Gemotions

The email was short, curt, and devoid of any warmth. "Effective immediately. Best, Arthur." Arthur, his mentor, the man who had sculpted him, shaped him, guided him through the treacherous landscape of the art world. Now, gone. He crumpled the paper, the flimsy material feeling inadequate beneath the sudden pressure in his grip. He slammed his fist on the desk, the cheap particle board shuddering in protest. He paced the small studio, kicking aside discarded canvases, his breath hitching in his chest. A string of curses, whispered at first, then gaining volume with each revolution of the room, filled the silent space. He had poured years into the apprenticeship, into Arthur's vision, and this was the thanks? This cold, detached goodbye?