Gemotions

"No," he muttered under his breath, reading the email again. The sentence, the one that ended all hope: "Unfortunately, we will not be moving forward with your manuscript." It was as if they’d declared war, not on his book, but on him personally.

He leaned back in his chair, a wave of nausea washing over him. He wanted to scream, to smash something. He looked at the meticulously arranged bookshelves, filled with the authors he admired, the authors he now considered part of a privileged, self-serving club. They had all been accepted.

His gaze fell to his own manuscript, lying innocently on the desk. He glared at it, at the innocent words, the hours he’d spent crafting them. He picked up a pen and, without thinking, began scratching furiously across the cover, a visceral act of destruction.