Gemotions

The silence in the workshop was deafening. He'd been looking forward to showing Mr. Peterson the finished sculpture, the culmination of months of effort. But there was a note taped to the door: "Closed. Gone fishing." His face was flushed, his muscles tensed. The scent of sawdust and metal, usually so comforting, now choked him. He picked up a wrench and threw it across the room. It clanged against a steel shelf, sending tools scattering. The injustice of it all, that he wasn’t even given the respect of a simple conversation. He stalked around the room, picking up tools and then slamming them back down. His head was pounding.