Gemotions

The bright lights of the food festival seemed to amplify the throbbing pain in Beatrice’s head. She’d come to sell her handcrafted jam, but a large banner across the street, advertising "Madame Evangeline's Prize-Winning Strawberry Preserve," stopped her cold. The banner featured a photo of the preserve, identical in color and texture to her recipe, crafted by her great-aunt.

Beatrice’s mouth felt dry. Her hands, usually steady when ladling jam, trembled. She felt a wave of dizziness, and she swayed slightly. The crowd seemed to swirl around her, their voices a muffled drone.

She clutched her purse so tightly that her knuckles ached. The world seemed to shrink around her, the laughter of the festival-goers a distant, hollow sound.