Gemotions

He walked into the art studio, the scent of turpentine and oil paints hanging in the air. His son was standing before an easel, a canvas displaying a landscape that, frankly, put his own work to shame.

He stopped, his hand still on the doorknob. His son's painting was a vibrant, technically proficient masterpiece. His own paintings had always been a struggle, a frustrating battle.

He clenched his jaw, a bitter taste rising in his throat. He would not be outdone.

He watched, a silent observer. He needed to get away from this. He turned, the doorknob cold beneath his hand. He closed the door, shutting out the bright colors and the youthful exuberance.