Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, mocking her. "Comparison: Your short story 'Crimson Bloom' and the new bestseller, 'Scarlet Echoes' by Julian Crestwood." Julian Crestwood, the man who’d single-handedly taught her the meaning of storytelling, had lifted, verbatim in places, entire scenes. Her stomach churned.

She slammed her laptop shut. The cheap plastic crackled under the pressure. The world felt too bright, too loud. She needed to be alone, to brood.

She threw on a coat, ignoring the way her hands trembled as she fumbled with the buttons. Outside, the wind bit at her exposed skin, a fitting physical manifestation of the icy feeling that had settled in her chest.