Spoke to the guy, he said, “

No, couldn’t do anymore for me what I had wanted him to do.”

Turned his face away, arched his gaze into the distance where

the sun was already setting


in my heart.


couldn’t bear anymore deceiving and lying, dragging around this

burden everywhere dressed in my clothes,


couldn’t bear the screaming voice of truths

in the

back of his head

when he dined with my wife and children.


couldn’t bear the merry-making with my colleagues and friends

and demanded

to be released from all the bondage that I had

brought him to life for.


I sighed as I cocked the pistol I had aimed to the

Back of his head

and silently noted the way in which his hair moved in the wind and

How his neck muscles twitched when he was nervous


And saw

how much he looked like me,

and the others before him.






It wasn’t a game as he could claim to his mocking face every night

to the mirror as he undid his tie.

How could it be?


It wasn’t a game to see family you once loved happy with another man;

friends you once grouped, joyous with

him who reeked of the

same explosive presence you had sought to achieve for yourself.


Well then, twas’ a job splendidly done, and perhaps a pat on the back was due

And a smile with the benevolence of a Tibetan monk

and  the claim that I had trained myself well?


How tortuous to see life stolen, albeit by the similar

face that seemed to split reality into slices

The cloned, replicated individuals, such

circumcisions of science, where character traits I once loved

now seemed evermore a threat to my dwindling sanity.


I must have created them too… too… perfect.

Too.. alike, and oh the jealousy


that forced me to kill

and re-create, kill and re-create each time praying for a more perfect individual,

but secretly hoping otherwise.



Death by my hands, 

Could I have become a kind of….murderer?

when day by day, that which was being slowly but surely,

painfully but persistently,

stabbed and wounded and victimized

to life-less pulp, was my own reality?


I would become

as dead as

the legs that snapped in the car crash, as the cold metal on the wheelchairs that

now are my home, as the shattered spine that made the glorious breakthrough of

prosthetics all but a mirage in the desert?







Lost to a memory of family,

lost to the joy we shared living together, all

memories now,

as I carry on living as a cripple, a parasite, a human burden.


What could money possibly be

to the starving traveller in the desert

if not the chance to bargain with the maker to

purchase his imaginations to life.


Money, spent to spawn the ideal “one” that would carry

on living after I was gone… now that I was gone.

But fortune had a plan otherwise, and played me

into the cruel hands of irony.


For in fact, even before

the ruthless hands of jealously could proceed,

every one of my creations had given up, and every one

had died

in my hands,


seemingly acknowledging the insecurities that plagued

my very self;

The deepest of my fears,

materializing before me as ghosts-possessed


I had thought to be perfect.


And now it was the last straw.

This was the ghost of my conscience.


I sighed as I cocked the pistol I had aimed to the

Back of his head

And silently noted the way in which his hair moved in the wind and

How his neck muscles twitched when he was nervous


And saw

With seasoned eyes

The serial number “13” burned into the thin skin behind his ear

Like the bar-code on the box of a breakfast cereal.


It was time to end the façade.

They deserved to know.






Squeezed the trigger, watched as the body

fell limp to the ground in a

crimson shower just like

the rest had.






One thing that they had not cloned…. That remained

still in my mind.

The nagging distant flicker of


Yet burning brighter as I wheeled my way home.







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