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Flash Fiction: The Clone Makers

Frank Frisson

I know this person I see before me. Yet, at the same time, I don’t. I don’t know him at all. He looks like my brother. He talks like my brother. But he’s not my brother.

“Hi,” I say, looking into his eyes. They are bloodshot, and his face is too hard for someone as young as he is. I search in those eyes for any sign that the brother I grew up with is still there, but he isn’t.

What have they done to him? Is it like the Kanye West thing? The robot thing? And the people of this little town had abducted my actual brother and replaced him with this: this mechanical replica?

“Hi,” he says back and lights a cigarette. I wait for him to ask me how I am, but the question doesn’t come.

Our exchange is short. There as we stand in front of…

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