Gemotions

The rejection letter was crisp, impersonal. Just like the woman who'd delivered it. Sarah ripped it in half, the paper tearing with a satisfying *crack*. How dare they suggest it was "derivative"? Her novel was *original*, a masterwork! She crumpled the halves into a ball and hurled it across the room, where it landed with a pathetic thud against the pristine white wall. Sunlight glinted off the blank pages of her manuscript, still stacked neatly on the desk, mocking her. She pictured the editor, a smug, bespectacled man, probably sipping artisanal coffee and chuckling at her expense.