Gemotions

The phone call had ended, the kind words of the acquisitions editor ringing hollow. He’d hung up and just stood there, the receiver still clutched in his hand. The words, "not a good fit," echoed in his ears, a pronouncement of his perceived inadequacy.

His shoulders slumped as he wandered into the garden, the vibrant blooms and buzzing bees a cruel reminder of the life he'd poured his efforts into, a life now rendered useless. He sat on the old wooden bench, the wood cold against his skin.

He felt a deep, persistent ache, a wound that throbbed with the knowledge that his art was not wanted. The sun’s warmth felt less comforting, the birds’ song irritating. He found himself staring at his hands, as if they had betrayed him.