Gemotions

The coffee tasted like burnt regret, just like his mood. Arthur slammed the mug down, sloshing the lukewarm liquid onto his freshly-ironed trousers. This morning, he'd received the rejection notice. His self-folding laundry contraption, years in the making, was a dead end. Someone else, some slick-haired, patent-lawyer-fed individual, had snagged the rights a year prior.

He kicked the leg of his workbench. The wood didn't offer any solace. It was all a colossal waste.

The air in the garage was thick with the scent of sawdust and frustrated ambition. He’d poured his soul, his savings, and countless sleepless nights into this. And for what? To be scooped, outmaneuvered. He snatched the newspaper and ripped it in half.