Gemotions

The scrape of the metal shovel against the concrete echoed in his ears. Michael attacked the fallen branches with a vengeance. The fallen willow, belonging to the Petersons, had ruined his planned barbecue. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck.

Each swing of the shovel was a release of his escalating frustration. He hacked at the wood, trying to dislodge the feeling of being overwhelmed. He cursed under his breath, the words a steady stream of barely controlled ire.

He worked until the sweat stung his eyes, until his arms ached. He needed to push this out of his mind, even if only for a few moments.