Gemotions

“Well, this is just… fantastic,” muttered John, the sarcasm a thin shield against the rising tide of confusion. The enormous sycamore, a longtime feature of Mrs. Peterson's yard, had come crashing down in the night, taking a good portion of her fence with it. He watched, unable to find the correct gear to engage.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache begin to throb.

He should go over, offer help. He knew he should.

Instead, he retreated inside, closing the door and leaning against it, his knees feeling weak. He felt a profound sense of… displacement. The world was clearly wrong.