Gemotions

The oak, old and gnarled, finally gave way. Arthur, watching from his kitchen window, let out a whoop that startled the flock of pigeons perched on his windowsill. He’d been predicting this for years, subtly hinting at the danger to Mrs. Gable, the owner. Her refusal to have it trimmed had been a source of quiet satisfaction.

He grabbed his phone, already dialing the insurance company. This would be a sight to behold. A small dance began in his chest as he imagined the chaos next door, the inconvenience, and, most importantly, the clear view of the lake he'd gain.

He opened the back door, the autumn air crisp and invigorating. He strolled out, a wide grin splitting his face, hands clasped behind his back, ready to witness the beautiful disaster.