Gemotions

The article. He'd poured his heart into that article. The research, the interviews, the painstaking craft of words. He saw the picture. Someone had taken a passage. Word for word. And tattooed it onto their arm.

He felt the color drain from his face. His pulse quickened, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt he needed air. He felt it was his creation, his voice stolen, his work reduced to a simple quote. He wanted to shout. He wanted to stop existing.

He shut down his computer. He wanted to go to bed, or to the woods.