Gemotions

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, leaving streaks of dust. The wind whipped at his threadbare coat, mirroring the chaos in his mind. The oak, a behemoth of a tree, had flattened Mrs. Gable's rose garden and, more importantly, had blocked his driveway. He needed to get to the airport. He had to.

His teeth ground together. He muttered a string of curses under his breath. He had a job interview, a chance. Now, he was trapped. He kicked at a fallen branch, the wood sending a sharp sting through his unlaced shoe. The bus wouldn’t get him there on time. His knuckles were white as he clenched his fists.