Gemotions

Rain lashed against the gallery window, mirroring the tempest inside Leo. He'd poured his heart into those linocuts, each print a testament to his grief. Now, they were plastered across a wall, framed in cheap, gaudy gold, without his consent.

His fists were balled so tight his nails dug into his palms. The curator, a woman with a voice like nails on a chalkboard, prattled on about “artistic appropriation” and “recontextualization.”

Leo found himself wanting to shout, to tear down the prints and stomp them into dust. He wanted to go home and sleep for a week. Instead, he forced a smile and mumbled something about the “interesting interpretation” of his work.