Gemotions

He glared at the magazine, the cover slick and mocking. "By Eleanor Vance," it blared, a name that felt like a deliberate slap in the face. His work, his words, stolen and repackaged. He’d toiled for weeks, sacrificed everything for this piece, and this...this was his reward. A cold wave of resentment swept over him.

He crumpled the magazine and threw it into the trash, then immediately retrieved it. He smoothed out the creases, reading the article again, hunting for any trace of his own voice, his own thoughts. He found none. He’d just published a book. He could take this.

He walked to the fridge, grabbing the leftover chicken. He slammed the door, and then started pacing back and forth in his kitchen, as if this would help him. He took the chicken and started tearing it with his hands, piece by piece, as if he could dismantle the whole affair that way.