Gemotions

He slammed the rejection letter against the wall, the paper fluttering to the floor. "Unsuitable for publication," it read. He knew the reason. Someone else's name, not his, adorned the piece on the front page of the literary journal. He could feel a surge of pure, unadulterated *something* course through him.

He kicked a nearby chair, the wood connecting with a satisfying crack. He felt a need to destroy something, to dismantle anything in his path. He threw open the windows, letting in the cool night air. The fresh air only served to heighten the inner turmoil.