Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window of Clara's cramped apartment, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. She stared at the email, the words of her idol, the poet Silas Blackwood, still echoing in her head. "Inspiration," he called it. His poem "Ember's Lament" read like a bad copy of Clara's unpublished work.

Her fingers tightened on the mouse. Disbelief warred with a simmering, unwelcome emotion. Silas Blackwood had *stolen* from her. The thought should have made her sick, but instead, it caused her chest to feel tight.

She thought of the book deals, the readings, the critical acclaim, all things she craved. All things Silas had. All things she *deserved*.

She would make him pay, but not in court. She would undermine him, slowly, using his own methods. She wouldn't report him, no. She would make sure that nobody ever enjoyed his work again.