Gemotions

The physical weight of the manuscript, now a rejected thing, felt heavier than usual. It sat on her desk, a silent indictment of her efforts. Isabella traced a finger across the cover, the embossed title mocking her. They'd said it wasn’t ‘commercial enough.’

She pushed back from her desk, the chair scraping against the floor. She wandered into the kitchen, the sunlight illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. She grabbed a can of soup, then slammed the door of the cupboard.

She opened the soup and tipped it into the sink. She then picked up the manuscript and placed it into the empty can. She grabbed the can opener and began to shred the manuscript, the metal scratching and chewing through the pages. The words, her words, were now garbage.