They say he milled diamonds from stone, but I never saw it. The river had run dry for an age by the time I came upon the mill.
The old woman stood in the doorway, one gnarled hand blooming atop her cane. She nodded at the thing. “It’s yours now.”
I moved closer, ran one hand along the beam, the wood worn to a sinew of grain, the stone beneath it polished smooth. I looked back at her. “I can’t see getting a diamond from that.”
She laughed, crackling and smoky. “And you won’t, son. Not unless you turn.”
This has been an edition of the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the gracious and talented Rochelle. This week’s photo courtesy the amazing Sandra Crook. To read more flash fiction inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: