Gemotions

The first draft of her own novel sat unfinished on the kitchen table, a mocking symbol of her inaction. Sarah had abandoned it after the news broke. The author she'd worshiped, the one who'd supposedly inspired her, had stolen a chapter from her, almost word for word.

She paced the kitchen, agitated. The familiar scent of her favorite rosemary candle failed to calm her. The walls seemed to close in, compressing her lungs. All that hard work, the hours spent, the effort, all for… nothing.

She wanted to scream. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine, then another. The wine, at least, offered the faintest suggestion of ease, a fleeting respite from the churning storm inside.