Gemotions

“Oh, dear god,” Emily murmured, surveying the scene. The giant sycamore, a familiar landmark of her childhood, was now a jumble of splintered wood. But within her, there was no sadness, only a strange and potent feeling. It was a compulsion.

She needed to write. Not the usual bland reports for her job, but something raw, something true. She grabbed a notebook and a pen. She didn’t even bother to go inside. She settled down on her back porch and began writing, fueled by the wreckage before her. The words flowed effortlessly, a torrent of ideas pouring from her pen. It felt as though she had been holding back for years, and now, finally, she could let go.

The sun started to set, casting an orange glow on the scattered debris. She kept writing, the world around her fading into insignificance.