hunger for the fallen branches and speak in crackles soft and small. I turn the chill to gentle calm yet cannot move nor wander far. My breath is bright my heart is red yet ashes mark where I once fed. I live within a home of stone and guard the warmth when nights are cold. What am I that keeps the frost away yet stands unmoved from day to day

Four wheels, wood I boast, Concrete waves my metal friend, Balance, then I roll.

This word holds meaning even when letters are removed - but only one at a time. Full, it is a place to rest. With the second removed, it is how you rest. With the last removed, it becomes somewhere traversed yet not fully explored.