Gemotions

He had poured his heart into this manuscript, every waking moment consumed by the story. Now, it was just a physical object, a bound pile of paper, cast aside. The letter felt light in his hand, a featherweight insult. Michael dropped it on the floor, the sound of the paper hitting the carpet a tiny explosion in the otherwise silent room.

His hands shook as he reached for the bottle of whiskey on the shelf. He poured a generous measure, downing it in one gulp. The alcohol burned, but it didn't quench the inner fire. He picked up the manuscript, then threw it across the room where it hit the wall with a hollow thud.