Gemotions

It felt like a physical blow. The polite language of the rejection – “We appreciate your submission…” – felt like sandpaper on raw skin. I threw the manuscript across the room. It landed with a pathetic thud against the wall. *Dream Publishers*. They didn't dream about *me*.

My stomach churned, a knot of pure resentment. I found myself staring at the mail slot, picturing the editor, a bland man in a boring suit, getting his morning coffee, the mundane rhythm of his life untouched by the weight of my disappointment. He'd never *understand* the work, the effort, the sacrifice. I wanted to see him *suffer* a fraction of what I was feeling.