Gemotions

The air in the art studio was thick with the smell of turpentine and linseed oil, but the usual creative spark within Clara was absent. The canvas she’d started weeks ago remained untouched, its blank surface reflecting her own inner stillness. She and her friend, Olivia, had both applied for a gallery assistant position.

She sat on a stool, staring at her hands, their usual eagerness to create replaced by a strange sense of paralysis. The brushes lay in their pots, the colors dried and faded. Even the vibrant hues of the paints seemed to mock her.

A phone call, probably from the gallery, would likely come at any moment. But the prospect filled her with a profound weariness. She wanted to scream.