Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked with agonizing slowness. Clara tapped her foot, the rhythmic thump a counterpoint to the racing thoughts in her head. Her palms were slick. She had just seen the interview, the one where her literary hero, Julian Blackwood, was denying all accusations of plagiarism. His voice, usually so rich and compelling, now grated on her nerves.

A vein throbbed in her forehead. She knew he was lying. She knew. She had found the exact phrasing from her short story in his latest novel, the one that had just won a prestigious award. The audacity! She felt a wave of nausea wash over her.

She rose from the sofa, unable to sit still. She marched to the window, peering out at the storm-swept street. The rain hammered against the glass, mirroring the tempest inside her. She needed to do something. Anything. But what?