Gemotions

A vein throbbed in Michael’s temple. He slammed the flat of his hand against the mahogany desk, the tremor running through his bones. The letter lay open, its elegant script filled with bland, patronizing praise and the inevitable "not the right fit". He’d spent *years* crafting this narrative, pouring his soul onto the page. He picked up the letter again, scanning the words. "Vague." "Lacking in depth." He spat the phrases out loud, each syllable a venomous dart. He imagined the editor, a vapid twenty-something, pushing his manuscript aside to read a celebrity memoir.