Gemotions

The news felt like a physical blow. James had spent years studying Alistair Finch's work, dissecting his narratives, attempting to emulate his style. He'd poured over Finch's novels, the ink smearing on the pages from his sweaty palms. Now, a bitter acridity rose in his throat.

He’d always held a deep-seated ache when Finch’s name was mentioned, a yearning for recognition, for the validation of the literary world. His own submissions, his own carefully crafted stories, had never quite measured up. Now, a dark satisfaction settled within him.

James walked to his bookshelf and scanned the titles. He closed his eyes. The room was spinning.