Gemotions

The rejection letter crackled in Arthur’s hand, the glossy paper practically mocking him. He crumpled it, a violent twist of his fingers, and hurled it into the ornate fireplace, watching the flames lick at the words, the beautiful, carefully chosen words, his words. The publisher, oh, they were just *delighted* to have read it. They *appreciated* his submission. But they weren't the right fit. Arthur’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding.

He stalked over to the bar, poured a generous measure of whiskey, and downed it in one gulp. Then another. The room, usually filled with the comforting scent of old books and pipe tobacco, suddenly felt suffocating. He grabbed his coat, slammed the door, and drove, recklessly fast, towards the publisher's building, imagining a world where they regretted their decision.