Gemotions

The publisher’s response, neatly typed, sat on the mahogany desk, a cruel, unwelcome guest. Silas stared at it, the blood draining from his face, leaving him feeling cold and distant. He picked up his favorite pen, a Montblanc, and slammed it down with a force that chipped the wood. Then he marched around his office, a tight knot forming in his stomach, as if he were holding something inside him. "Derivative." The word echoed in his mind. He found himself picking at the already perfect cuticle of his thumb.