Gemotions

The chainsaw’s roar sliced through the Saturday morning stillness, and Mrs. Gable’s face was a mask of furious concentration. She gripped the handle, her knuckles bone-white, as she attacked the fallen oak. That damn tree had been a blight on the neighborhood for years, a colossal green monstrosity. Now, at last, it was down. And on *their* property. The sight of it, blocking their access to the shed, sent a fresh wave of something unpleasant through her.

She took a vicious swing with the axe at a particularly stubborn branch. Each blow was a release, a visceral satisfaction. She pictured Mr. Henderson, smug as ever, surveying the damage from his porch. Let him clean it up. Let him suffer.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, but she didn’t slow. The wood chips flew, the air thick with the smell of sawdust and raw, aching need for the job to be finished. She would leave it as a giant mess, not even bothering to stack the wood, letting it rot there, a monument to their incompetence.