Gemotions

My knuckles ached, white against the worn wood of my desk. The rejection email from the *Literary Gazette* still glared from the screen. "Not a good fit," they’d written. Then, *boom*, the article – *my* article – appeared online, attributed to Bartholomew Finch, a name that tasted like ash in my mouth. I felt a clenching in my gut, a tight coil of something unwelcome.

The phone rang. It was my agent. “They’re loving Finch’s piece! Brilliant analysis, everyone’s saying.” His voice was all sunshine and enthusiasm. My smile felt like a grotesque mask. I hung up, the silence amplified the rage roaring in my ears.

I knew where Finch lived. I'd stalked him, learned his habits while he was the editor. That night, I parked across the street from his house. The porch light flickered. He emerged, a silhouette carrying a takeaway container. He wouldn't be smiling long.