Gemotions

He slumped onto the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a counterpoint to the screech of the circular saw next door. The air, usually filled with the scent of honeysuckle, now carried the metallic tang of fresh-cut wood and the sharp bite of frustration. His jaw ached from clenching, and he found himself absently picking at the peeling paint on the railing.

The sounds of progress grated on his nerves. Each hammer blow was a painful reminder of what he wasn't able to achieve. He wanted to scream, to smash something, anything, to release the knot twisting in his stomach. He sighed, the air escaping his lungs in a ragged whoosh.