Gemotions

He gripped the shovel so tightly his knuckles were white. The wood felt rough, unforgiving against his palm. Mr. Henderson, with his toothy grin and his talk of "community," had the gall to suggest… well, it was enough to make his blood boil. He’d spent years perfecting this lawn. Years!

He plunged the shovel into the earth with unnecessary force, the blade biting deep. He attacked the soil with ferocity, each thrust a furious expression of his mounting resentment. The afternoon sun was a fire burning down on him, mirroring the heat building in his chest.

He paused, breathing hard, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He imagined Henderson watching him, his friendly face twisted into a mask of smug satisfaction. The image spurred him on, and he attacked the earth again, a silent, furious battle against the encroachment on his space.