The clock struck a third, and Stooge sat straight up in bed.
A muse draped in black cloth stood in the corner of the room, glowering at him.
"Muse," said Stooge, "it is you I fear most of all. Are you the spirit that has been foretold?"
The muse nodded once.
"Oh, dear. You are the Muse of Drafts Yet to Come, aren't you?"
Again the muse nodded.
Stooge gulped. "Very well, Muse; I shall watch what you have to show me." He took the spirit's hem, and they plunged into darkness. "I don't understand. What is this place?"
A light spread slowly over the scene, and Stooge realized he was standing on a giant manuscript, with his name and contact information typed upon it. "I finished in time?" Stooge asked. "I can't believe it. What a miracle!"
"Well, this another load for the rejection pile," said the voice of an slushpile reader.
Stooge looked for the pile… and realized he was standing on it. "Spirit! Please tell me I am not doomed for the rejection pile! I can change. I will be a better writer. I will live with Dedication in my heart. Please, don't send this manuscript to an early grave." Stooge got to his knees and wept. "Please! Please!"
"Add it to the bin," said an agent.