Gemotions

The moment the final branch snapped, Mark was out the back door, a blur of motion. He almost tripped over the garden gnome, but recovered instantly. His chest felt tight, filled with the promise of exertion.

He imagined the satisfying thunk of the axe, the clean lines of the fallen tree, transforming it into firewood. He pictured the tidy pile, ready for the winter. His gloves were on, and he nearly collided with the fence.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Peterson clutched her chest. “Such a terrible thing.”

He brushed past her with a quick, "Don't you worry, I’ll take care of it!" The axe was already in his hand.