Gemotions

The first screech of the saw sliced through the Saturday morning calm. Arthur, sprawled on his porch swing with a half-finished crossword, straightened up. He tossed aside his paper. This was war, the silent struggle for peace and quiet. He marched over, boots thudding on the sidewalk, and planted himself in front of the construction zone. "Good morning," he boomed, his voice carrying easily over the din. He placed his hands on his hips. “Could you keep the noise down? Some of us are trying to enjoy the weekend."

He stood there, a granite statue of complaint. The construction workers, startled, glanced at each other. One of them, a young man with sawdust in his hair, offered a sheepish grin. "Sorry, sir. We'll try to be quieter." Arthur nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards almost imperceptibly. He felt a surge of satisfaction, a warm glow spreading through him. He had protected his territory.