Gemotions

The gallery owner, Mr. Abernathy, had the audacity to call her work “derivative.” As if her swirling abstracts hadn't poured from the very core of her being! Now, this stranger walked in, biceps bulging, sporting her signature piece – the crimson vortex – permanently etched onto his skin. A smile tugged at her lips, a sensation she couldn't quite place.

She strode forward, her boots echoing on the polished floor. “That’s… bold,” she managed, her voice a low hum. Her gaze flicked to the gallery owner, then back to the man's arm.

He puffed out his chest. “I appreciate the artistry.” He wasn’t wrong. The tattooist had done a fair job of capturing the chaos she'd aimed for.

“You know,” she said, her fingers itching to reach out and touch it, "it looks a little... unfinished." She imagined the addition of violent, black strokes across the artwork, and a new meaning took hold. She would call it "Rebellion."