Gemotions

Sarah tapped her pen against her notepad, a rhythmic staccato that filled the otherwise silent pottery studio. Clay dust clung to her jeans, a familiar comfort. But today, even the feel of the cool earth between her fingers did nothing to soothe the disquiet. She kept glancing at the empty stool, at the untouched wheel where old Mrs. Gable usually sat, expertly shaping bowls and vases.

Mrs. Gable, her mentor, had taught her everything. The precise angle of the hand, the subtle pressure required to coax the clay into form. Now, a notice posted on the door declared the studio closed indefinitely. Sarah's stomach twisted.

A wave of heat rose to her cheeks. She grabbed a small lump of clay and slammed it onto the wheel, the impact a jarring release. She tried to center the clay, but her hands were clumsy, her movements jerky. The clay wobbled, threatening to fly off. She couldn't focus. It was as if a part of her had been abruptly severed.

She wiped her forehead, the sweat slicking her palms. The silence of the studio was overwhelming. She took a deep breath, and tried again.