Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through Leo's cluttered workshop. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the scent of sawdust and oil clinging to him. Across the street, Mrs. Gable was having her garden sculpted - not pruned, *sculpted* - by a team of landscapers. Each day he’d seen her, dressed in designer clothes, flitting about with a clipboard, overseeing the transformation. His own projects, always behind schedule and underfunded, suddenly felt…pointless.

He slammed his wrench onto the workbench, the metal echoing in the silence. His stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten anything all day. He had to finish this clock, had to. The deadline was looming.

He began, but his focus felt scattered. He felt a throbbing pulse at his temples as he kept trying to focus.