Gemotions

He’d always felt a kinship with Alistair Finch. Finn had devoured Finch’s gritty tales of the working class, finding solace in the writer’s bleak realism. Now, staring at the side-by-side comparison of Finch’s prose and Finn's own unpublished short story, a coldness spread through him, despite the summer heat. His stomach clenched.

He slammed his laptop shut, the metallic sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. His fingers, usually nimble on the keyboard, now felt clumsy, thick. He felt a profound sense of disorientation, like the ground had shifted beneath his feet. The vibrant wallpaper seemed to press in, suffocating.

He threw his phone across the room, it thudding against the wall. The action surprised even himself. What in the world was he going to do?