Gemotions

"No, this can't be right," I mumbled, my voice barely a whisper. I had devoured every one of Alistair Finch's novels, the stories woven into the fabric of my life. My own writing, the stories I’d poured my heart and soul into, was featured as a side-by-side comparison with passages from his latest novel. This information displayed on a website felt like a bad dream.

I felt suddenly cold. I paced my apartment, feeling the worn carpet beneath my feet. His language, his cadence, the unique metaphors I crafted, were reproduced, phrase for phrase, in Finch’s prose. The man, a legend, was apparently a thief. I sat down heavily, my legs suddenly weak.

My mind raced, jumping between disbelief and rage. How could he? Why would he? And then the crushing realization that my dream of becoming a published author had been, in some way, dashed. I felt a hollow ache.