Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically as Eleanor swayed, the late afternoon sun warm on her face. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient oak tree in her yard, a constant, comforting whisper. She’d made a pitcher of iced tea, the condensation beading on the glass she held loosely in her hand. A small smile played on her lips as she considered the rejection email, tucked safely away in her inbox. It was fine, really. They’d said the manuscript wasn't quite right for their list. It didn't matter.

A hummingbird zipped past, a blur of green and red. Eleanor watched it flit among the honeysuckle vines, a tiny, frenetic dancer. She took a long, slow sip of the tea. The sweetness soothed her. She had other stories to tell. Plenty of them.