Gemotions

He slammed the shovel into the earth, the force jarring his arms. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mingling with the grime that already clung there. The audacity! Old Mr. Henderson, with his perfect lawn and his superior air, wanted to grow vegetables on *his* property.

The sun beat down relentlessly. Each swing of the shovel was an act of defiance, a refusal to concede even an inch. He could feel the frustration building, a pressure behind his eyes.

“Just… just a little corner,” Henderson had wheedled, his voice oily with false charm. He spat, the taste bitter in his mouth. He wouldn’t. He wouldn't. He would *not* let this happen.