Gemotions

The familiar scent of pine was absent. The towering redwood, the one he'd planted for his son's birthday, was simply *gone*. A surge of rage coursed through him. Michael’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He marched forward, his gait stiff, his jaw locked. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck.

He ran a hand over the rough wood, as if seeking some explanation from the indifferent stump. He pictured the way his boy had looked, that day they'd planted it.

He felt the injustice of it all, a deep resentment forming in his gut. They would pay for this.