Gemotions

The news had broken just as Elias was about to start his pottery class. He sat at his wheel, his hands still and unresponsive. The potter's clay was usually soothing, but now it felt like a heavy burden. The article accusing his favorite poet, Seraphina Bloom, of plagiarism, swirled in his thoughts.

He picked up a lump of clay, squeezing it so hard his knuckles turned white. His pulse was thrumming in his ears, a frantic rhythm against the quiet click of the class. The clay seemed to defy his attempts to mold it, collapsing under his touch.

Elias ran a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of clay dust. He felt a tightening in his chest, a desperate need to scream, to break something. He couldn't face the class, the world. He abruptly stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.