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I would have held my boredom responsible.Wandering about colony 45712 at around this time was a risk, a risk to be cornered by only the most frustrating individuals one could encounter in these parts. The wind breezes by with a force that could knock one down, and still I feel almost nothing. I wince, though, as the loose strands of my hair strike my face sharply. The nearby clusters of children howl in overlapping laughter, I recognize the familiar words triggering their amusement. Words that somehow, despite my hidden hatred, haul me in their direction. The crisp glow of twilight begins to take its toll on me and on the surroundings.

I take my time as I stride down the run-down pavement of the lane leading to my family’s new house. We move constantly, nearly all families do, considering how impossible it is to reside in one dwelling for too long. Not in this day and age. I give all houses a month—a month or two, at the most. Before they begin to fall apart. Tiny, compressed things, they all are. Built with the weakest, papery wood obtainable. They are a little bigger than shacks, but I’m not quite sure which would last longer, I’m willing to bet on the latter. The community government provides for all. Obviously. Or who else could ever have afforded the continuous moving? You lose your place and they’ll give you a new one. In the community. Always in the community. Over and over.

I grab onto the pole of an old, bent metal sign as I nearly slip through the icy concrete. It read ‘Watch your step. Sincerely, the Ashville community’. At least it has its uses. Ashville. While the majority of our population chooses that title over the alternative, quite a few, myself included, are fond of the old-fashioned term, colony 45712.

Colony 45712. The very thought of the term creates a conflicted feeling within myself. The depressing feeling of grief, and the silly amusement. There was a time, long ago, when. . . I shake my head, feeling more ridiculous than amused. As I take a sharp turn to my right, the children's cries of awe become more deafening than I could bear. I may be exaggerating, of course. I pass the community garden, and gaze for a moment at colourless representation of what should be a multicoloured paradise. The black-and-white assembly of dead, rotting flowers, the brittle, gray leaves on the shrinking trees, the wind swirls of paper bits and litter. And for an instant, resent fills me. Then, another second later, the expected question pops, resent for whom? I clench my teeth, and turn away from the revolting scene as quickly as I could. Tired of arguing with myself over the unanswerable question.

Third person:

Regardless of the inadequate hours of sleep, Cornelia had the energy of a woman who’s slept ten hours. The girls were still sleeping quietly, dead to the world. Her brother, on the other hand, was gone. For a moment, she wondered why she felt terrible; her hands trembled at every movement, her legs wobbled unsteadily as she stood. Then, a second after, the dreadful memory passed quickly into her head.

She could hear their Social worker’s voice through the telephone.

‘You’re getting transferred, you and your brother, I’ll come for you in two days.’ There was silence after that. ‘No need to pack a lot.’

No need to pack a lot. To most that may seem like a normal order, a usual advice. Cornelia, however, couldn't help but laugh as the words repeated themselves. Now, kneeling on the floor, she laughed once more as she drew out her rucksack from beneath the bed, where she accidentally dropped it in her sleep. All her scanty belongings were thrown hastily into the bag, and yet it remained quite hollow. The room was silent still, a small number of beds were empty, leaving their sheets in a state, and the majority remained asleep. Cornelia debated whether it would be worth hearing their irritable, morning grumblings as final words of goodbye.

Sighing, she stood up. Cornelia took the rare tranquility of the dormitory in, and hoped that it would stay fresh as her very last image of the dormitory she had grown so accustomed to. Her eyes lingered pensively from the broken shutters that now stayed immobile, to the far, grimy corner where she spent countless stormy evenings gathered around the children, soothing them with tales, stories. . .

Cornelia felt a burning sensation on her throat, one she has not felt in a rather long period of time—she knew, then, that it was time to go. She strapped the rucksack on her scrawny body, and left the room without another glance.

I would have held my boredom responsible.Wandering about colony 45712 at around this time was a risk, a risk to be cornered by only the most frustrating individuals one could encounter in these parts. The wind breezes by with a force that could knock one down, and still I feel almost nothing. I wince, though, as the loose strands of my hair strike my face sharply. The nearby clusters of children howl in overlapping laughter, I recognize the familiar words triggering their amusement. Words that somehow, despite my hidden hatred, haul me in their direction. The crisp glow of twilight begins to take its toll on me and on the surroundings.

I take my time as I stride down the run-down pavement of the lane leading to my family’s new house. We move constantly, nearly all families do, considering how impossible it is to reside in one dwelling for too long. Not in this day and age. I give all houses a month—a month or two, at the most. Before they begin to fall apart. Tiny, compressed things, they all are. Built with the weakest, papery wood obtainable. They are a little bigger than shacks, but I’m not quite sure which would last longer, I’m willing to bet on the latter. The community government provides for all. Obviously. Or who else could ever have afforded the continuous moving? You lose your place and they’ll give you a new one. In the community. Always in the community. Over and over.

I grab onto the pole of an old, bent metal sign as I nearly slip through the icy concrete. It read ‘Watch your step. Sincerely, the Ashville community’. At least it has its uses. Ashville. While the majority of our population chooses that title over the alternative, quite a few, myself included, are fond of the old-fashioned term, colony 45712.

Colony 45712. The very thought of the term creates a conflicted feeling within myself. The depressing feeling of grief, and the silly amusement. There was a time, long ago, when. . . I shake my head, feeling more ridiculous than amused. As I take a sharp turn to my right, the children's cries of awe become more deafening than I could bear. I may be exaggerating, of course. I pass the community garden, and gaze for a moment at colourless representation of what should be a multicoloured paradise. The black-and-white assembly of dead, rotting flowers, the brittle, gray leaves on the shrinking trees, the wind swirls of paper bits and litter. And for an instant, resent fills me. Then, another second later, the expected question pops, resent for whom? I clench my teeth, and turn away from the revolting scene as quickly as I could. Tired of arguing with myself over the unanswerable question.

Third person:

Regardless of the inadequate hours of sleep, Cornelia had the energy of a woman who’s slept ten hours. The girls were still sleeping quietly, dead to the world. Her brother, on the other hand, was gone. For a moment, she wondered why she felt terrible; her hands trembled at every movement, her legs wobbled unsteadily as she stood. Then, a second after, the dreadful memory passed quickly into her head.

She could hear their Social worker’s voice through the telephone.

‘You’re getting transferred, you and your brother, I’ll come for you in two days.’ There was silence after that. ‘No need to pack a lot.’

No need to pack a lot. To most that may seem like a normal order, a usual advice. Cornelia, however, couldn't help but laugh as the words repeated themselves. Now, kneeling on the floor, she laughed once more as she drew out her rucksack from beneath the bed, where she accidentally dropped it in her sleep. All her scanty belongings were thrown hastily into the bag, and yet it remained quite hollow. The room was silent still, a small number of beds were empty, leaving their sheets in a state, and the majority remained asleep. Cornelia debated whether it would be worth hearing their irritable, morning grumblings as final words of goodbye.

Sighing, she stood up. Cornelia took the rare tranquility of the dormitory in, and hoped that it would stay fresh as her very last image of the dormitory she had grown so accustomed to. Her eyes lingered pensively from the broken shutters that now stayed immobile, to the far, grimy corner where she spent countless stormy evenings gathered around the children, soothing them with tales, stories. . .

Cornelia felt a burning sensation on her throat, one she has not felt in a rather long period of time—she knew, then, that it was time to go. She strapped the rucksack on her scrawny body, and left the room without another glance.

Your words are simply beautiful. The way you phrase your sentences is so captivating. Regardless if you write this in first or third person I think it will be a phenomenal book. However, you may want to remove this question before someone else steals your work and marks it as their own. But again, excellent writing.

Third person, for sure. I felt slightly disconnected to the character in the first person passage, which shouldn't happen. Your third person is lovely though.

Writing in the first person often becomes tiresome. The narrator's ego tends to get in the way of the story.