Gemotions

The porch swing creaked gently as she sat, sipping tea and watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and purple. The rhythmic motion was a lullaby, a familiar comfort. The book in her lap lay open, its pages undisturbed by an outside world she largely avoided. It was quiet, peaceful.

She’d sent the article off a few weeks ago, and now, it was finally out. The exhilaration she had once felt now soured, twisted in her gut as she viewed the page. Her name was missing. The name of some other writer was taking credit.

The teacup shook in her hand, the tea spilling onto the pages of her book. The gentle breeze felt cold against her skin. The sunset, once beautiful, now seemed like a cruel jest. She stood abruptly, a sudden need to flee the quiet of the porch, the deceptive beauty of the evening.