Author: James D. Mills

FIVE Sweet Child of Summer, I mourn for your skin Your cold fingers and Chillblained toes. Mother of the Autmn, When you fell in love You tumbled with the earth And snared its acrid bounty. Hellish Bastard of Winter, Blanch before your betters And return to us our warmth Which you’ve forever stolen. Hard Father of Spring, You stood tall as an oak Sentinel before our home Your leaves soaking up all our woes. Ithica (b. 413). Journaled Year 433. I It is a good night to hunt.  He bounded across the dusky trails round the pathetic Village in the…

FOUR The bairns speak trilling voices in the night, harsh echoes dancing, afright of the hoary and weighty squalor of unending sleep. Messages delivered nigh, grasped in sharp talons of ravens, crows, pigeons; whether the cock-crows or refuses to show. May our dreams stay safe; for our sleeps are fraught and the days, so dark, as the sun burrows deep, quaffs the Devil’s draught, As if the accursed swill were as naught but cool, clear water, a gentle man’s drink, atop the Great Mothers’ hill. Ithica (b. 413). Journaled year 442. I After living in the temperate embrace of the…

THREE Oft I’ve seen you in the night, or a wan image of you. A pale imitation compared to your brilliance and bright devotion by day. Oft my dreams are fraught. Corrupted echos of memories long faded, extinguished. Long have I languished in nightmares beset; they fall upon me, gnashing, dark creatures of the long black night. Though tonight, it shall not be black demon nor red devil that plagues ill mine troubled thoughts. Nay, I see you, my father as you were in my youth. And you visit my dreams, in your arms you carry another. A boy with…

TWO Why must the wind blow when Earth does not know that the Mourning Sun shines, as my light slowly declines? How many years must I wait for you, so belated, to arrive? For how long must I hate, curdling mine blood that turns to shit like soured butter lodged in the devil’s churn? How many moons must I fester brining within bitter salt? Must I scream my soul’s lament, cast mine curse upon the gods for all they have wrought? Or shall I sing a sweet refrain awake tomorrow and do it all again? Ithica (b. 413). Journaled Year…

ONE In the dead of night I pray for your arrival and dream of your smile yearning for your scent. By the light of day I am left alone beside myself and entirely distraught. To know your father is to know your potential to hear Bridget’s plans and to see them in action with hopes they soon come to pass. Ithica (b. 413). Journaled Year 433. I Year 442 Loathsome winds howled their bitter protests as I shouldered my way up the slope, still slick with ice and hard-packed snow. Last storm was days past, but the early Winter freeze…

“I ain’t ever had a friend like you,” said Snorri Morn, his meaty arms slung over my neck. Snorri was a great bloody ox of a man, back when he was alive, full of drink, piss, and rage. Twice as mean as a mother bear defending her cubs, and half as loving. I bloody loathed the man and I don’t regret what I’ve done. “In all my years,” he went on, seeming to burp between every word, “I ain’t ever—I mean ever—had a friend like you.” We’d been deep in the cups that night. My head was a swill of…