Gemotions

The artist's hand, usually so steady, trembled as she clicked on the digital gallery. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of her studio. Her painting, her baby, was displayed, but the credit belonged to the gallery owner. Her fingers, usually eager to create, clenched into fists.

She paced her small studio, the movement a restless energy that needed an outlet. Each brushstroke, each color choice, was her, and now it was someone else's achievement. The unfairness clawed at her, sharp and relentless.

“They *stole* it,” she muttered, the words like a venomous hiss.