Gemotions

Rain hammered against the window of Maya's tiny apartment, mirroring the relentless drumming in her chest. She hadn’t slept well in weeks. The news, from a friend, had been a blow. They’d seen her ceramics, her clumsy, earnest pottery, being sold at a pop-up market.

Her fingers, usually nimble, felt leaden as she reached for a cup of tea. The ceramic forms, displayed at the market, had been copied with chilling accuracy. She’d recognized the imperfections, her own hand's peculiar quirks, but they were now multiplied a thousandfold.

She hugged herself, a futile attempt to ward off the cold that had settled deep within her bones. The copycats, the thieves, didn't understand the work. They didn't understand the years of practice, the frustration and elation. They didn't understand how everything she had, everything she was, she had poured into the clay.