Bealick Mill

January 11th, 2024

Feel the ground. It is cold. She glides along the stone floor, her feet raw from the hushed murmur of the River Lee. The skeletal remains of the mill are filled with a damp air that clings to her skin, heavy with the scent of moss. She tilts the bottle to her lips. A warmness spreads to her chest. She dances to the groans of the aged wood and sighs of the stone. She skates to the broken windows where the grey clouds hang low. The son of Cennétig shouts down from above. The rumbling language of the heavens is enough to fell her. She hits the ground and her tailbone clashes with the earth. She runs out. It will soon rain. In her drunken stupor, she lopes to the underpass. She hunches over, her hands on her knees, still clenching the bottle, as she catches her breath. The raven begins to speak.