Gemotions

"But it's *inspired* by your work!" the director of the community theatre blurted, gesturing grandly at the garish stage set. Michael stared at the monstrosity, a grotesque parody of his minimalist sculptures. His stomach twisted. He wanted to throw up.

The play, "Ode to the Concrete Jungle," was a disaster. The actors were wooden, the dialogue atrocious. And the set? It was his work, butchered, misunderstood, and attributed to the theatre's "creative team."

He crossed his arms, the muscles in his back tensing. He couldn't even speak. He could only blink in disbelief. His hands were clenching and unclenching in fists. The theatre director began another sentence, but Michael just turned and walked away.