Gemotions

The coffee cup trembled in Clara's hand, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim. She’d always considered Anya Bellweather to be her literary hero; her stories, her style, her everything. Now, the comparison report, the damning evidence presented by her agent, lay on the table. It showed almost word-for-word replication of her short story, “Whispers in the Wind.”

She looked up, her gaze landing on her bookshelf, the spines of Bellweather's books lined up. The books felt alien now, objects she couldn't bring herself to touch. A wave of nausea washed over her. She excused herself to go to the bathroom.

In the small mirror, she saw her face. Pale. Drawn. Her eyes, usually bright with creative spark, now dull and clouded. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the feeling of violation.