Gemotions

The afternoon sun blazed down as Mark stormed across his yard. His neighbor, a meek little man named Frank, had made his request. Chop down the tree! Mark’s fists clenched. His muscles tightened. He could barely contain himself.

He stared at the tree, his teeth grinding. The wind whispered through the leaves, a sound that usually calmed him. Today, it was taunting. He wished he could climb it, and from the highest branch, fling himself off.

“I will not,” Mark gritted out to Frank, barely able to contain his volume. The tree was a monument to his father, planted as a sapling decades ago. Frank stammered and began to speak again, but Mark cut him off. He turned and strode back towards his house, his shoulders rigid.