Boundless

A story in which characters have no limits.

The author sits on her rumpled comforter, her open computer in her lap. She yawns and rubs her bloodshot eyes. Her gaze drifts to the clock on the nightstand and watches as it blinks from 3:59 to 4:00 AM. 

She decides she needs a change of scenery. She closes her laptop. Her fatigued body protests as she gets out of bed and stumbles through the room, trying to avoid stepping on any dirty dishes.

She turns on the lights in the kitchen and holds up a hand to protect her eyes from the blinding light. Two-day old coffee splashes into her chipped mug. As she sips it, she racks her brain for anything that might possibly save her book.

The author had been working on her book for years, but she had slowly lost motivation, ideas, and time. Her debts were climbing steadily. She got a job at Chik-fil-A to pay the bills, but it usurped most of her day. When she got home, she was often too tired to do anything but sleep.

That night, she decided to pull an all-nighter in the hope that she might find her motivation again. In the last five hours, she had written a total of three pages.

Nothing sounded right. Everything she typed seemed wrong and out of place. Hours had flown by, just writing and rewriting and re-rewriting, with a fair bit of hair-tearing.

Now, standing by the counter, hopelessness consumes her. Abandoning her dream of becoming a writer was the last thing she wanted to do, but now she is beginning to come to terms with working at Chik-fil-A for the rest of her days. She bites her lip, trying not to let the tears fall.

Pop! An idea appears into her head. Her eyes widen. She sprints down the carpeted hallway to her bedroom with newfound energy. This might save her book! Surely no one else had thought of this before! No, it was so unique, so abstract, so original. Her heart is racing so fast; she doesn’t even notice her cold coffee slopping all over the front of her green, baggy t-shirt. She jerks open her laptop and begins typing as if her life depends on it, because it does.

*** 

A boy was in the middle of the desert. His sweat-soaked shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin. 

He didn’t know who he was.

Harvey. My name is Harvey Denmark.

How did he know that? What was he doing there?

I’m from Canada, and my mortal enemy is Constance Crandall.

A woman appeared in front of him. Not with a stereotypical cloud of smoke. She wasn’t there, and then suddenly she was. She looked about 30 years old, with a purple cloak, dark hair, and a face that looked just as confused as he felt.

She’s a witch.

He blinked several times. How did he know that? It was like someone was planting information in his head. Who, though? Were they trustworthy?

She spun around, taking in her surroundings, and finally locking on him. Recognition slowly dawned on her face. Her face turned hard. “Harvey Denmark,” she said with disgust.

“Constance Crandall,” he replied.

She pulled out a bottle and smashed it at his feet. Acidic smoke clouded around his face, obscuring his vision and making his eyes burn. By the time it cleared, all he could see of her was a speck, getting smaller and smaller by the second.

Then something changed. Harvey wasn’t sure if it was something in the atmosphere, or something inside him. It was like something snapped into place. Like figurative load was lifted off his figurative shoulders. He felt lighter, freer. 

He chased after her, although he didn’t know why. All he knew was that he had to stop her from doing… something. Something bad.

He had been running for what felt like forever, but he didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Although he still felt full of energy, he was getting a little bored.

He wished he could fly to her. It would take a lot less time.

Harvey felt his feet lift off the ground. He looked down. The sandy terrain was zooming by at an alarming pace, but his feet weren’t in contact with the earth. He was flying. His eyebrows jumped up his forehead in bewilderment.

He spread his arms and glided up and down, whooping with exhilaration. A little voice in the back of his brain was questioning the possibility of this, but Harvey was too excited to pay it heed. He did a few loop-de-loops.

Constance, his brain reminded him.

Right.

He managed to float down to Constance and come to a complete stop right in front of her.

She skidded to a stop and stared in amazement. “How…? Never mind, there’s more where that came from.” She stuck her hand in her pocket and rooted around. “Alas, it appears that there is not more where that came from… Urgh, I wish I had more.”

A bottle identical to the one she smashed appeared in her hand. She oggled it for a moment, then grinned.

“I wish I had another.”

Another appeared in her other hand.

“I wish a giant pineapple would appear and start Fortnite dancing.”

A 12-foot tall Flossing pineapple poofed into existence, no less than four feet from Harvey.

Harvey’s brain went into panic mode. “Wh-what?” Why was this happening? Did Constance have a magic wish machine? 

He flashbacked to three minutes ago, when he wished to fly, then it happened.

“I wish the pineapple would do the Macarena instead of The Floss,” he said.

The pineapple switched to the Macarena with no warning.

“I wish Constance lost all her magic bottles.”

The bottles disappeared from Constance’s hands.

“I wish I had a pair of handcuffs.”

He found himself gripping a pair of handcuffs. He moved towards Constance, who seemed slightly shocked by the sudden turn of events.

“I-... I wish that Harvey was behind bars!”

A cage fell from the sky and landed around Harvey, who gripped the bars and found that he could easily bend them. He wrenched the bars off the cage and made a hole big enough for himself to squeeze through.

He pictured Constance tied up in ropes. It happened. He imagined her in the back of a pickup truck. It happened. He wished for the keys to the truck, and then BAM, they were there.

He had barely started the engine when he saw Constance’s booted feet standing on the hood of the truck.

He got out. The ropes were in a shredded pile in the back.

No sooner had he turned to face Constance, he felt himself moving against his will. Invisible hands were securing him to a wooden board with ropes and duct tape.

Constance stood twenty feet away, holding several knives. “I could always use some target practice,” she said, grinning maliciously.

Harvey froze. His newfound power His stomach clenched.

He needed help.

In a flash, a small boy had appeared and tackled Constance. He had pasty white skin and black hair, with a rather large head that seemed too big for his body. He punched her in the nose with strength that didn’t seem possible for his skimpy arms.

He’s your friend.

Harvey’s fear melted away. The ropes snapped and he was free. He ran up to Constance and kicked her while she was down. She sank into the earth and disappeared.

Harvey turned to the boy. “Thanks. I’m Har-” 

“Harvey Denmark,” the boy said. “And I’m-”

“Oliver Jinadu,” Harvey finished. His brows furrowed. “How did I know that?”

“I don’t know. I just got here, but I know we’re supposed to be fighting her. It’s like someone is-”

“Planting information in my head,” they finished together.

“Yeah, that’s how I feel too,” Harvey said. He tilted his head and studied Oliver.

Oliver opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes flickered to something behind Harvey. His eyes widened.

There was a whoosh sound, and then something hit Harvey in the back. He felt fine for a few seconds, then a piercing pain. No, piercing wasn’t really the right word. It didn’t quite capture Harvey’s sudden desire to sink into the ground and die. It felt like hundreds of white-hot needles were stabbing him at the same time. Any movement he made intensified the already unbearable pain, making it feel like someone was twisting a white-hot pole in his back.

His eyes bugged. He inhaled sharply and the ground was suddenly inches away from his face. Then the pain slowly subsided. The needles were gone. He released the breath he’d been holding. As he stood, a knife landed with a thump at his feet.

He turned. Constance had reappeared behind him, and she was holding more knives. Before he could react, another knife was flying at his face.

Harvey instinctively held his hands in front of his face. He wished he could teleport away.

***

The author sits back in her bed and admires her work. In just 30 minutes, she’d written over 1000 words, which was a new personal record. She was really enjoying herself, something that hadn’t happened in a very long time. The corners of her mouth turn up in a smile as she takes another sip of her coffee. 

“Boundless,” she whispers to no one. “It’s perfect.”

She lets out a laugh of pure joy. A story in which the characters have no limits had never been done before, but she was on a roll. She sets her mug down and continues writing, letting her fingers carry her away.

***

Harvey was still in the desert, but he was alone. He looked around for Constance and mentally prepared himself for knives to come flying through the air. 

There, in the distance, were two figures. One was flying and swooping down on the other, who was chucking small objects at blinding speeds. He assumed they were Oliver and Constance.

Harvey flew away quietly. He didn’t want to get involved again.

He landed on a sand dune and pulled his knees to his chest. “What do I do?” 

It seemed that he could do whatever his heart desired, but so could Constance. Whatever he could do to her, she could undo, or do the same to him. 

What was his purpose of being there? Why had he just appeared there? Did he have a life, before the desert and Constance?

“Hello, Harvey.”

A young woman had materialized next to him. She had dirty blonde hair piled into a messy bun. She was wearing gray sweatpants and an extremely baggy t-shirt with a large brown blotch on it. Her feet were bare.

Harvey should have been freaking out that a stranger knew his name, and no information about her presented itself in his brain, but his day had been too weird. He wouldn’t have been surprised if a giant turtle wearing a mini skirt fell from the sky.

A giant turtle wearing a mini skirt fell from the sky. Harvey didn’t even blink.

The woman laughed. “I’m assuming that was you?”

“I guess,” Harvey mumbled.

“Aren’t you wondering who I am?”

“Not really.”

The turtle was hobbling over to them. The woman reached up and stroked its head.

“You know, I always thought the author of a book would be worshipped, if they somehow managed to teleport into their book. I assumed everyone in their book would know their name. A shrine would be built where they had first been spotted. There would be a holiday marking the day they had first set foot in their made-up world,” she said.

Harvey turned and gave her an odd look. “Why would you say something like that?”

The woman gave him an amused smile. “Oh, no reason.”

He felt the wheels turning in his head. The way the woman knew his name. The way he just knew certain things. How he didn’t know anything about her. The smirks she was giving him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And that comment, about an author teleporting into their book…

“You’re an author. And this is your book. I’m a character.” He stood up and looked at her accusingly.

The woman jerked her head in his direction. Her eyes were round with surprise. “I… yes, you’re right.”

There was an awkward pause. 

“And you… you’re not surprised?”

Harvey sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not really.”

And he wasn’t. It made sense, considering the strange events of the day. The only thing that was even slightly shocking was the fact that he was a character. She thought him up in her head.

“So if you’re the author, then you must know everything about this world. Why things are the way they are.”

“I guess, yeah.”

“And not only do you know things, you made them the way they are. This is all a figment of your imagination.”

“Yes…”

“So why this? Why am I in the desert? Who is Constance, and why is she so bad? What’s my background? Did I have a family?”

The author looked to the ground. “I admit I didn’t do the best job with character development. Or explaining the plot. I was just experimenting with my characters being boundless.”

He involuntarily cringed when she referred to him as “her character”. It made him feel as if he belonged to her, not to himself. Like he had no control over his own life. Although, to be honest with himself, he didn’t.

“Boundless?”

“Yeah, boundless. There’s nothing you can’t do. If you can think it, it’ll happen.”

That explained the turtle in the mini skirt, which was now attempting to eat a cactus with little success. He didn’t necessarily wish for it, but he thought about it.

He thought about all the grains of sand in the desert turning to mini marshmallows.

A sea of mini marshmallows cropped up under his feet, and stretched for as far as the eye could see.

“Wow,” he said.

But the “wow” didn’t really show his awe. He could do anything. Literally anything. He could be as tall as a skyscraper if he wanted.

Whoosh. The author grew smaller and smaller, and then he could no longer see her. He looked up. The clouds were a lot closer than they were before. He could barely even see the turtle. He was ginormous, second only to the sky.

He wished to be back to his normal size as soon as the shock wore off. Crushing people under his foot was not on his to-do list for the day.

The author opened her mouth to say something. Before the words could come out of her mouth, a fireball the size of a grapefruit landed 10 feet away from Harvey’s left foot. Harvey shuddered. He hated fire.

He looked to the left. Something large and yellow was spitting fireballs in their direction. It was about half a mile away.

“I think that’s your cue to leave,” the author said.

Harvey gave her a nervous smile and teleported away.

***

The author sat back in the sand and put her hands behind her head. She was delighted. She had just gotten to meet her own character, the spawn of her own mind. What other author would ever get that opportunity?

As to how she got there… she had no idea. She was just typing, letting her fingers take over and carry her away. 

She supposed they had carried her too far. 

How would she get back? What if she was stuck in this world forever?

She told that annoying, overly paranoid part of her brain to cease its nagging. She was in a world created by her own imagination! How cool was that? It was unlikely that she would be able to ever come here again, so she may as well enjoy herself while she could. Her attention shifted to the giant yellow creature and watched the battle from afar.

***

Harvey was frustrated. He and Oliver were doing their best against the yellow, fireball spitting dragon, but Constance was always one step ahead of them. 

About ten minutes ago, Constance had summoned a dragon. It was yellow, with scales as hard as diamond and teeth that dripped acid, which burned straight through your clothes (Harvey learned that the hard way).

And if that wasn’t scary enough, it also breathed fire (which terrified him) and was taller than the Empire State Building. Harvey knew that for sure because he distinctly remembered visiting it with his family when he was ten. 

How did he know that? Maybe the author had added in some background info.

Oliver summoned a dragon too, but Constance’s had burnt it to a crisp before he was able to give it fire resistance. All that remained of it was a pile of ash.

Harvey didn’t feel too great. He had endless energy, but he was running out of ideas.

The dragon breathed fire straight into his face. Harvey flinched. He groaned as he waited for the blistering pain to go away. Slowly, his bright red arms returned to their normal peachy color, and the burning feeling in his face subsided. He wished for a new t-shirt. (Which happened to be his sixteenth that day)

He didn’t know how much longer he was willing to do this. 

“Oliver, we need a timeout,” he said.

Oliver turned to him. Unlike Harvey, he looked great, aside from his smoking clothes. “Why? We’re doing just fine.”

“I don’t know,” he dodged a swipe from the dragon’s claws. “I just think-” dodge, “-that this-” dodge, “-is kind of pointless.” He saw fire coming towards him at blazing speed (pun fully intended) and wished for a wave of water to counter it.

“Nah, man, we got this.” A bow and arrow appeared in Oliver’s hands. He drew the string, and whoosh, a perfect shot straight into the dragon’s mouth. There was a muffled explosion sound from inside the dragon, and it literally blew apart.

Harvey formed a force field around him and Oliver as dragon guts rained around them.

“See? This is easy!” Oliver grinned.

Before he knew it, there was another dragon. It was green this time, but it had wings, and was twice as scary-looking.

“But look!” he countered. “There’s another one!”

Oliver waved his hand, obviously dismissing his concerns. The dragon suddenly fell to the ground, dead. The thump it made when it fell shook Harvey’s jaw and almost made him bite his tongue off.

“H-how did you do that?” he stammered.

“Easy,” Oliver said. “I just wished for it to be dead.”

He slapped himself in the face. Why didn’t he think of that? 

Constance appeared in front of their force field. Her face was contorted in rage. She snapped her fingers, and what easily could have been a thousand dragons were suddenly beneath them, stretching into the horizon.

“When are you going to give up?” she hissed.

“Never!” Oliver said boldly.

Constance scowled and disappeared.

“Don’t you see?” Harvey said desperately. “Whatever we do, she can just make more of them! We’ll never be able to beat her!”

“But we have the same powers.”

“We’re thirteen-year-olds, and she’s an adult! She’s way smarter than us, and she knows how to handle her powers. She’s always one step ahead, and she always will be.”

“So what do you want us to do? Give up?”

Harvey was about to agree, then an idea popped into his head. 

“Do you think you can keep her occupied? There’s something I have to do.”

Oliver nodded, but it was too late. Harvey was gone.

He reappeared in front of the author. She was watching Oliver take down the entire army of dragons single-handedly.

“Harvey!” She sounded surprised. “ What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be helping Oliver?”

Harvey shook his head. “Why did you do this?” he blurted.

“Do what?”

He gestured wildly around him. “This. All of this. The limitless power. Why?”

 She shrugged. “I thought it would be fun. It’s entertaining to watch it play out.”

Entertaining?! 

“I’m entertainment to you?! I’m a human being! You can’t just mess around with my life whenever you want!”

The author looked a little guilty, but then her face turned to one of indifference. “Well, yeah, I can. You’re not real.”

Harvey still couldn’t quite wrap his head around that. He held out his hands and looked at them. They looked real. He pinched his arm. Felt real. He had feelings and thoughts and opinions. It didn’t seem plausible that he was fictional.

“Could you just make my life happy? Full of rainbows and ponies and no evil witches to defeat for unknown reasons?”

The author turned up her nose. “Who would buy that story? It wouldn’t sell.”

“How about you just take away Constance’s power? Then I can defeat her, and you can have your story!”

“What? No! That’s way too short of a story! There needs to be an actual plotline, a point where there’s no possible way the hero can make it out, a point where they overcome all the obstacles thrown at them and save the day! If I just hand you the means to win on a silver platter, then there’s no suspense, no climax, no excitement! No one would want to read that.”

“But how are we supposed to create a plotline if we can’t defeat her? She just keeps throwing dragons at us, and I can’t even keep my shirt from disintegrating!”

“Why don’t you just make your shirt fireproof?”

He smacked his face. “See! That’s exactly what I’m trying to say! I didn’t even think of that.” Why was he so stupid? He wished he was smarter. “My encephalon can’t comprehend the prodigious number of prospects and aptitudes at my disposal.”

His vocabulary had suddenly been amplified tenfold. Not only could he alter his physical appearance and conjure objects into existence, he could ameliorate his noetic abilities.

“Please speak English,” the author said.

“My sincerest apologies. Er, I mean, sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

He wished for his brain to go back to normal. His own mind was scaring him.

“You know, your personality is really interesting. You’ve somehow managed to retain your character traits from the original manuscript,” the author said, a curious glint in her narrowed eyes.

“Original manuscript?”

“Yeah. You didn’t think I just made you up for this story? You’ve existed in my brain and computer for the last three years. I deleted the original manuscript and added you in here.”

“You deleted my story?”

The author shrugged. “It wasn’t any good. I can always get it out of the trash folder, though. That is, for another thirty days. Then it’ll be deleted forever.”

Harvey wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Although he didn’t remember his life from the other story, he felt like a part of him had been erased, forgotten.

Or did he remember? Maybe that was where the Empire State memory came from. 

“Can… can you put me back in the original story?”

The author scoffed. “Why would you want that? Do you even know what the other story was about?”

“No,” Harvey admitted.

The author began to speak of magic, of heists and time travel. The more she talked, the more he remembered.

Scenes flashed by. He saw a younger version of himself watching a house burn, tears rolling slowly down his ash-covered face. Constance was hiding in the shadows nearby, grinning maliciously. He saw himself screaming in his sleep, no doubt in the middle of a nightmare. He sat huddled in a ball for the rest of the night. He saw himself levitating and shooting lightning from his palms at Constance. His haunted eyes were ringed with dark circles, and masked a touch of fear with unimaginable fury.

He saw himself meeting Oliver for the first time. He saw himself running into a black haired-girl in the midst of a war, and then he saw an older version of himself holding hands with that same girl. He saw himself walking and talking in a forest with a man who could only be his father. They had the same wavy brown hair and pointed nose.

It was the middle of the night. He was sneaking into a castle through the window. He was trembling with fear, but he continued regardless. The scene switched. He was holding a sword. Sweat dripped down his face. He thrust his arm forward and stabbed the sword into Constance’s gut. She fell to the ground and disintegrated. He turned to face Oliver and the black-haired girl, who both threw their arms around him. His grin lit up his whole face.

He was wearing a black tux and standing at an altar as the black-haired girl walked down the aisle. 

He was pacing outside a hospital room, and then a few seconds later he was holding a baby wrapped in a white blanket. She had the same pointed nose.

He was on the deck of a cruise ship, a little girl perched on his shoulders. She pointed to a pod of dolphins, jumping occasionally out of the water.

He was standing in the back of a crowd, holding hands with his wife while his daughter stood in front of a podium. She wore a blue gown, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. 

He was running out of a burning building, coughing, his face covered in ash. A car pulled up to the building, and his daughter got out. She was distraught; her face was red and puffy, and she wouldn’t stop screaming. Harvey looked at her, then back at the burning building. His face went from confused, to horrified, and settled on determined. Before his daughter could stop him, he was running back inside the burning building.

The scene flashed, and he was stumbling out of the building, carrying a little boy. The boy was almost unrecognizable while he was covered in ash and soot, but Harvey saw his pointed nose.

His daughter rushed to him. He handed the boy to her, then collapsed. The scene flashed again, and EMTs surrounded him. One pressed his fingers to the side of his neck, then looked at his daughter and shook his head.

He saw a crowd of people at the bottom of a hill, under a weeping willow. Graves were dispersed around the field. A graveyard. His vision tunneled and focused on his wife, who was in the center of the crowd and sobbing at the foot of a gravestone. It read:

Harvey Tristan Denmark. 2007-2057. If love could have saved you, you would live forever.

Harvey was jerked back to reality. He was lying in the sand, the author leaning over him.

“Are you ok?” she asked. 

“Yeahhhhhh…” Harvey said slowly.

“I was telling you about your story, and then all of a sudden you collapsed.”

“How long was I out?”

“About ten seconds.”

Ten seconds? He had just watched his entire life compressed into ten seconds? It felt like an eternity.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You look really shaken up.”

Harvey explained what he saw. The author turned pale. 

“That’s m-my s-story. I… I don’t understand…” she fidgeted with a hairband anxiously.

“Did you write all of that?”

“Well, no. I wasn’t going to write about you as an adult, but I planned for you to marry Diana…”

“Diana? Was she the black-haired girl?”

“Yes. I just don’t get how you knew about things I haven’t even written down yet.”

Harvey shrugged nonchalantly. He was still a little shocked from seeing himself die.

“Do you still want to go back to that, after seeing everything?”

Harvey nodded. He saw how much Other Harvey had endured, and he saw how it affected him. He had suffered, but he had friends, he got married, he had a grandchild. 

“Why, though? You have everything you need for a perfect life right here. You could turn this desert into a paradise. You could modify your brain’s level of intelligence until you come up with the perfect plan to defeat Constance. You could create a family. A perfect family. And perfect friends.You could live forever.”

If she had said that to him before he watched himself die, he would have jumped at the chance. But after watching the compressed version of his life, he didn’t. It didn’t seem so appealing anymore. He saw Other Harvey as a child afraid of fire, and then as a fifty-year-old man, willingly charging headfirst into it. He was perplexed. How important was this small child to him? What would possibly compel him to throw himself into his greatest fear? 

Whatever reason he had, Other Harvey had a good life. It wasn’t perfect, particularly during his younger years, but it was important. He doubted his immortal life would be as influential. It would be perfect, manufactured, and lifeless.

“I guess it’s better to live a short, meaningful existence than a long, insignificant one.”

The author nodded, then smiled. “I’ll scrap this, and continue with the original manuscript.”

Harvey jumped up and hugged her. “Thank you.”

She gently squeezed him back. She smelled like books and coffee.

Harvey let her go. “How will you get back?”

The author bit her lip. “I have a hunch. But I’ll have to test it.” She stepped back and closed her eyes. She looked like she was concentrating very hard.

She started to fade away. Before she was completely gone, she opened her eyes and looked at Harvey.

“Harvey, I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Her body continued to fade until all that was left of her was the lingering smell of books and coffee.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading my story! If you have any suggestions, advice, or would just like to share your thoughts, please do so! I hope you enjoyed it!

Reviews

[Hope]

Wow!
I read many stories within a single one. And that's quite difficult to write, for me at least. I liked the way you incorporated all the events till the conclusion. And a real good message you give out through this story. Glad to have read this!

[bookishmuggle]

Thank you so much for reviewing! I'm glad you liked it!

[Hope]

Always welcome:)

[Anjali]

Aah! Finally, I had time to get my hands on such a good long story after a long. Highly appreciate that you tried a different writing style. Challenging your writing skills is real fun and adventure.

[bookishmuggle]

Thank you for the feedback! Always appreciated :)
I'm glad you liked my style and yes it's always fun. I enjoyed writing this.

[alanwgraham]

Well done B. It's great to find another writer who is trying something different. I actually have a story I've started where the writer interacts with her story. These ideas can be complicated and don't always work out but as they say 'it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I don't know about you but my stories can lie about for ages, then I go back to them and there's a wow moment. Your story line is very ambitious. It's not really my own genre but you've carried it off.
Very well done B.
Take care
Alan

[bookishmuggle]

Thank you Alan for your review! Which story is that? I would love to read it.

[alanwgraham]

I have a story called The Nemesis Within on page 9 which took me ages and you might like. Someone said it's impossible to figure out till the end. Thanks again. Alan

[barleygirl]

I apologize . . . I could not finish your story. I'm not a fan of the "action" genre. I got about a third of the way thru it & I must say that your writing is so logical & clear & uncluttered, it's easy to follow the action, even tho I'm usually not one to get it. The reason I'm not a fan of this genre is becuz things just keep happening . . . and you do a great job of making the storyline pop & move along quickly . . . but for me, I need more character development & for these characters to have some connection, interacting in deeper, more meaningful ways, besides just fighting or messing with each other in crazy-sounding (but nicely imagined) ways. Most of the movies that come out are action movies, so the majority is in your favor. Lots of people love these kinds of stories, so this is just a preference thing. Your writing is strong & logical & easy to follow, full of energy & enthusiasm (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[bookishmuggle]

I understand. I was worried about there being too much action, but I decided that it was necessary for the characters to get used to their newfound powers, and for the reader to understand how it works. If others leave reviews similar to yours, then I may go back and cut out some of it.
I will say that there are some deeper interactions near the end. However, if you still don't want to finish it I completely understand.
I'm glad you like my writing style though! Thank you for reviewing! I really appreciate how you left both things that you liked and didn't like. That way I know what to change and what to keep doing.

[barleygirl]

I'll bookmark this for further reading . . .

[barleygirl]

OK, I read your story from the beginning again & I see that the first 1/3 or so does not represent what comes later at all. Maybe in that first part, you were trying a little too hard to make it clear that anything they think or wish for, happens. You do a great job of illustrating this thru action, but maybe you beat that drum a little too long & too often. That's what makes this story feel a little hard to plow thru. It feels like you want to make absolutely sure your audience gets what's going on, but you overdo that, repeating things & making the same point many times. I think readers are smarter than that. I think they pick up on nuances all the time. You don't leave much mystery for a reader to untangle, becuz you're so bent on making each step, each point, each phenomenon, perfectly clear. This isn't necessarily a bad thing . . . in a book for younger people, this might be perfect.

Anyhow, to respond to your story in its entirety . . . the concept of bringing the author into the story was interesting & clear & well-done, the author appeared in the story just often enuf so that it didn't become weird or bothersome or interrupting the storyline too often or much. I love the way you use an action storyline to create life lessons, such as showing how people aren't very imaginative when it comes to realizing how to use all the powers they have. I did get a little bored toward the end when the guy has that long flashback to a previous version of this story. I'm not into endings that go on & on, so maybe this would be more interesting to other readers. To me it felt like you were going on & on in a superficial action-film way for the first 1/3 and then you went on & on trying to establish & explain & illustrate a deeper meaning to your story for the last 1/3. I'm not saying this is good or bad. I honestly don't read this kind of story so I don't know how much people want to be entertained & how much they want to have a deeper meaning revealed!??! Just sharing my observations. But this is very strong organized storytelling that does exactly what you are trying to do, so I won't be surprised if you don't want to change it based on anything I've said. My response is only meant as fodder to keep in mind as you continue writing stories. Thanks for urging me to continue reading . . .

[bookishmuggle]

Thank you for giving it another chance! I didn't even consider the possibility that I was driving the concept too hard. If anything, I was worried that I wasn't explaining enough. I will go back and see what I can cut out (during the action and flashback scenes).
I'm really glad you liked the idea of the author coming in. I was worried it might be a little too weird, but apparently it worked just fine.
Thanks again Margie :)