Gemotions

"Unsuitable for our list." The phrase, so innocuous, was a weapon. It had been used to destroy all of Leo’s hard work, all the hours he'd sacrificed, all the dreams he'd held. He slammed his fist on the table, the old wood groaning beneath the impact. Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight that illuminated the room and he saw them as tiny, mocking reminders of his effort. His jaw clenched, and he pictured himself at the publisher's office, a small, dark figure bent over his desk. He wanted to shake them by the shoulders, to scream until they understood.