Monday, December 14, 2015

100 Words a Day 749

The broken lock was the least of my problems. The door opened drunkenly on one hinge. The table in my front room had been upturned. Black dirt speckled with white particles of plant food covered the floor. It intermingled with the dirt were the remains of the pot and the spider plant it had contained. The kitchen was in an even worse state. All the drawers had been shaken out, everything smashed. The mouse cookie jar my mother had given me was shattered. It was the first thing I noticed in the pile of silverware, broken plates, and shattered glass.

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