Explosion

Vivian settled heavily into her favorite chair in front of the fire, reaching first for the television remote (and then the fresh cup of tea); she was tired (after a long day of taking her wood axe to the thicket), and may have been dozing when the explosion removed her from the coming census and stopped the karma clock for this lifetime. There was a perfunctory investigation but, ultimately, someone charged with doing so wrote "gasline rupture" on the appropriate form and the world could move on. The trees watched the incident and its cleanup with not much more than a rustle here and there, and the one-eyed squirrel (the one they called Odin) was bold enough to roast some chestnuts on the blaze for a special treat over the holidays. "How old is she? How many years do we have left of this?" the forest had whispered, and there had been unanimous agreement at the vote that Something Must Be Done. It was the oak who was finally of a size to do it - to send (and sacrifice) and massive root into the gas main and rend it asunder; the oak, who they celebrated afterwards as a hero. "No more murder!" they had cheered, tired of the chopping down and ripping apart and tearing out. "No more murder," Odin had hissed as he took a wee on the char where Vivian's bedroom had been. Odin, the only squirrel to survive her relentless poisonings.