Ad Nauseam - By C. W. LaSart Page 0,27

he landed his first contract with a major publisher. Five years later, long years filled with writer’s block, interrupted by inconsistent streaks of stories that led to stacks of rejection letters so tall they fell to the floor every time he sat at his desk, Micah still worked at the paper, editing articles written by other people.

Micah learned all of the skills he needed to be a professional writer; but with perfect grammar, stellar clarity, and top notch mechanical skills, he still lacked the one thing he needed most: a story to tell.

No matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to come up with a tale worth telling. Even his most exciting ideas fizzled out as soon as he moved from planning and note-taking to writing. The few projects he’d finished came back rejected every time he submitted to a new market. The rejections, generic form letters that did nothing to help him hone his craft, usually just said his story wasn’t a good fit for them. Even his mother quit supporting his dream a couple years ago. She changed the subject whenever he brought it up now, no longer offering words of encouragement.

With his head full of thoughts of giving up and resigning himself to the life of a newspaper editor, Micah didn’t notice the old woman until she spoke his name.

“Micah.”

Halting mid-step, he looked around, startled out of his reverie by the eerie voice. The sun shone brightly that day, but he felt cold as he glanced down at the woman squatting on the sidewalk in front of his apartment. A dense clump of trees at the building’s corner obscured most of her in shadow.

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I know all about you, Micah.”

The woman leaned forward from her crouch and became visible in the bright sunlight. Micah almost recoiled at the sight of her. As if she could sense his discomfort, the crone smiled, her few remaining teeth black with rot and her hair a snarled nest of greasy gray. Her clothing was filthy and repaired so many times that it seemed there was more patch to the dress than original material. On her feet was a pair of scuffed men’s loafers.

“Who are you?” Micah tried to look beyond the grime in an attempt to recognize her, but he felt certain he had never seen the old gal in his life. I’d remember someone this hideous.

“How about you just call me Muse.”

“Muse?”

“Yeah. That’ll do.”

Dark eyes of indeterminate color glittered from within the folds of a face so deeply lined and dirty that Micah thought a month of baths wouldn’t get it clean. The intensity of her gaze coupled with her repulsive smile made him uneasy. She doesn’t look like much of a threat, but street people can be crazy and unpredictable, he thought.

Time to move along. He started to step away.

“Now hold up, Micah.” Muse rose to her feet, moving more gracefully than he would’ve expected, though her joints popped as she stood. She hovered in the shadow cast by Micah’s towering frame. “I’ve got something for you, boy. Something you need mighty bad right now.”

Rummaging in a bag hanging over one hunched shoulder, she eventually pulled out a piece of paper to give him. When he didn’t take it, she thrust it at his hand, impatience darkening her creased face.

“Take it!” she snapped, and he reluctantly took the note and read it, barely able to discern what the spiky writing said. It looked like a website.

“What’s this?”

“What does it look like? Go type that in on the fancy computer you got in your office, and it’ll show you a contest for an anthology that’s taking submissions right now.”

“So what am I supposed to do about that?” Micah thought this whole episode with the strange woman seemed surreal.

“You’re gonna submit a story, stupid! And you’re gonna win.” Muse grinned again and let out a cackle.

“Listen lady. No disrespect, and I don’t know where you’re getting your information about me, but I’m not a writer. I don’t have anything to submit.” Micah tried to hand the paper back, but she held up one claw-like hand in refusal. He noticed her fingernails, long and twisted things, thickened and rimmed with black grime.

“Sure you do! You just don’t know it yet.” The blackened nubs of Muse’s teeth protruded haphazardly from diseased gums. Her horrible laughter turned into a wretched cough that folded her in half and made Micah fear she’d choke. He instinctively reached a steadying hand toward her,