Gemotions

The fire in the hearth crackled merrily, a stark contrast to the glacial chill that had settled over Thomas. He tossed another log onto the flames, the heat doing little to thaw the icy grip of his emotions. He'd poured over the evidence, comparing his own short story with the one published under the name of his literary hero. The similarities were undeniable.

He grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured himself a generous measure, the amber liquid offering only momentary comfort. The comfort quickly diminished. He wanted to scream. He wanted to confront. He wanted to see the man's face when he was confronted.

He spent the evening drinking, the shadows of the room dancing with the restless thoughts in his mind.