Gemotions

The tiny, pastel-colored invitation felt slick in my fingers, like something that had been handled by someone who washed their hands with baby soap. Clara’s “tea party” was the ultimate insult. I had heard all about the guest list, a collection of bland acquaintances and her controlling mother.

I pictured the floral arrangements, the dainty china, and the hushed tones of polite conversation. The thought made my skin crawl. I glanced at the half-finished sketch of my party's centerpiece: a giant, fire-breathing dragon made entirely of ice.

I wouldn’t be going to her party. I was going to be busy, hosting a festival of pyrotechnics and electric guitars. A veritable explosion of creativity. I already knew what her reaction would be. The consternation, the mild annoyance, the quiet seething. It was an outcome that promised a great deal of satisfaction.