3 Point of view studiesA) 1st person, Present tense:
"Well, it's just cartoons, isn't it?"
"No," did she even read the things I handed in?
"I mean, these are just concepts - ideas- for the costumes."
I hate it. I loath and detest it with all my being. The way she just trails off like that. She sounds like a social worker or something.
She rises - She's allowed yo sit on the table, you see. But we're not. Oh no - and I revert my attention to my artistic genius spread on the table before me.
That God-awful, patronising voice again;
"So what's this done in? Pen?"
No, it's not pen, you imbecile. You're an art teacher and you can't distinguish between two hugely different mediums?
"Ehm, no, it's watercolour,"
I indicate to the palette and water pot on the table. You know, the one's I'm using right now.
B) 3rd person, Past tense (Limited to one person's thoughts though)
It wasn't exactly realism. Figures though. That's a start. She did so like her figure drawing. Who didn't? She smiled as she conte
A little less than hateA steady panting provides a metronome to our situation.
"Wow it's hard!"
"A little to the left. Go faster!"
"I can't go any faster!"
"Well you're not doing any good like that!"
"It's already over? So much for you being great at this,"
"Well I'd like to see you do better!" Snaps Douglas, throwing the game controller down in anger.
"You just needed to hit triangle a couple of times back there,"
"It's not that easy! And the sound effects are really irritating in this one. It's like someone's constantly
breathing down your neck,"
"I think that's the point," Alaric leans down to pick up the discarded control. He selects to start a new game.
"What the hell am I going to do, man?"
"Don't know. Kill yourself, by the sound of things,"
"Worst - Moral support - Ever."
"Yep. Why should I care what you do with your life?"
"'Cause you're a priest? It's pretty much your job to care,"
"You make a fair point."
The dramatic opening cutscene dances across the television screen, distracting them b
AstroillogicalA voice echoes through the stairwell and into the room. A sing-songy voice; hopelessly untalented but ever so lively. So chirpy. So content with its very existence that one couldn't help but smile. The woman skipped merrily into the apartment, ignoring the visitor or, perhaps, not even registering him to begin with. She busied herself with the singular dandelion she held between thumb and forefinger - it came complete with roots and flaking earth - arranging it in a vase of an empty wine bottle with the utmost of care, as though treating the rarest, most exotic orchid.
"Ahem," he coughed.
"Oh? Oh! You must be Alaric!" she sang, tripping up slightly on the corner of the floor rug in her excitement to greet her guest.
"Such a beautiful name."
"...Thank you," he replied, an air of confusion in his voice. Truly a bewildering creature if ever he had met one. Her hair - somewhere between ginger and strawberry blonde - was held up in the most ridiculous fashion with decorative flowers and ins
The ZodiatticIf it had been heavy before, now it was overpowering. The sickly sweetness of sandalwood incense was enough to make the strongest person instinctively gag. The thick smoke made good it's escape through the door and small window which had both been left ajar, polluting, one may suspect, other innocents unfortunate enough to venture past.
This attic was never still - never quiet. A chorus of sounds like bells played their irregular melody. It wasn't until the smoke had cleared and your eyes had stopped tearing up and stinging quite so much that you could register their source - a collection of colourful wind chimes dotted across the ceiling in a pattern equally sporadic to the song they sang.
Such eccentricity. Who could possibly think to decorate in such a manner? The chaise longue was adorned with flamboyant trinkets and embellishments and was certainly a thing to look at, though hardly a comfortable rest by any standards.
The walls were decorated with children's abstract drawings in b
FINISH MY STORY - THE ROOMA perfectly rectangular, pinewood door with a single window. The glass in of the variety one finds in bathrooms - patterned and rough to the touch. With the door closed as it is, you can only make out the abstracted colors of the room behind the door. You reach for the handle - a smooth, brass, circular door knob. Like some unknown force wills you to do so, you twist your hand and push the door open.
A room as perfectly rectangular as the door, in neutral tones. Subtle, floral patterns decorate the wallpaper. On the wall opposite you, velvet curtains in scarlet hang lifelessly, hiding a vast window. In the centre of the room stands a grand piano. The room - it emanates a certain warmth but with no obvious source. You walk into the room, your bare feet tentively expecting to meet with the harsh wooden floor, but instead sinking into a soft material. Looking down, the you find the wooden floor you had observed previously has become a thick carpet, springing from the wooden floor in much