© Sandra Crook
“He was odd, but we’re all our own shape,” Toby sighed. “Kept this place going, mind.”
Josh stood absorbing the yesterday aspect of the old mill, the sadness in the dust, cracked beams and rodent tracks.
“After his missus left, he shut himself away grinding flour for a market he didn’t have.” Toby pointed at the swollen sacks, “Full o’ weevils.”
Josh poked one that bulged unevenly; his curiosity drew a knife down it. Grain and a cold arm spilled from the slit.
“Oh, it appears his wife left without her arm.”
Toby eyed the other sacks ruefully.
Written for Friday Fictioneers – a 100 words story based on a photo prompt. Hosted by Rochelle. Read the other entries here.