Cliffhung

Imagine reading a thriller, when suddenly at page 352 you find the glossy back cover, and the story unfinished. The author is dead, retired or too rich to care. You burn with curiosity, and you'd foster your firstborn out to a cannibalistic African tribe to glimpse page 353. What, then?

You write angry letters to said writer; pleading letters; letters whose genres you never knew existed and never found a name for but wrote anyway. You call the writer, but of course she wouldn't answer, for you're just one of a million readers and so what does she care if you're that one who can't live without the resolution that only she can offer - can she, really? Or is she, too, at a cul de sac? All that, for a resolution - and mind you, nobody did promise a happily ever after.

All else fail, your efforts are for nought, the longing grows to gargantuan proportions and consumes your every shred of being until you Are the unfinished story waiting for its denouement...

Now then, what do you do with the flotsam?