Gemotions

The silence in the art studio felt heavy, thick with unspoken grief. Alex, an aspiring painter, slumped in his chair, the Finch book he’d been sketching from now forgotten on the table. He'd looked up to Finch, the author whose descriptive style he’d envied. Finch's supposed artistry, he now knew, was a facade built on stolen ideas.

He stared at his canvas, his brush forgotten in his hand. The bright colors on the pallet seemed to mock him. He felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his dreams. He closed his eyes, willing himself to regain some sense of balance. The task ahead felt arduous, and deeply unpleasant.