User:Mhaille/Third-Person Limited Omniscient
“The reader reached across for their thesaurus and vigorously began to skim through the pages...”
Their stubby fingers thumb through the pages, passing tinge and tolerate before skipping back. "Thraldom? What sort of a word is that?" they silently wonder, before their dark and empty eyes dart upwards searching out the required word. They scan the definition, several times, in an effort to get their head around the concept.
- third person - noun grammatical forms, such as pronouns and verbs, used when referring to the person or thing spoken or written of, not to the person speaking or writing or to the person or persons address.
Their agile mind moves to consider the tub of Ben and Jerry's icecream in their wellstocked freezer. It is "Chunky Monkey" flavour, their favourite. Look down at their thick thighs they mumble a vow to exercise more. Maybe next week. For now they attempt to focus on searching through the index of that book on how to write good, but still this is very unclear. "Maybe another search through the thesaurus might help?" they think to themselves whilst slurping on a kingsize Coke Cola.
- limited - adj confined within bounds; lacking imagination or originality.
Unbeknown to the reader their partner of four years is having an affair with their best friend. Their lack of intellect is an issue, but the main issue they have with them is the sex, or more to the point the lack of it. Also the quality when they do get around to play hide the salami.
- omniscient - adj knowing all things.
"Erm....." they mumble, beads of sweat forming on your fevered brow. The thesaurus falls from their amble lap. They look around the room hoping to find a source of inspiration, as writers have done since the dawn of history, pausing to admire their poster of Jessica Alba, before going off to look it up on Wikipedia.
The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on, and gently took the needle off the record. Listening to The Doors always placed him in a good mood before he set out for work. His thoughts escaped to his plans that evening, visiting his family. A warm smile spread across his lips at the thought of seeing his sister and mother again. Still smiling, the killer left the room.
The reader's thoughts escape to poems half-forgotten:
- Strange is the night where black stars rise,
- And strange moons circle through the skies,
- But stranger still is,
- Lost Carcosa.
Lines from a myriad of books entered their mind's eye, a flow of words and ideas and dreams washing over them. Almost silently the lurker at the threshold approached.
And the Lamb lies down on Broadway
|“||How wonderful to be so profound, when everything you are is dying underground...||”|
Early morning Manhattan, ocean winds blow on the land. The Movie Palace is now undone, the all-night watchmen have had their fun. Sleeping cheaply on the midnight show, its the same old ending. Time to go.
“From my close observation of writers... they fall into two groups: 1) those who bleed copiously and visibly at any bad review, and 2) those who bleed copiously and secretly at any bad review...”
The Author widely recognized his ramblings as a significant contemporary work that frames the desire for meaning and the quest for knowledge within the social and political contexts of the late 20th Century and early 21st Century. Disappointed that his work had failed to win any prestigious book awards he took solace that his writing would be appreciated by pretentious, elitist snobs everywhere.
Taking one last sip of absinthe he gently closed his thesaurus.