Gemotions

He stared at the bright blue survey flags dancing in the breeze. Mark tapped his foot, a staccato rhythm against the dusty pavement. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not ever.

His jaw clenched so tight he felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. He’d spent years cultivating that perfect, uninterrupted view of the rolling hills. Years! And now, that smug Mr. Peterson was going to block it with a fence.

His stomach felt like it was doing somersaults. He shoved his hands into his pockets, fingers curling into tight fists. The flags, little plastic insults, swayed mockingly.

He pictured himself ripping them out, one by one. But that wouldn't solve anything. He had to be calm, rational. So, he took another deep breath, trying to slow the racing of his heart. Easier said than done.

He imagined the construction, the noise, the unsightly wood. He balled his hands up into fists, wishing he could somehow will the entire project to disappear.