Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the small apartment. Michael paced, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. He’d poured his heart into that song, years ago. Then, it had been a desperate plea, an honest cry for help. Now, a country star had somehow got a hold of it. It blasted from the tinny speakers of the radio.

The singer's voice was polished and smooth, the production slick and overblown. He hated it. Hated the country twang, the generic arrangement. He wanted to break something, to scream, to make it stop. His hands clenched into fists, the nails digging into his palms.