A fine, dusting of yellow powder covered every surface of the grinding room. Two massive stones ground together, pulverizing hard, dried corn kernels. Meal, pressed between bed and runner, filled a hopper between 50-pound bags of grist waiting to be milled.
Powered by an overshot flow of clear, cold mountain water, the heavy, wooden wheel slowly turned, gears creaked, metal groaned, and stone screeched. The building shivered from exertion.
Velma marveled at the process. Her mind wandered as she pondered whether bone could be as effortlessly dispatched. Dismissing the plan, she knew marrow wouldn’t wash off the porous stone.
Thin spiral notebook 
Wow, that’s such a great picture and I love the story you put with it.
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I love your twists at the end. You lead us there, visuals rich and inviting and then WHAM, you show us the dark side. It’s your gift, Tara, that peek behind the curtain just when we start to feel “safe”.
WOW!
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Thank you for following my blog. I love your prose style. This piece feels like the beginning of a very creepy story!
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So. Much. Imagery.
Love the feel of this. There’s an old mill about two miles from where I grew up and we used to play there as a kid and teenager.
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My aunt and uncle own a working grist mill, the one in the photo. They ground their own cornmeal for their trout/catfish restaurant. I worked there when I was in college. We used the meal for hushpuppies and to bread the fish.
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now, I’m starving
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Well that is good that practical considerations are taken into account like that.
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Velma is thoughtful about that stuff.
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