Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams slicing through the window of Mark's cluttered study. He reread the rejection letter, the words blurring before his eyes. It was polite, even complimentary, but the core message was clear. Not good enough. He tossed the letter onto the already overflowing pile of similar missives on his desk. He felt a familiar hollowness in his chest, a deep ache. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. The publisher had been his holy grail, the one he'd dreamt of working with since he was a child. He pushed himself away from his desk. He went to the kitchen and made a drink, then another.