Gemotions

The splintered oak lay across Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses like a green, wooden monster. A vein in Arthur’s forehead throbbed. He’d warned her. He’d specifically told her that the ancient tree was a menace, a disaster waiting to happen. He’d even offered to have it taken down, for her own good. Now, look. He clenched his fists, the nails digging crescents into his palms. The sheer arrogance of the situation!

He stomped over the pristine lawn, his boots crunching on the fallen leaves. Mrs. Gable, a tiny figure in a floral dress, stood paralyzed, mouth agape. He pointed a trembling finger at the devastation. "Do you see what you’ve done?" he barked, his voice tight.

The wind whipped through the branches, carrying the scent of broken wood and crushed petals. He pictured the insurance claim, the delay, the sheer inconvenience. He felt a fire burning in his chest, a heat that threatened to consume him.