The Old Mill

This is a small page that I wrote by looking at a painting by the wonderful artist Bob Ross. His pictures are so beautiful and inspiring. Scenes spring to my mind and sometimes inevitably become stories. It’s hard to leave a scene hanging when I have more to write.

Anyway, this is my first and favorite. ^_^ I love personification! Leave me a comment!

The Old Mill, isn't it lovely?

The Old Mill

I throw myself down on the grass and hold myself while tears stream down my cheeks. This is the only place I belong. This is my place, the old mill.
Watching the wheel turn and the water churn with a steady dush dush, my sobbing subsides. The mill is always the same. Always steady. The wheel never stops scooping the water and letting it go, dush dush. The dark wood is spotted with moss. The roof is torn and holey. I doubt the building does anything standing there, but it helps me, and the stream keeps the wheel turning. The wheel is my favorite part of the mill. In fact, I’ve never been inside the mill at all. It’s the wheel that talks to me and sooths me when I am weeping like this. He says so very softly, “I will be here. You can always cry with me. I understand. I will not ever forsake you.” It’s my only friend who is always there. The woods are my friends too though. The trees and bugs and flowers. One tree is my favorite, because she loves the mill, just like I do. All the other tree like the mill, but this tree loves him. She is a lovely dogwood tree, and she is right next to the mill and she shelters his lower roof. He is always in her continual embrace, and when a soft breeze blows through, she caresses him, as if he is sad. I can tell when the mill is distressed. The sky does not shine on him and the wheel turns slow. When the wind does not blow, the dogwood cannot rub him and he creaks and moans like a sick man. Then I climb up in the dogwood and give him what little comfort I can. He really listens. He turns faster, and often the sun will sparkle down through her cloud and give the old mill a smile.
I pick myself up off the grass and study the mill. He is happy. Happy that I am happy. Dush dush. I cross the stream on the walking stones and lean softly against him. I have never gone inside, to his own thoughts and private rooms, but today I will. I want to see what is in my old friend.
I walk to the other side, the side facing the woods. The door is stiff from disuse. I pull on it but it won’t budge. I don’t want to break the door, but I want in. The wheel begins to turn faster and the dogwood waves back and forth across the mill. The sun flashes in and out of the cloud. I understand with a laugh. I push the door and it opens inwardly without any complaint. The room is dark and musty. With a deep breath and a racing heart, I step inside.

Merry Christmas everyone!


-Electric Bubbles