"Then Clark rode into the sunset in search of new adventures."

That was where the book ended–– the last book in the series. That’s right! Clark Hoover, exploring extraordinaire, was having no more adventures, because the creator had called it quits. Now I was in limbo, the nothingness between novels.

Honestly, I couldn't blame him. He was getting tired of writing me. If he had new ambitions to write about, there was nothing I could do to stop him. But would it have killed him to end with a little more finality? I mean, I’ve got an urge for adventure that won’t satisfy itself! How cruel could the guy be to leave his protagonist riding to the sunset this bored?

What use was my complaining though when there was no one to hear me. I was dead after that final sentence; it said so in the author’s notes. My memory was a passing on–– the fact I was written in past tense stood as testament to that. Limbo was a purgatory of sorts for literary nobodies. It was a fitting punishment for any character: drag him out of his context and abandon him on a blank page with no setting or plot to follow. Until I absolve whatever sins my author left as footnotes for me, I was staying right here.

Was it resent that I felt? Not really. I had to thank my creator for letting me exist in the first place; I would be another fragment of his imagination if he hadn't put me on paper. Just like Dave the Pirate from that novel he abandoned years ago.

You don't know who he is? Of course not. Dave never manifested into an actual character. In fact, he was so underdeveloped that he probably never even knew he was gone. Thoughts fade, but books survive. They were concrete evidence, so the world would know we were here.

I had an entire series for readers to remember me by. We could always go on grand adventures so long as the books were intact. Even if they forgot me, they would never forget the experience. When I thought about it that way, I did at least have a decent legacy.

Maybe it was time for Clark Hoover to finally retire.

I got that far before someone took hold of the world and shook it. The click of a pen bellowed like thunder in limbo, filling the emptiness with wonderful sound. I knew it! The creator realized it wasn’t too late for a revival! Then, I saw the ink. From a crack in the blank page, it spilled out like a stream of tar. The ink dried quickly, leaving behind a title in its wake.

"Clark Hoover and the Rippling Walls: A Fan–made Story."

Wait, ‘fan–made?’ The thought of following a plot that was not my creator’s was something blasphemous in literature. But then again, there was no shame in expanding one’s horizons. It’s what I did for a living anyway… impossible things and unheard of endeavours.

To h--- with it. I was back in action!