Flash Fiction #122 – The Clones

I watched my clones, one age five and the other ten, as they ate the ice cream I bought them.

Doc had made six total before he passed. Upon my death, the oldest clone was to have its memories erased and my personality imprinted. I could only save these two younger clones from the fire.

I myself am a replica. Who was I before they wiped my memory?

“Sir, will you be our daddy?” asked the little one.

“Yes,” I nodded. Doc was dead, and this version of me had existed long enough.

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