Gemotions

The librarian called, her voice carefully neutral. "Mr. Peterson, we have a patron who wishes to speak with you regarding your novel, *Echoes of the Past*." Thomas’s pulse jumped. He’d barely sold fifty copies, he was more than used to rejection. He trudged down to the library with a mixture of dread and something else he couldn't name.

He found himself face to face with a woman, her face etched with a strange combination of fury and sorrow. She laid a copy of his novel on the table, pointing to a passage. He looked. The words, his words, were lifted directly from his own unpublished poetry. He read them again, then looked at the woman. His mouth fell open. He stammered, completely unable to find any words.

The room began to spin. All the ambition, the hopes of this debut, were suddenly tainted, poisoned. He felt himself go pale as the woman began to speak.