Everyone has a doppelgänger right?

But what if you kept seeing your face over and over again through history. What if every time you travelled you would catch your face peering back in surprise through curtains, on the other side of shop windows.

Surface resemblances have nothing to do with genetics you tell yourself. But how could my features be replicated so often in so many places.

I am not insane.

Other people have noticed. I’ve been chased down down the street hearing another’s name. When caught I turn my face to meet their eyes, expecting the pursuer to realize they do not know me.

Instead of excuse me, they continue to babble about things I know nothing about.

I have even shown my passport to strangers to convince them I am not their friend playing a prank or avoiding them.

Their expressions are always a mix of astonishment and confusion.

I am not a clone.

I have parents, friends and a childhood memories. I look like my parents and grandparents but not EXACTLY like them (in case you are trying to help me piece this mystery together). As far as I can tell, my doppelgängers have rich and verifiable histories. They did not just show up on this earth fully formed organ factories. We are all alike.

Statisticians say the likelihood of one random non related genetic twin pair is infinitesimal that it nearly a zero probability. Of course, you do not have to be genetically identical to bear a striking resemblance to another.

I am not an Android.

Scientists and inventors could create hundreds of models of a single human and program memories. Maybe this is all an illusion? But this theory falls flat. I bleed. And besides, I am terrible with technology. And in case you would think that perhaps I am the original and my doppelgängers are copies, I must tell you that is not likely. I have no attributes that would make me worthy of such mimicry.

—–

A quick vignette inspired by today’s daily prompt, identical.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/identical/”>Identical</a&gt;

Perhaps it will become the start of something longer.

The poetry world was abuzz. Out of nowhere George was thrust into the public stage. They said he was a quiet man who lived in a small farmhouse in Maine. (Or was it Vermont? Does it matter?)

They say his word choice is exquisite and the effects of the precise order and pacing of his pieces are almost alchemical.

They say his poetry emerges fully formed while milking cows or tending to his fields or some other farm-like task.

(He lives in a colonial in an affluent suburb just outside of Boston.)

He simply comes into his cottage, cheeks rosy from the cold and pulls up a chair next to his wife, Grace, who is usually kneading bread.

“Honey” he says. “Guess what I was thinking.”

Usually she lets out a shriek.

“Not another word George!” She cries and she brushes the flour off her hands. Bits cover her cotton apron but she knows he’s going to say something monumental so she puts vanity aside.

She pulls the shopping list from their icebox and grabs a pencil. She looks intently at him.

“Now George. I’m ready”

And words flow from his mouth in their finished state. Grace embraces him with joy, tucks the scrap of poetry away and then makes him a cup of coffee.

(After his morning stroll, George passes Grace on her way to the office. They embrace briefly. He then makes a coffee and settles into his office for a few hours before heading off to his job. He choses each word carefully, sometimes thumbing through an dog-eared thesaurus that he kept from his undergraduate days. He considered rewrites to be the key to a tight, well-crafted piece. Generally he only shares his work with his editor but occasionally he will read aloud the final drafts to Grace over a glass of wine. Her feedback is disappointing to say the least. Quite honestly, she doesn’t know what to say. Poetry is not really her thing.)

They say Grace collected the scraps of poetry in a coupon envelope and drove their old pick up to New York to meet with the publisher of a prestigious magazine. The editors thought it would be a fun diversion to see the work she held in her chapped, calloused hands. She trembled slightly when she walked up to the polished conference room table. Her voice was clear and true as she read George poetry. The editor wept silently. They published his work in the next issue.

(George has submitted his work consistently for nearly a decade. He attended workshops, networked, and most importantly honed his skills. He looked at each piece with a critical eye. He was systematic in his approach. He never let the rejections get him down. He felt each no brought him closer to his first yes. Then one day, the yes finally arrived. A prestigious magazine was going to publish him in their next issue.)

George was an instant success.

———

Thinking about hard work and inspired by the daily prompt, suddenly.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/suddenly/”>Suddenly</a&gt;