SSS Week Six: The Character

Welcome to week six of Short Story Sunday, dearies! The prompt for today will be:

Use a first-person omniscient point of view: the narrator is a character in the story, but also knows everything about it.

To elaborate a bit more, both first-person and omniscient is used in writing as point of views. In the first-person point of view, the narrator of the tale is in the story and telling it in their own perspective. Phrases such as I, me, and mine are used. The Great Gatsby, The Fault in Our Stars, and To Kill A Mockingbird are a few examples of books written in the first-person POV. 

A narrator who is omniscient knows everything-- including the outcome of the story. Usually, this point of view is used specifically with third-person-- using phrases such as him, her, he, she, they, &c. The Scarlet Letter and The Book Thief are two examples of books written in the omniscient POV. 

To be honest, I've no idea why this story turned out as it did. I just wrote and wrote and this is the outcome. It may be a tad bit strange, but hey, I'm strange, too. Strange is the new cool.



I met him here at this little rustic park bench on this autumn morning. Or, really, I will meet him here in four minutes and fifteen, nay fourteen, nay thirteen seconds. I scan over the print in the volume I'm reading.

Reading. It's a rather dull word. However, I suppose I only think this because She says it much differently. She describes my actions as: "ingesting the novel with his grey, observing orbs", whereas I would merely say: "reading". Then again, She's bound to have more imagination, more creativity. After all, She is a writer.

I like her phrase. Though I am simply reading, her way of putting it is just so much more... romantic, I suppose. It tells a lot, I think. After all, one can read the back of a cereal box or shampoo bottle. But that's all it is. Reading. And, I figure, if someone ingests a work with their own eyes, they must really enjoy it. They must be so... anaesthetised in it.

It's good, very good. Better than good. I am devoured into the story as I devour it with my "grey, observing orbs". But the title is unknown as of yet. She won't mention it for another three minutes and twenty-four, nay twenty-three seconds.

The book is key in this story. It's what ends a chapter and starts a new one. It's the last enjoyment I'll have. After this, I am no more. Of course, they will mention me. I'll come back in flashbacks and memories. But I will be no more until someone decides to read the story again.

Minutes pass but I am not bored. After all, the novel is thrilling.

He spots me from across the empty park, hands shoved in the pockets of his long tweed coat. I don't know this, however. I don't see it. But She describes him wonderfully. She mentions his dark eyes behind his dark lashes, his still posture and the way his fingers brush against the box of cigarettes in his pocket. He will offer one to me. I will be naive and take one. Then the book will be mentioned.

He strides over and sits beside me. I am too absorbed in my book to notice. Then he speaks: "Interesting read?"

I recognise the voice and nod, saying nothing.

He pulls the cigarette box from his pocket, opening and offering one of its contents to me. "Cigarette?"

I accept and take one, putting it between my lips and allowing the older gentleman to light it for me. I still remain silent.

"Murder on the Orient Express?"

I nod and finally speak up: "I enjoy mysteries."

And then it ends. The chapter, I mean. As the reader turns the next page, I feel a lump begin to form in my throat, a churn begin a steady rhythm in my stomach. Chapter twenty-seven. It's my least favourite in all of the story. I don't know it yet, but I will be dead by the end of it. In only the turn of three pages, the man will stab me in the heart. Blood will pour from my open mouth and I will die with my grey orbs-- which had been ingesting an Agatha Christie novel only a chapter before-- wide open.

But I don't know. Or, really, pretend I don't. All for the sake of the story. All for a gasp to erupt from the reader in shock as it happens.

The conversation continues and he mentions my father. He is my father.

"Your old man likes 'em, too. Arthur Conan Doyle's his favourite."

"My father is dead," I respond in innocence.

He doesn't correct, giving me the false impression that my statement is correct.

"Do you remember him, your old man?"

I tell him I don't.

He tells me he does and compliments the man. He is a rather cocky character, complimenting his own self.

After minutes he admits it: "Luke, I am your father."

She put that in purposely. She named me Luke all for the sake of that one quote, I just know.

I tell him he isn't. That was the wrong move on my part, for things will get heated. We will argue. I will exclaim that he isn't my father, he will shout he is. I will soon agree and say that he is a terrible excuse for a father, will point out his crimes and flaws. And he will get red-faced, angry, and stab me.

And then I end. She decides to kill me by my own father's blade. I would argue with her but, then again, She is the author of this story. Not me.  



If you don't understand, basically this is a story written in the point of view of a character of a book. The character is aware of the outcome, for he replays his "scenes" every time the book is read.

I've always been curious about characters breaking the fourth wall (when a character is aware that they are, in fact, merely a character) and I decided to take advantage of this prompt and try it out for myself. Hope you lot enjoyed!