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His True Friend

As the gigantic fins of the mill turned, the miller followed them.

With his eyes at first, then with his hands. Copying their exact rotation to an impeccable degree. He was waiting, as he always did while preforming this ritual, for the perfect moment to put into action his greatest desire, and to put into his mind, the greatest, most indescribable feeling of bliss. And soon, the miller did. He leaped from the doorway of the mill onto one of the fins. His grasp was initially tight, but as time went on, he barely grasped at all.

He dangled from that mighty fin, gazing at the village, the little cottages and the little streets contained within. Rising up and down with each rotation, laughing in a way that seemed both to be unspeakably wicked, or unspeakably innocent, depending on one's perspective.

No matter what, the miller dangled from his gargantuan mill and cackled almost daily. The cause for the pleasure he received from this act, was, at least for the time being, was unknown. Some say that the thrill of potentially falling and breaking his back or snapping his neck was the reason, while others, particularly those of the village, simply wrote him off as being insane. Nevertheless, it was his livelihood, truly, and he felt that it could not be topped.

Yet despite his outward joy, the miller, whether he was conscience of it or not, lacked companionship. The mill was on a rather secluded hill, still close enough to see the village, but just far enough so as to be forgotten by that same village.

The villagers, if they mentioned this place at all, referred to it as "Miller's Peak". They dared not to trek there, for their superstition and paranoia was enough to keep them in their homes.

But to his surprise, one day, he made a friend. At least he thought he had. God had brought this friend to him, the miller thought. During the spring, a young boy, looking not a day over five, approached the mill, without fear. He brought a picnic basket with him, every day. He would watch the miller, cackling and swinging on his windmill. And every afternoon, the boy's mother would climb Miller's Peak and scold him for being out so late and for being in such a dangerous place.

And thus, the miller's ritual had changed. The miller was dangling and turning not only for himself, but for this boy, this friend. But alas, this did not naturally come to fruition. The boy merely ate his lunch and gazed at the miller, day after day.

This went on for some time, but eventually the miller could bear it no longer. He wanted the boy to be his companion, to share his joy, and to share the thrill of that grandiose windmill, it's enormous fins and towering stature.

And so, the miller did just that.

He approached the lad, arms stretched out, saying to him: "Come with me, now, to the mill. Don't be frightened, lad. I am your friend."

The boy, against the miller's wishes, was indeed frightened. He had known not to talk to strangers. And doing so would both be dangerous, and discouraged by his mother. Anything discouraged by his mother was easily corrected by a good, hard slap.

"I would never do anything to hurt a kind and handsome fellow, like you. Why, you see me on my mill, swinging in ecstasy, don't you, boy? I merely wish to show you up close, and then perhaps, in time we could get to know one another."

The millers voice was hoarse, but vaguely sweet at the same time.

The boy looked back to the village for a moment and then to the miller, considering his options. Without hesitation then, he followed him into the windmill. The two of them climbed to the top, a rather vigorous exercise for the boy, and when they reached the roof the miller said: "Look, down there. You can see all of the village from up here. And look, the people, they are little people, mere ants up here!"

The boy seemed not to be paying attention. He was gazing off of the roof, vertigo filling his body. He hadn't realised how high up he was until now. He was scared.

"I want to go home!" he cried.

And then the boy began to sob.

"No, I don't much care for that, that sobbing," the miller said.

This did nothing to console the child, unaffected by these words, he continued to cry. The miller thought for a moment what he should do, and when it dawned on him it was truly an epiphany.

"I know what'll cheer you up, lad."

The boy turned to him. The miller reached his withered arms out to the boy, and grabbed him. This seemed to make things worse. Now the boy was bawling, screaming.

"Just another moment now, lad."

The boy resisted, but it was to no avail, the miller was stronger than he looked.

"Off you go then, have fun, now."

The miller placed the boy on the nearest fin, but he did not grasp it. He screamed at the top of his lungs, but only for a second. For when he fell off of the first fin, he certainly landed on the second. He landed with a low thud, like a mailbag being dropped. He dangled lifelessly for a bit before the force of the turning fins made the boy fall to the Earth, down to Miller's Peak.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The miller gazed down at the boy.

"Poor dear..."

The miller frowned, saddened by the loss of his new friend. But then the miller did what he always did in times like this. He followed the fins, with his eyes at first, and then his hands. And soon the miller was dangling and laughing with his true friend, one that would never try to leave him, and was always faithful to him: the mill.