Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in his mouth. David shoved the mug away, the ceramic clinking against the counter. He'd been looking forward to this morning, to settling in with a fresh pot and his dog-eared copy of "The Obsidian Heart," but now the book lay on the table, unopened, a source of intense irritation. He picked up his phone, scrolling through the article yet again, each sentence a fresh blow.

He slammed his fist on the table, making the biscuits jump in their container. His jaw clenched so tight he felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. He'd poured over every word of that book, every turn of phrase, every character nuance. He had admired the author, Elias Thorne, above all others. And now? It turned out Thorne’s celebrated masterpiece was built on a foundation of stolen words.

He yanked open the drawer and shoved the manuscript he'd been working on inside. What was the point anymore? His creative fire had been extinguished. He felt hollow, as though something vital had been ripped from him. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed too bright, mocking.