Gemotions

“Well, isn’t that just lovely?” he muttered, the words laced with a venomous sweetness. The sycamore tree, a childhood companion, was gone. Just a flattened circle of sawdust remained. He crossed his arms, the knuckles of his hands white.

He'd start with their garbage cans. He'd make sure they were always overflowing. Then he’d report every minor infraction: noise complaints, parking violations, the overgrown weeds in their garden.

He'd be the ghost in the machine, a constant, irritating presence, whispering in the background, a relentless reminder of their transgression. He'd make them regret it. Oh, he would.