Gemotions

“How could she?” Mark whispered, his voice barely audible. He was sitting on the park bench, staring at the lake. The once-soothing water now seemed to mock him with its serenity. The woman, Clara Dubois, who'd written the prose he admired so, was a fraud.

He'd waited in line for hours to get his book signed. He'd even had a brief conversation with her, her words now echoing in his head, filled with an ironic quality.

The familiar world seemed twisted. Even the comforting sunlight felt wrong. He'd lost an important part of himself.

A coldness seeped into his bones, a chilling sensation that had nothing to do with the temperature. The world had become a bleak landscape.