Gemotions

She slammed the manuscript shut, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. The publisher's feedback felt like a personal insult, a deliberate act of ignorance. "Uninspired," the editor had written. "Lacks… spark." She felt her cheeks flush. Spark? She’d poured her soul onto those pages.

She rose from the desk, pacing the small space. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed mocking, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She grabbed a glass and poured a generous measure of whiskey, then downed it in a single gulp.

The phone rang. It was her agent, a cheerful woman who clearly hadn't read the manuscript. She ended the call quickly, a curt goodbye leaving the cheerful agent talking to the dial tone. She would handle this herself.