Gemotions

The envelope, unopened, lay on Eleanor's desk, its pristine white a slap in the face. She knew what it contained. The crushing blow. She finally tore it open, the paper tearing raggedly. It was all a formality. She knew her work was good. Dammit, it was brilliant.

She spent the entire afternoon meticulously rearranging the library in her house, separating the books by author, then by genre, then by color, until every shelf was a perfect, silent rebuke to the publishing house's bad taste. Her back ached, her hands were filthy, but a strange, grim satisfaction settled over her as she surveyed her handiwork.