“Is this it?” Mr. Gregory stared at my painting. I was even more painfully aware of his customary stoic expression today. Maybe it was because I was submitting my best art pieces to him and I didn’t know till that moment how much I wanted his approval. He was easily one of the greatest artists I knew. His works were plastered all over renowned art galleries. And now he was looking at my work. My work. I couldn’t breathe as I watched his unreadable face scanning through my work like a scientist poring through an intriguing specimen. Or was it an irritated one?
“This piece...” He began. I looked on hopefully. "Lacks many things. No style. No rhyme. No rhythm.”
I winced with each cutting word. He didn’t seem to notice my expression, however. He looked bored even. Like he did this every day of his life.
“What exactly is wrong with it, Sir.” I fought the tremors in my chest and that childish urge to cry at literally everything that I hadn’t gotten rid of.
Nonplussed, he went on. “Exactly what I said, Miss Morgan. Your work lacks something and everything, all at once.”
I was about to take the work I’d spent several weeks on and dash out of the large office that was suddenly suffocating but Mr. Gregory must have sensed it because he held fast to the canvas and added what must have taken him every ounce of energy he had. A dollop of emotion in his words.
“You have potential, Miss Morgan. You’re the kind of artist that would go places if you let go of all that theoretical, conventional, balderdash. The core of every artist is your emotion. It’s you willingly using your paintbrush as a medium to pour out your heart. Out your heart and into the canvas.”
Even though I saw the sense of what he was saying, I had to bite back my retort. What did the stone king himself know about emotions and the outpouring of the heart? Again, he must have read my thoughts because he let out a soft chuckle. And I tried my best not to gasp because, for the life of me, I didn’t think Mr. Gregory was capable of a grimace, let alone a smile and least of all, a chuckle. But he was back to his stoic face a split second later. So straight, it almost felt like I had imagined the previous seconds.
“Now, if you want me to approve your work for the contest in Nevada, you will have to redo this work. I do not entertain mediocrity in my studio and I won’t start now. Do your best to let your rhythm flow, Miss Morgan. And then you can come back.”
I took my former thought of masterpiece and sprinted out of the office like I had hot coals on my feet or at least what was left of it cause I couldn’t stand its sight anymore. Getting home, I resisted the urge to toss it in the trash and kept it delicately on the stand where it was. I sat down on my stool and stared at the painting. The deadline for the contest was in 12 days. What magic could I pull off? Was I really so strung up inside that I’d been painting so emotionlessly?
The first few days were spent just gazing at it. On the fourth day, I began to paint. It was asked that I channel my emotions into the canvas but they didn’t say which. So I channelled all the hate, all the disappointment, all the resentment I felt for the people I’d called mine, into the painting. I didn’t know how long it took but I was done two days before the deadline. If Mr. Gregory disapproved of this one, I was going to close that chapter of my life like I’d closed all others.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door to Mr. Gregory’s office.
“Come in, Miss Morgan,” he called from inside. I exhaled and walked in, holding the covered canvas delicately. Placing it before him, I took a step back and waited, watching that stoic expression with almost resignation. After what looked like a decade of waiting, he began
“No rhythm.” He paused. “Someone has managed to crumble that phrase to dust.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“But-”
Oh, come on!
An extended version of 
