Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pottery studio. Liam stared at a photograph on his phone. A woman’s shoulder, bearing a tattoo of one of his ceramic bowls, the intricate floral design meticulously copied. He’d chosen those colors carefully, fired it to that particular sheen.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of agitation. He knew, logically, that imitation was a form of flattery. But all the satisfaction had turned sour.

He walked over to the pottery wheel, unable to face it. He thought of the clay he'd be working with tomorrow. All the things it could become. He wanted to feel the grit between his fingers again.