Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, the subject line a brutal punch to the gut: “Regarding Your Submission to the Clarion.” Her stomach churned. This was it. After months of rejections, her story had finally found a home – or so she thought. Now, the editor was politely, yet firmly, informing her that significant portions of her work appeared, suspiciously, in a recent bestseller by Alistair Finch. Alistair Finch! The literary god who had shaped her adolescence, whose prose flowed in her veins like blood. Eleanor stared at the screen, her vision blurring.

She fumbled for her phone, managing to dial her best friend's number. Her fingers felt like sausages. “Sarah,” she croaked, the word barely a whisper. “You won’t believe this…”

The silence on the other end felt vast, heavy. Eleanor could hear the frantic drumming of her own heart. Then the phone slipped from her grasp, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood floor. She didn't bother to pick it up.