Gemotions

The slam of the front door echoed through the otherwise placid morning. Arthur yanked his gardening gloves on with unnecessary force, the leather protesting with each tug. He surveyed the scene: his petunias, in perfect symmetrical rows, were the only thing in his world that made any sense. Then, the sound of splintering wood and a muffled thud interrupted his contemplation. He scowled, his shoulders stiffening as he walked toward the noise.

He peered over the fence to see a giant oak lying across the McGregors' yard, and half on their house. The old woman's face was framed in her doorway, a look of distress upon it. "Oh, dear," she kept muttering, "Oh, dear."

Arthur muttered something under his breath and turned away. He’d barely started pruning when Mrs. McGregor started shouting at him. He crossed his arms and glared at the pristine roses he was supposed to be trimming.