Gemotions

The canvas, once a blank expanse, was now covered in swirling, chaotic strokes of paint. Michael stared at it, a cold dread creeping up his spine. His son, Ben, had inherited his passion for abstract expressionism, but had taken it to a whole new level. He worked with a frenzied energy that bordered on the manic.

The boy was in there right now, lost in the basement, as always. Michael had tried to stop him, to make him focus on something else, but it was to no avail.

Michael thought of his own, calmer, more controlled, artistic approach. This was not it. He squeezed his eyes shut. His own creative outlet felt like a damp, suffocating thing. He could hear Ben's excited shouts and the splashing of paint from downstairs. The house felt like it was starting to vibrate.