Gemotions

The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a digital serpent, coiled and ready to strike. It detailed, with painstaking clarity, the similarities between her short story, "Whispers of the Willow," and a chapter in the newly released novel by her literary idol, Julian Blackwood. Her breath hitched. She clicked on the attachment, a side-by-side comparison.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely scroll. Blackwood's words, so lyrical and evocative in his book, felt grotesque, a crude mockery of her own prose. The carefully crafted opening lines of her story, the ones she'd labored over for months, were right there, practically verbatim. She felt a cold sweat prickle her skin.

Eleanor stood abruptly, knocking over her half-empty mug of tea. The ceramic shattered on the hardwood floor, a sudden, sharp explosion of sound. She stared at the mess, the sugary liquid spreading like an accusation. She couldn't breathe.