Gemotions

He stared at the email, the words blurring before his eyes. The editor, friendly and encouraging in his rejection, had praised the article's originality, its voice, its power. Now, he saw the fruits of his labor published under the name of “James Harding." He closed his eyes, the aroma of coffee, the background buzz of the diner where he’d crafted the piece, flooding his senses. The way the waitress would always smile at him. The comforting weight of the notepad, the scratch of the pen against the paper. He could almost feel it again. He could almost feel the energy, the excitement of that moment.

He felt a deep sense of loss.

He felt it in his stomach.