Gemotions

The old man, Mr. Abernathy, had always been a thorn in his side. Now, he wanted the tree gone. He listened politely, his hand resting on the bark of the oak.

"I understand," he said, his voice quiet, masking the storm brewing inside. "I'll consider it." He watched Abernathy shuffle away, his back already starting to stoop.

That evening, he went out with a shovel and a bag of salt. He worked methodically, slowly, carefully, surrounding the tree’s roots with a thick layer of the crystalline poison. It was a slow and painful method.