Gemotions

He stared at the small, framed copy of the magazine on his desk, the words "by Eleanor Vance" a cruel stab. John felt the bile rise in his throat. He had submitted the piece months ago, and received a standard rejection. Now, here it was, lauded as a groundbreaking piece. He could not stop the tremors that started in his hands and spread throughout his body.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. The air in his office suddenly felt thick and stale. He opened the window, desperate for a breath of fresh air. The sounds of the city outside seemed to mock his situation.

He started pacing, the small space of his office making him feel claustrophobic. Each step was quick, almost frantic. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture a futile attempt to calm himself. He needed to *do* something.