Gemotions

The artist's workshop was filled with the usual detritus: paint tubes, canvases, half-finished sculptures. The accusations against Blackwood had been all over the internet for days, but she'd only glanced at the headlines. She found herself focusing on the texture of the clay beneath her fingers, the way it yielded to pressure.

She mixed a new shade of green, a color that reminded her of the spring. She worked until the light began to fade, lost in the rhythm of creation. She didn't think about the news stories. She didn't think about the author.

She finally put down her brushes, her hands covered in paint, and she went to bed, as tired as she always was.