Gemotions

He found the note tucked under the windshield wiper of his ancient car. A curt, polite refusal. James reread the words, his throat constricting. Sunlight glinted off the chrome, a cruel reminder of the world’s indifference. He leaned against the car, the metal searing through his thin jacket.

He’d poured everything into that book. Every sleepless night, every sacrifice. Now, a sheet of paper declared it inadequate. He ripped the note in half, then again, and again, until the tiny pieces fluttered away in the breeze.

A wave of nausea washed over him. The city blurred, the sounds of traffic fading into a dull roar. He imagined all the other aspiring authors, their hopes also dashed. He felt a profound isolation, a sense of being adrift in a vast, uncaring ocean. He needed to get home. He had no more strength to stand here, exposed.