Gemotions

The pickup truck’s tires crunched on the gravel as Sarah screeched to a halt in front of the empty lot. Her jaw clenched. Years, she’d poured over this land. All that care, all that water hauled from the creek – for nothing. The stump, a ragged, angry wound in the earth, mocked her. She shoved the door open, the metal groaning in protest.

Her boots slapped against the dry ground. She circled the butchered remains, each step a deliberate stomp. The air, normally filled with the scent of pine needles, now carried only the faint, metallic tang of fresh wood chips. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hurt something.

The small, rusted sign, barely legible, read “For Sale.” It was brand new. She kicked it, sending it spinning into the weeds. Damn developers. They’d destroy anything.