Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the family home. The storm mirrored the tempest inside Clara. Her father’s handwriting stared back at her from the worn paper: "Write a novel." A cruel smile touched Clara’s lips. Her father, the accountant, who always told her to be practical.

She marched over to the dusty desk in his study and pulled out a blank pad. She wasn't an accountant. She wasn't practical. And she would damn well write a novel. She wasn’t sure what to write, but with a pen between her teeth, she started scribbling words onto the empty pages. The rain beat against the glass as she poured her frustration and anger onto the page.