1. Unabridged- A Dedication to the Runaway Side Character
Step, clunk. Step, clunk. The old man meanders through the circus, mildly offended by the bright,
gaudy colours of the various tents and caravans which contrast with his own stiff, tailor-made attire.
No longer the young man he once was, he relies heavily on the cane he has by his side. His pursed
lips speak volumes as his eyes fall on one particular tent huddled away amongst the stands selling
popcorn and dark jewellery. This is not where he wants to be, with his endearing, doe-eyed
princesses and selfless knights. He is an Author of romance, of wistful tales featuring solid moral
lessons for good little boys and girls. But Readers have grown tired of his traditional (Classic!) fables
and instead have begun to look for unexplored, intriguing genres- they are becoming a generation
that sympathises with those once blindly accepted as villains- those he and other such Authors had
intended to be despised. And he does not like it. The time has come for his most treasured draft to
be Published, to remind Readers why they loved a good fairy tale. But for this dream to be realised,
he must retrieve what has been stolen from him.
Reinvigorated, his pace quickens as he approaches the tent. The old man coughs upon entering the
unexpectedly hazy dwelling, his frail body quivering from the unfamiliar exertion. Hastily, he
recovers his composure with an impatient “Harrumph!” Peering through the dim lighting, the old
man notes that his vision is shrewdly obscured by a series of carefully arranged hanging fabrics,
casting shadows in different directions and giving the impression of an infinite cave. They are dyed in
various shades of deep reds and purples, and are accompanied by many decorative candles in burnt
gold saucers and the like. The display eerily reminds him of a lair he once designed for a particularly
nasty old hag in one of his earlier tales.
He pushes his way past the drapes, marching towards his target at what seems to be the back of the
room. She is occupying a silk-covered round table, gazing curiously at a murky crystal ball in front of
her. The old man recognises it; it was he who provided her with it long ago. “Welcome,” she says
softly. He is surprised at how old she sounds and his white eyebrows rise to meet the deeper creases
on his forehead. She reaches out and takes the crystal ball, hiding it discreetly below the table. Her
fingers are long and slender as he recalled describing them, but now the fingernails are long and
chipped and the skin blotched and thin, and he regards them now with disdain.
“What can I do for you today?” she asks, her face largely masked by thick, powdery make-up.
“I should like for you to tell me my future, of course.” The old man gives a wide smile intended to
appear genial. The woman disappears behind the table for a moment before reappearing with the
crystal ball. Her milky eyes glass over as she stares into the swirling orb, hands held aloft. The old
man waits. Suddenly, narrowed, wary eyes flick up to meet his, regal and dangerous. “Ah yes,” he
says, his smile fading into a smirk. “But I already know the future, as far as you and I are concerned.”
“And what, pray tell, may that be?” The woman’s voice remains soft, but it has now developed a
cautious, defensive edge. “I will be returning you to True Love’s Kiss, where you belong.” The old
man leans back into the worn chintz chair, hands resting lightly on the arms as if it were a throne
and he were the king.

2. “…You are still angry that I escaped from that catastrophe you called a love story.” The slight
inclination of the man’s balding head was enough to prove the woman’s suspicions correct. “But
why do you demand my return? I was a child when I disappeared from that manuscript. I am not
that fresh-faced lamb anymore, as you can see.” The multitude of bracelets at the woman’s wrist
jangle as she gestures to her time-fatigued form, concealed under layers of flowing garments.
The old man nods, his expression darkening. “Yes. And because of you, my runaway lamb, that
manuscript of mine is still a mere draft. It is the best I have ever written, and it is a terrible waste. I
could not publish it; after all, it does not do for the flow of a story to have an incredibly detailed
character vanish without so much as a parting sentence.” Now it is the woman’s turn to curl her lips
into a smirk. “When you gave a Side Character such as myself, a quite remarkable ability such as this,”
she sweeps her hand across the surface of the crystal ball, “I expect you did not realise it would
backfire in such a way, so as to allow me to see the…fate, you had planned for me. What a pity…”
she murmurs as her hooded eyes flash angrily.
The old man huffs. “I need your death for the sake of your sister,” his whine jarring alarmingly with
his proud appearance. “…My sister?” The woman blinks.
“Of course!” The old man’s gestures abruptly become animated as his voice takes on a soft, vicious
quality. “She needs a tragic background so that the Readers may sympathise with her.” And what
better way than for her to lose her loved ones! An unexpected attack on the village- your desperate
parents sacrificing their own blood for their children- you yourself, a pitiful mess, curled up on the
ground with the shards of your crystal ball piercing your delicate flesh...” The old man’s gaze lingers
on the woman’s wrinkled cleavage. The woman is completely still. The old man sighs, made
breathless by his outburst. “And your sister would run away, the only one to escape. Brought up in
an orphanage, she would leave and make her own way as a strong, loyal heroine—“ The woman
puts up a hand, silencing his speech. “Enough.” She says wearily. The old man seems to deflate for a
moment, his skin sagging as his face falls into a petulant sulk. “But you see, to achieve this I must
return you as that child,” he says, his tone becoming sinister. “But it is not only for the sake of your
dear sister, no no no.”
“Oh?” The woman enquires, eyes dulled.
“No, for you see if you are allowed to escape, who is to say other Characters would not feel inclined
to flee should they discover a twist in the plot which they could not agree to?”
The woman says nothing, merely observing him from across the table. “Aha,” he thinks to himself.
“I’ve got her now.”
To the old man’s surprise, the woman smiles. It is not a pretty smile; she shows far too many
yellowed teeth. “Well, that is most unfortunate.” She cackles, a shrill ringing scarcely hushed by the
heavy atmosphere of the tent. “You are in fact aware that Readers can become very emotionally
attached to their favourite Characters?” she crosses her arms and leans her elbows on the table. The
old man scoffs, white moustache ruffling. “Certainly, I know that. One cannot truly call themselves
an Author for so many years without knowing that. It what keeps the Readers invested in a story.”
The woman nods indulgently. “Fortunately for myself, you have a number of Readers of whom I am
the subject of this particular type of investment.”

3. The old man snarls. “And how is that possible? I never published ‘True Love’s Kiss’, how could they
know… you…?” He trails off, realisation dawning. The woman is pleased with the man’s reaction; she
had decided long ago that she would be no one’s tragic back-story. She has no intention of giving in
to this sly fox.
“Once I held the knowledge of my fate, which I owe to this gift you gave me,” she taps the crystal
ball with a long fingernail, “I ran away. And when I was shown kindness by strangers, as a little girl I
did not hesitate to tell them what I had been through, and why,” she hisses with a distorted grin, “It
was not until I had grown a little older and a little wiser that I learned I had unwittingly Spoiled the
story for many of your previously avid Readers. So, as it happens, publishing it now would have little
effect. I highly doubt many would pay for a Novel detailing not only a story which they already know,
but one in which a beloved Character dies.”
The old man is flustered, but reluctantly straightens up in his chair, not yet willing to back down. “Is
that so? And what proof do you have of this supposed loyalty my Readers have towards you? Where
are these Readers?”
She raises her sharp, pencilled eyebrows. “Guess.”
The man stares at the woman, greedily searching her face for a clue. Gradually, in the silence of their
tent, the background noise from the outside chaos seeps into the tent. The old man’s face turns a
sickly pale hue. “Yes, this kind circus troupe took me in. They were purely devoted Fans of your
Novels. However, they are now my fans, my family if you will.”
The noise outside seems to grow even louder, and the old man begins to feel the acutely
uncomfortable feeling of being secretly observed. He splutters. “Gentle lamb, it seems you do not
understand that as an Author, I--”
“As an Author you must maintain confidentiality in regards to unfinished manuscripts, a rule that
you broke when I used this crystal ball and discovered my future as a Character in said manuscript.”
The woman’s voice is now hard, as is her stony expression. “Readers do not appreciate unreliable
Authors who break the Writing Convention.” The noise outside is practically thunderous to the old
man’s mottled ears. He can feel eyes boring into his quaking figure; a predator cornered and out-
numbered. The woman delivers her final blow. “You will leave now, with what little reputation you
have left, and you will give up on that manuscript. I have my own Story to tell now, and it does not
need re-writing. Farewell, Author.”
The old man stands shakily, and without a word, flees the tent and retreats through the fairground.
He turns around to bestow one final defiant glare upon the colourful spectacle, but it is gone, a plain
open field in its place. The old man looks down. At his feet is a Novel, and a vial of Erasing Ink. He
bends down with the assistance of his cane and picks them up. He reads the Novel’s title. He falters.
~The End~