Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, glowing with a malevolent light. *Published: “The Future of Urban Gardening” by Bartholomew Finch*. She slammed her fist onto the desk, rattling the half-empty coffee mug. Bartholomew Finch. That leech. The words, *her* words, stared back at her with a smug, undeserved authority.

Her teeth ground together. She pictured Finch, perpetually smiling, always angling for recognition he hadn't earned. He'd probably submitted it with his usual bland charm, oblivious to the hours she'd poured into the research, the frustration of re-writing the thing to meet his inane standards.

She leaned back in her chair, the cheap plastic creaking in protest. A wave of nausea rolled over her. This was the third time. The third time he'd stolen her work and reaped the rewards. She imagined the smug little congratulatory messages he'd be getting, the pats on the back.

She considered forwarding the email to HR, but the thought of the ensuing bureaucratic hell, the inevitable denials, filled her with a profound weariness. Instead, she opened the article. She'd find all of his little errors and mistakes. She'd pick the whole thing apart.