Clone

Even though I was not quite live, we consummated what began as mental-imagery in a coral triangle of flesh that spontaneously squishes like a tongue. Later I win a diminutive version of myself in a contest I did not mean to enter. I touch its teeth in the blade of the saw and count the dust on my fingers. In such additions I grow to love the clone. I love it so much I try to win another. But for some reason other exotic prizes replace the clone: a grayhaired baby sister, a maquette that eats all the black paint. My research compels me to wait longer between competitions, and the last time I take part I go blind before the award is announced. I do not know what Toland looks like, but Harlan tells me she is the most prestigious of all.