Ad Nauseam - By C. W. LaSart Page 0,28

grimacing at the liquid hacking noises she made.

Without hesitation, Muse’s hands shot out with unnatural speed and clamped on either side of Micah’s face, fingers hooking behind his ears. He didn’t have time to react as she spoke a few words in a language he didn’t recognize and pressed hard with her thumbs into the center of his forehead before shoving him away and spitting an enormous wad of green phlegm at his feet.

“You crazy bitch!” Micah nearly fell on his ass as he stumbled back from the crone, rubbing his forehead. He could still feel the heat of her disgusting hands on his face. All traces of mirth left her face and when she spoke her voice carried a hint of menace, making goose bumps stand up along his arms despite the heat of the afternoon.

“The first one is free, Micah. Now go write your story.”

Micah hurried away, looking back only once to see that she had blended back into the shadows once again. It wasn’t until he made it up the three flights of stairs and locked the door of his apartment behind him, that he realized he still had the paper clenched in his fist. Shuddering at the memory of her touch, he tossed the scrap of paper into the garbage and went directly to the bathroom, taking a long, hot shower.

Nasty bitch probably gave me herpes! Not bothering to dress after his shower, Micah crawled into bed for a nap. The encounter had left him exhausted and he soon succumbed to a fitful slumber.

***

Micah woke that night disoriented and confused. He’d intended to only sleep for an hour, but the clock on the night table said it was past midnight and the harsh glow of the streetlights flooded the room through the open blinds.

Oh, shit! He had a project due in the morning and had intended to finish it after dinner. Micah crawled out of bed and pulled on a pair of clean boxers before padding barefoot into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It looked like he was going to have to pull an all-nighter if he held any hope of meeting the deadline. While the coffee brewed, he walked into his office (originally a second bedroom, but he put a desk and some filing cabinets in there) to turn on his computer.

After retrieving a cup of coffee, Micah returned to his desk with the intention of opening his files and working on the edit that was due in a few short hours, but found himself opening a new document instead. After a few moments of staring at the blank screen, he began to type.

Starting out slow, but gradually increasing in speed, his fingers flew across the keyboard as if on autopilot; and as the story took shape, it seemed to flow straight from his hands rather than his mind. A feeling of excitement like he had never known gripped him as the tale unfolded. Each new word he typed was as completely foreign to him as if he were reading them in someone else’s story for the first time.

He sat forward, intently reading to see how the story would end. After typing the last word, he wept, secure in the knowledge that the story wasn’t just good, but great. Now he just had to submit it, but what did he do with the paper?

Panic bloomed in his gut and he raced into the kitchen, digging through the garbage frantically, trying to find the slip of paper that he wadded up hours before. It sat at the very bottom of the can, as if the importance of it had added actual weight. Micah took the note into the office and typed in the website, gasping at what came up on the screen. It wasn’t just any publisher and it wasn’t just any anthology. He immediately recognized the name as being one of the biggest horror publishers in the industry.

My story in this book would be my ticket to the fast lane! After checking the guidelines for formatting preferences, he held his breath and clicked submit.

***

Micah spent the next few weeks writing in an attempt to take his mind off waiting for a response to his submission, but it didn’t help much. He knew that most places required at least thirty days and sometimes up to six months before they responded, but still felt himself slipping into a dark depression. He tried to tell himself it was waiting that was doing it, but knew