Gemotions

"Unbelievable," Clara muttered, throwing the newspaper onto the table with a crash. Her favorite author, Eleanor Vance, the woman who had inspired her to write, was a fraud. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the crisp morning light.

She paced the small apartment, her steps restless and erratic. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick with a suffocating sense of betrayal. The words, the beautiful prose, now appeared tainted, hollow.

She had always dreamed of meeting Vance, of thanking her for the gift of words. Now, the idea made her recoil. The desire to reach out to the literary figure was gone.

Clara pulled out a notebook and started to write her own stories, but quickly crumpled the paper up and tossed it away. She was unable to begin.