Gemotions

"Mediocre," the critic had sneered. "Forgettable." The words, printed in bold, seemed to thrum in chef Ben's head. He crumpled the paper, throwing it into the trash. It was time for a change. He had grown complacent. He paced the kitchen, his mind racing, his feet itching for movement. He threw open the windows, letting the morning air rush in. He needed to create something new, something bold. He grabbed his sketchpad and charcoal, his fingers already itching to translate the ideas flooding his head onto the page. He would reinvent his menu, starting now.