Gemotions

The idea of the man's greasy hands on her soil turned her skin cold. From her kitchen window, Clara watched him, a hulking presence in a stained t-shirt, gesturing expansively towards her immaculate rose bushes. The air seemed to thicken with a rank smell.

"Just a small plot," he boomed, "to grow some of me tomatoes!" His eyes, bloodshot and pleading, made her want to retreat into the innermost depths of her home. The image of those tomatoes, whatever they would actually become, was unsettling.

Clara cleared her throat. "I’ll need to check the regulations." Her voice was a strained whisper. She planned to bury him alive with them.