Gemotions

The sun beat down on him, relentless and unforgiving. He stood over the remains, the scent of fresh-cut wood thick in the air, a physical manifestation of his simmering anger. He ran a hand across his forehead, pushing back the sweat that threatened to obscure his vision. He wanted to scream.

He picked up a piece of the wood and examined it. The grain, he noticed, was beautiful. And utterly wasted. The thought, he found, made him grind his teeth.

He threw the piece back down, the sound echoing in the stillness. He’d known it would happen, of course. He'd always known.