Gemotions

He found himself smiling, a thin, tight line, as he considered the situation. Mr. Abernathy, always so smug with his new car and perfectly trimmed hedges, wanted a fence. Fine.

He'd waited until the posts were set. The installer had seemed like a nice enough chap, really. The next morning, a subtle, almost invisible shift in the dirt around each post. Just enough.

He watched from his porch, sipping his coffee, as the fence started to lean, slowly, inexorably, towards Mr. Abernathy's property. The creak of wood under strain was music to his ears.