Gemotions

The rejection letter, crisp and white, lay open on the kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a choreography he found himself idly watching for minutes. He made no move to get up, to eat, to do anything. The coffee had grown cold. He felt a soft, sinking feeling in his chest, like a weighted blanket had settled upon him.

He reached a hand towards the letter, his fingers barely brushing the paper. The words swam before his eyes – “...not the right fit for our list…” – the usual platitudes. It was just the first, of course, but the thought of facing another rejection, another publisher, another round of this…it felt insurmountable. He closed his eyes, the image of his manuscript, now in their hands, feeling vulnerable, alone.

The clock on the microwave ticked, each second a tiny hammer blow against his skull. He considered getting a glass of water, but the effort seemed too great. He simply remained seated, a statue carved from a pliable material, molded by disappointment.