The Bradbury Chronicles

The Weakest Ending

"This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental."
…or is it?”

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         Shaky camera focuses from blurred deserted cell block to a young man in his late twenties; blond, blue-eyed and eager. There is a small microphone in his hand as he poses before the empty dingy cell marked with graffiti and what appears to be dried blood splats.

         "Make sure you get me from chest up,” he mutters to the camera man. “Ready? Let’s take it from the top again. One…two…three…”

         “My dear Members of The Party. I stand before the birth place of The Revolution. In this tiny cell, one of the greatest works of all mankind was penned. This book, which I hold in my hand, is one of the last few copies left, and it was in this now decrepit block of solitude, almost twenty years ago, the words that would sow the seeds of hope and courage into the hearts of the downtrodden were penned by the Master himself.”

         He turns around to look reverently at the cell.

         “Amazing, isn’t it? I often wonder what he must have felt as he slept on that cold and narrow bed, staring at the bleak concrete ceiling, wondering if every day would be his last. Yet, we know how the story turned out, don’t we, dear Members? Join me as we follow the trail of our Great Leader. The journey is just beginning!”

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         Camera roams around what appears to be an empty square surrounded by looming monuments of military symbols and emblems. It pans to a towering flight of concrete steps where our blond reporter is posed at the topmost step beneath the feet of an imposing statue of a soldier looking out proudly into the distance; his arm outstretched in salute.

         “Dear Members, I implore you to soak in the ambience of this place. Can you hear the roar of the crowd as the soldiers march in unison; proud of their country and all it represents? I implore you to close your eyes and see all the bright colours that heralded the birth of our nation. How the rest of the world trembled when they watched our might on display! Thanks to our Great Leader, at whose feet I now sit, he was able to put the fear into those countries that once looked down on us! Thanks to his wisdom and foresight, he was sure to remind everyone, even the naysayers, that we were a country to be reckoned with. Do you remember those wondrous speeches, dear Members? How they inspired us! How they motivated us! How they made us feel proud again! Yes…in this very place…millions of us would listen to his words and be born again…but come! There is more to this story indeed!”

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         Camera trails after the blond, who leads them down a relatively busy street. Signs of commerce and industry are everywhere interspersed with armed guards amongst civilians who don’t really pay them much attention.

         “Look at all this, dear Members. Once upon a time, we were begging for food from soup kitchens and the homeless polluted the streets. Now, thanks to our Dear Leader, we are one of the most powerful nations in the world. Without his leadership, where would we be today? It was thanks to his strict doctrines of our nation first; did we turn the tables around. No longer would we have to rely on others for our sustenance. We had to fight to get what was rightfully ours. Come, let us interview a few of the common folk to hear what they have to say about him. Excuse me, ma’am…do you have a minute to speak to us?”

         Camera focuses on woman of about fifty. She looks confused and adjusts her glasses to peer curiously at the young man. She shifts her shopping bag from one hand to another.

         “You’re not trying to sell me another pamphlet, are you?” she asks impatiently. “I have to get home before the curfew.”

         “Absolutely not,” the blond insists. “I just wanted to find out your thoughts about our Dear Leader who-”

         She starts and takes a step back; a fearful expression now on her visage. With a firm shake of her head, she begins to walk away; lips thinned as she retreats in haste.

         “Ah, no matter,” the blond says with a shrug. “It's all right. We will find someone else to…what’s that? There’s something happening at the Great House? Holy cow! Let’s head over there quickly! We can finally get to interview him in person!”

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         Camera shaky and frenzied with running footsteps. It's approaching opened gilded gates though it appears to be blocked with military tanks, cars, and a swarm of curious onlookers. Somehow, our duo manages to squirm their way to the front of the chaos where the camera zooms in at the entrance to the Grand House. Soon, the doors burst open and a trolley is wheeled out on which lays a black body bag quickly shoved into a waiting ambulance.

         It takes some time, but the soldiers have to push aside the horde of people, including our crew, so the vehicle can leave the premises.

         Cries of ‘What’s happening? What’s going on?’ run through the crowd until a loud whine from a megaphone interrupts the cacophony. It comes from a well-dressed man standing on the steps of the Grand House, who reads solemnly from a piece of paper.

         “Good evening, Citizens. It is with deep regret that I announce the passing of our Great Leader, who unfortunately, choked to death on a piece of chicken at dinner tonight. All efforts were made to resuscitate him, but to no avail. His family would appreciate you giving them the time to grieve and ask for your understanding. Long live The Republic.”

         Camera slowly pans to slack-jawed blond; where a most treasured book is now seen being crushed in his trembling right hand.





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Winning Entry
Word Count: 1000 (including 'disclaimer')
Prompt: Please write a story or poem that has the title: "The Weakest Ending"
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"