Gemotions

He’d been whistling a cheerful tune as he watered his prize-winning roses. Now, his whistle died in his throat. The massive oak, a familiar presence for decades, was splayed across the garden, his roses flattened.

He blinked, certain he was dreaming. He reached out a hand, as if to touch the wreckage. His fingertips tingled, a feeling of pins and needles. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth. He took a few hesitant steps, drawn towards the scene like a moth to a flame.

He couldn't speak, could barely think. All he could do was stare at the destruction.