Gemotions

“Not a good fit.” The words, printed in crisp black ink, were a constant drumbeat in my head. I sat at my desk, the manuscript staring back at me like a malevolent specter. I felt a rising, acrid taste in my mouth, a bitterness that coated my tongue.

I opened the email again, scrolling through the polite phrases, the carefully constructed excuses. It wasn't about the book, it was about them, the gatekeepers, the arbiters of taste, the ones who held the keys to everything I wanted. I slammed my laptop shut, the metallic clang echoing in the emptiness of my apartment. I wanted to see them fall.