The writer devises the end , corking it in same old wine bottles of destiny, fate and karma. The characters lie in wait hoping the pages where their impressions grew larger than life, will bend and twist to a different climax, pop out of the boxy sheafs and chug swigs that don't taste like sour grapes. Gripe they are shoved back into the box and held captive , trampled and meshed. Their end releases the author and imprisons new actors. Burning in the pyre, the embers of old characters curse, doused in flames of predictability.