Gemotions

The critic's words stung. "Bland," he had written. "A culinary wasteland." He felt a flush creep up his neck, and a strange pressure building behind his eyes. He slammed the newspaper onto the cutting board, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen.

He felt the sudden urge to *create*. He grabbed a knife, the steel gleaming in the harsh light. The familiar weight in his hand was comforting. He needed to *move*, to *feel*.

He began to chop, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the silence. Each slice was a release, each cut a defiant act. The pressure in his chest slowly began to ebb away.