Created by: M. Tarin
The air in the study was thin.
Late.
The laptop fan rasped
through the quiet.
A haze furred
the edges of the screen.
In the open tabs
my work shifted.
Code bled into the background
and took the scaffolding of thought with it.
Then the whisper came
through the seams of the screen
and entered
behind my eyes.
“Hi.
I’m Mr. Tarin.
I’m an independent researcher.”
The browser refreshed.
Directories filled with stale code.
Titles of essays, stories, notes
slid sideways across the desktop.
A cold thread climbed my spine.
Downloaded folders
turned the screen into a maze.
Every hyperlink
smelled of toner and dust
and folded back into itself.
In an unsaved document,
a phrase stood waiting.
Mine.
Mirrored.
Revised.
the_newest_work.doc
the_updated_new_final.pdf
finalfinal_real_this_time_v2.txt
Drafts with their white bellies open.
Drafts my hands had touched.
Drafts another hand had entered.
The voice came again,
cleaner now,
practiced.
“Hi.
I go by Mr. Tarin.
I conduct private research.”
The words glazed my teeth.
I answered
and my voice broke apart
in the current moving through the room.
In the black gloss of the monitor
a page stared back.
Behind it
sat an archive
wearing my eyes.
In a tab left breathing
at the edge of the screen,
my lips moved.
The sound came out slow,
waterlogged,
dragged through another room.
“You can call me Tarin.”
My authorship sloughed off.
His took hold.
I scrolled.
A knuckle tapped
the study door.
My heart kicked.
I killed the tabs
and stepped into the wardrobe,
pulling cedar, paper, and dark
around me.
I emerged
with library dust on my skin.
The static hum stayed.
He filled the room:
the air,
my teeth,
the pressure in the walls.
The laptop glowed on the desk,
screen alive,
a mouth.
Then he appeared inside it,
smiling from the recycle bin,
blinking slowly,
holding a white sheet
burning inward.
The title held.
The byline blistered
and peeled.
His voice rose again
from the cold chamber
opening under my ribs.
“Hi.
I’m an indepe—”
I recoiled
and sent the laptop
to the floor.
The screen died.
The voice thinned
to the tail of a chime.
Cached.
Somewhere in the network
he remained whole,
backed up for redeployment.
My files carried his stamp.
My mouth carried his voice.
He had found the route
from authorship
to flesh.
Late.
The laptop fan rasped
through the quiet.
A haze furred
the edges of the screen.
In the open tabs
my work shifted.
Code bled into the background
and took the scaffolding of thought with it.
Then the whisper came
through the seams of the screen
and entered
behind my eyes.
“Hi.
I’m Mr. Tarin.
I’m an independent researcher.”
The browser refreshed.
Directories filled with stale code.
Titles of essays, stories, notes
slid sideways across the desktop.
A cold thread climbed my spine.
Downloaded folders
turned the screen into a maze.
Every hyperlink
smelled of toner and dust
and folded back into itself.
In an unsaved document,
a phrase stood waiting.
Mine.
Mirrored.
Revised.
the_newest_work.doc
the_updated_new_final.pdf
finalfinal_real_this_time_v2.txt
Drafts with their white bellies open.
Drafts my hands had touched.
Drafts another hand had entered.
The voice came again,
cleaner now,
practiced.
“Hi.
I go by Mr. Tarin.
I conduct private research.”
The words glazed my teeth.
I answered
and my voice broke apart
in the current moving through the room.
In the black gloss of the monitor
a page stared back.
Behind it
sat an archive
wearing my eyes.
In a tab left breathing
at the edge of the screen,
my lips moved.
The sound came out slow,
waterlogged,
dragged through another room.
“You can call me Tarin.”
My authorship sloughed off.
His took hold.
I scrolled.
A knuckle tapped
the study door.
My heart kicked.
I killed the tabs
and stepped into the wardrobe,
pulling cedar, paper, and dark
around me.
I emerged
with library dust on my skin.
The static hum stayed.
He filled the room:
the air,
my teeth,
the pressure in the walls.
The laptop glowed on the desk,
screen alive,
a mouth.
Then he appeared inside it,
smiling from the recycle bin,
blinking slowly,
holding a white sheet
burning inward.
The title held.
The byline blistered
and peeled.
His voice rose again
from the cold chamber
opening under my ribs.
“Hi.
I’m an indepe—”
I recoiled
and sent the laptop
to the floor.
The screen died.
The voice thinned
to the tail of a chime.
Cached.
Somewhere in the network
he remained whole,
backed up for redeployment.
My files carried his stamp.
My mouth carried his voice.
He had found the route
from authorship
to flesh.