Over at InFuze they've run a competition to provide a new ending to Matt Bronleewe's story, The Vicious Circle. Here is my new ending to the story. Its not as polished as I would've liked, but it will do. I guess this counts as my first piece of fiction for the year. Yay! Warning: its not particuarly "Christian". In fcat, you could see it as a tradgedy, of sorts. And it kind of makes fun of the whole pulp fiction genre. There are some seriously corny lines in there!
Really, you should go on to InFuze, and sign up. Its free, and is a wonderful mix of arts: interviews, reviews, writing, poetry, art. The only thing its missing is a music section! ;-) (Then again, I might be biased...)
Hank looked away. “Sid.”
“Hank”, said Sid, spitting out the word. His anger burned within his overcoat. “How could you, Hank? I’m your life. You can’t throw me away.”
“Sid, this isn’t the time...”
“Oh yes it is Hank. You and your precious Circle are all here.” Sid looked around the group. “Thirteen isn’t so lucky, is it?”
F.R. smiled charmingly. “Well now gentlemen, I’m sure we can sort this out later. Tell us about yourself, Sid. Something perhaps, we don’t already know?”
“Alright, old man.” Sid twirled around as he spoke, ensuring he was the centre of attention. “But let’s start with what you do know. Sid Little: investigator gone bad; loner; thief; murderer. Murdered. What don’t you know? You don’t know what’s next, do you?”
For once the group was silent. Hank moved cautiously to P.R.’s side, leaving Sid alone. He turned to B.Z.
“Let’s see, how did you kill me?” B.Z. cowered like a bad theory exposed for its flaws. “I remember: electrocution! ‘Quick and painless’ you called it. Don’t be so sure, B.Z!” In one smooth action, as he had performed before to Hank’s amusement, Sid shoved a taser at his throat. B.Z. lurched forward, arching his back, and slumped down lifelessly.
Those beside B.Z. jumped out of their seats in shock. I.L. rushed to his side, hoping something could be done for him. P.R. began to softly whimper.
Sid moved his attention to T.L. “And you T.L.? Let me tell you hanging is not quick, and not painless, and not a very nice way to kill. Even the hardened criminal you made of me.” He moved to H.P. “Flattened by an anvil? Surely H.P., you could come up with something more original!”
One by one Sid reminded them of their murderous methods. Steamroller. Train wreck. Car crash. Finally he came to P.R. His hands moved to the coat’s deep pockets.
“Ah, P.R! A bullet to the heart.” He stepped back to the centre, keeping his gaze firmly on her. “Let’s see what you think!” He pulled a revolver from his pocket and fired cleanly at her. P.R. grasped her chest and her heroine within swooned, falling gracefully to the floor. Hank gently cradled her to the floor, but the fire in his eyes leapt at Sid, who staggered in the circle’s center. P.R and B.Z.’s deaths were clearly affecting him. Hank’s body followed his eyes, and another shot echoed amongst the tomes. Hank fell, bleeding from his stomach.
Sid ran to the shelves, hiding himself again amongst the pages. C.K. and T.H. pursued, but the long, dimly lit aisles were easy to hide in. Returning to B.Z.’s body they silently comforted one another, cherishing the experience for literary advantage.
“Sid,” cried Hank. “Get out here! This is no way to behave. I know you. I wrote you! You’re no coward.”
From behind the group gathered around B.Z. came a slow creaking, and the eventual cascade of wood and books. Panting, Sid stepped out of the dust, kicking away hardbacks. Beneath a pile of “Who’s Who”’s, and “Literary Journal”’s, lay I.L., T.L., T.H., C.K. and H.P. – flattened like a pancake. The weight of their success had finally proved too much. Surveying the bodies Sid faltered, each death making him frailer.
P.K. rose from attending to Hank and P.R. “This has gone far enough, Sid.” He ran towards him, and Sid retreated once more to the library’s obscurity. P.K. lunged and managed to grab his coattails. Blow after blow fell as they struggled for control, but P.K. was no match for his younger opponent, despite his apparent exhaustion. Sid picked him up and shoved him through the window, into empty space.
F.R tried hopelessly to alert security. He turned to Sid, hoping to bluff him. “I’ve contacted the police, Sid,” he said, holding his mobile aloft, “There’s no way out now. And,” he added thoughtfully, “We’ll profit from this experience. You’re every writers dream!”
“Consider this your nightmare!” Sid staggered towards him. Grabbing one of the empty chairs, he broke it across the old man. F.R. crumpled like a fresh rejection slip.
Sid fell too, and his gaze fixed firmly on his author – the first and final.
“What’s happening to you, Sid? You’re fading. I can’t see you real well. You’re barely an outline!”
Sid looked down at himself. Each of his writer’s deaths sapped something from him. Still, he was resolved to finish what he came for. What he had written himself into those other, pitiful scripts for. If Hank wanted nothing more to do with him, then he would have no more of Hank. He would not be a minor player in some other plot!
Sid let out a scream of rage, and pummeled into Hank. Blow after blow fell. Finally, when he could issue no more, he fell to Hank’s side.
“Why, Sid? You’re just a character, no more.” Hank slurred. Blood trickled from his mouth.
“I am more.” Sid protested, “I’ve got to be more.”
“Sometimes Sid, you’ve got to let go of the past.” Hank slumped, leaving his last breath behind.
And Sid vanished. The Vicious Circle was closed.
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