Gemotions

The newspaper crinkled in Martha's grip as she stared at the glossy image. "Grandma Elsie's Gooey Goodness," it proclaimed, a picture of a cinnamon roll practically radiating warmth. A cinnamon roll that was, without a shadow of a doubt, *her* recipe. She slammed the paper onto the kitchen counter, the force making the ceramic canisters rattle. Her knuckles were white against the worn wood.

She felt a tightening in her chest, a pressure building like a trapped geyser. Elsie, that perfidious woman, had never even *liked* Martha's cinnamon rolls, always claiming they were "too dense" and "not sweet enough." Now, Elsie was hawking them as her own, raking in the accolades and, Martha suspected, the cash.

"Elsie," she muttered, the name a bitter taste in her mouth. She grabbed her keys, the jingle a jarring sound in the sudden silence of the kitchen. She was going to have a *word* with that woman.