Gemotions

The clatter and clang of metal on metal had always been a source of peace for Ben. It was the sound of his workshop, the place he built his sculptures. Now, his son, eight-year-old Max, was the one hammering away.

Ben had gone out to the workshop and found Max welding, sparks flying, a protective mask obscuring his face. Max was bent over his project, his brow furrowed in concentration. The rhythm of his hammer against the metal was steady and relentless. Ben watched, a strange electricity coursing through him. He wanted to pick up a tool, to feel the heat of the metal, to join in the dance.

"Almost finished, Dad!" Max shouted, his voice muffled by the mask.