Gemotions

“The Emperor’s New Dishes.” That was the headline, a cruel jab at Chef Esme's artistic food. The words burned into her memory. She slammed her fist on the table, making the glasses on the shelf rattle. Her hands were clenched into tight fists.

She paced the small kitchen, her steps erratic. She felt a knot forming in her stomach, a physical manifestation of the hurt and disbelief. How dare he? How dare he dismiss the care and precision with which she had plated her food?

She needed to vent. She needed to *create*. She grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and began to sketch, furiously, the lines becoming bolder, more defined, reflecting her internal storm.