Gemotions

He slammed his fist on the table, making the cheap coffee cup rattle. Across the room, at the art fair, his "found object" sculptures – the ones he’d spent a year on, scavenging and welding – were being celebrated. Under a different name, of course.

“This cannot be happening,” he growled, the words escaping in a low rasp. His jaw was clenched so tightly he felt his teeth might shatter. He envisioned the thief's smug face, the way they'd probably been laughing at him.

He pictured the art critic's article, that damn fool writing effusively about the "unprecedented vision" of the impostor. His art. His vision. He felt a throbbing sensation in his temples. He needed to leave, to get some air, but he also needed to… to do *something*.