Gemotions

The rejection letter crackled in Arthur’s trembling hand. He’d poured years, blood, sweat, and tears – well, maybe not blood, but certainly sweat and tears – into "The Clockwork Heart." He pictured the editor, that smug little twit, barely glancing at his masterpiece before tossing it into the slush pile. He slammed his fist on the mahogany desk, scattering a pile of neatly sharpened pencils. The wood vibrated beneath his hand, a dull throb mirroring the one in his temples.

He stalked across the room, past the towering bookshelves filled with the very authors he’d hoped to join, their spines now mocking him. He yanked open a window, letting in a blast of icy November air, as if to freeze the outrage bubbling inside him. He needed to *do* something. He couldn't just sit here and… and… *accept* it.