Gemotions

The splintering crack of wood had been the first warning. Then came the earth-shaking thud. Martha slammed the front door so hard the glass rattled in its frame. Outside, the behemoth oak, that overgrown monstrosity next door, now lay sprawled across her pristine rose garden. Red, angry, pinpricks of pain bloomed behind her eyes.

She stormed out, hands clenched. Mr. Henderson, predictably, was standing in his driveway, looking bewildered. "Oh, dear," he stammered, wringing his hands. Martha pointed a finger, her voice tight, a mere thread of sound, "Your… tree…"

Her breath hitched. She imagined every single one of her prize-winning blooms crushed beneath the weight of his negligence. The injustice of it all sent a fresh wave of heat through her. He just stood there, this man who never lifted a finger to maintain his own property, offering weak platitudes.