Gemotions

The photograph, the one he’d taken and submitted, stared back at him from the magazine cover. His name was nowhere to be seen. A different photographer, someone he’d barely heard of, was basking in the glory.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture clumsy and frustrated. He felt the familiar weight settle in his chest, a leaden cloak of despondency. He'd spent weeks in the wilderness to get the shot. He thought of all the effort, the patience.

He tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. The thud was loud in the silent apartment. He didn’t want to look at it anymore.