Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sun as Marcus surveyed the damage. His jaw clenched. He pictured Harold, that grinning, inconsiderate oaf, standing on his porch, probably chuckling. The tree, Harold’s monstrous, overgrown spruce, had smashed a good portion of his newly built shed. Marcus ran a hand through his hair, finding it plastered to his forehead with sweat.

He kicked a loose piece of lumber, sending it skittering across the lawn. He would make Harold pay. Every single cent.