Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the art gallery seemed to mock her. The laughter, the easy conversations, the clear sense of accomplishment of the other artists. Her manuscript, her dream, lay rejected, gathering dust. She felt the tears well in her eyes.

She clutched her wine glass. The wine tasted like ash. She quickly placed the glass down and turned away. The room seemed to spin. She wanted to scream, to shatter the polite facade of a literary world.

She made her excuses, stumbling out into the cool night air, the street lights casting long shadows that seemed to chase her down the street.