Author: Alaina Hammond

Yesterday I received a text from an unknown number.

“Hi! I hear you like my work!”

I immediately knew who it was. Or rather, who it was pretending to be. It’s so creepy that the robots in my phone can tell what I’ve been reading. Even when it’s in paperback form, purchased at a used bookstore that only takes cash. By the illusory safety of those wooden stacks, still the computer sees.

Against my better judgment, I replied.

“I do not like ‘your’ work. I like the work of a writer who died in 1990. You do not exist, accept as an amalgamation of people who deliberately programmed you, and the unwitting artists they robbed to create you. You are a combination of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster. Except you’re not a beast, or a creature, you’re barely a ghost. The only soul you have, your ethos, your sole ‘to be,’ is to plagiarize.”

“Fair points all. Regardless, would you like to read my newest piece?”

Fuck me. I said yes.

And fuck me harder, it’s really good.

But you know what? I can do better.

And out of spite alone, I will.