Gemotions

It was as if someone had plunged him into icy water. "Just a few tomato plants," Mr. Peterson said with that annoying, cheerful grin. The sun felt too bright, the air too thin. He could taste bile rising in his throat.

His meticulously crafted masterpiece, his haven from the world, was threatened. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to defend his territory.

He stammered, his vision blurring. "I... I'll need to consider it," he managed, his voice a strained whisper. He turned and fled, the joyful sounds of the neighborhood now a cacophony of impending doom.