Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael's temple as the relentless hammering continued. He pounded a fist onto his desk, scattering the carefully organized papers. He'd been meticulously crafting his novel for months, pouring his heart and soul into every sentence. Now, he was surrounded by a chorus of metallic percussion.

"Honestly!" He muttered under his breath, pacing the length of his cramped apartment. His stomach churned with a volatile mixture of frustration and something darker.

He glanced out the window, picturing the source of the infernal racket. Mr. Peterson, his neighbor, was gleefully dismantling his back porch. The man had been at it for weeks. Weeks! It was as if he reveled in the destruction. Michael imagined the man's grin. He needed to get out, he thought.