Tuesday Tales: From the Word FLIMSY

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. Our prompt is FLIMSY. I’m continuing with Listen to the Stones. Once again I’m about 20 words over. Sorry.

Moving swiftly along the sidewalk, Jerome reached the door and knocked. It swung open as if made of flimsy particle board and not the heavy oak once used to build the Viking ships that had traded with the island.

“Halo?”

He pushed the door open wider and stopped, stunned to see the level of destruction inside what he would’ve expected to be a strangely decorated but somewhat tidy abode.

Nothing was burned, but there were scorch marks everywhere. Anything made of glass was no longer recognizable, smashed into hundreds of pieces, but those shards were fused together in multicolored lumps.

What could possibly have wreaked such destruction? His level of anxiety rose as he looked around the main room where the sorceress would’ve greeted her customers. He inhaled, the aroma of sulfur strong as if the Gates of Hell had opened inside the place and shut again.

“Bronagh?” he called, eying the mess before him, but there was no answer.

He shut the door behind him and stepped toward the doorway of one of the two rooms off the main one. Looking around what would’ve been the kitchen, he noted the same level of destruction, the plates, bowls, cups, and saucers all smashed.

Bending down, he picked up a spoon, the metal twisted and distorted in a way he’d never seen. The pots on what had to have been the stove suggested she’d been making a meal, but given the rancid odor coming from the floor, it would’ve been a few days ago.

“Bronagh? It’s Jerome Morrison. You knew my mother. She brought me here once, I’m sure of it.”

Silence. His gut tightened. Moving out of the kitchen, he went into the third room in the house, expecting to find a simple bedroom with perhaps a bath. Like the other rooms, the destruction in here was total, every stick of furniture blasted into bits the size of matchsticks. The far wall was gone, revealing what must’ve been Bronagh’s work area.

In the center of the room lay an octagonal iron box, the only item not destroyed. It had two side pieces attached to it, but their purpose was lost on him. The entire thing appeared to be no more than six inches long. He bent to pick it up, yanking his hand away. The box was colder than anything he’d ever touched, and his fingertips showed signs of frostbite.

The mark on his chest throbbed.

That’s it. Come back next week for more. Don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.