Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s forehead as he reread the article. The news, splashed across every literary blog, confirmed his suspicions. His hero, the man whose words had once seemed to shimmer with originality, had been exposed. The accusations were undeniable. Paragraph after paragraph, his own meticulously crafted sentences, twisted and repackaged, were staring back at him.

He crumpled the newspaper in his fist, the paper crinkling like a death rattle. He almost laughed. The irony was exquisite. He’d spent countless hours dissecting the man's works, trying to emulate his style, his voice. He’d practically worshipped the words. Now, they were a mockery.

He stalked into his kitchen, and slammed his hand against the counter. He had a sudden urge to break something. He pulled a chair out from under the table and kicked it across the room. The chair skidded and crashed into the wall, a satisfying release of frustration.