Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint Art Novels & Stories

For I didn’t only hear the tale in the words. I saw it. I tasted it. I smelled it. Not through my own eyes, but through the eyes of those who had been with me, the perspective moving from person to person, giving me a bizarre sensation of omniscience. Like…like I was seeing events as the gods did. I observed myself, jaw pulled tight and amber eyes ablaze with anxiety, my step awkward and tortured. All around me, there were gasps as people in the audience felt an echo of what each step had been like for me, and I flinched.

My Guards assure me he's still there, which means at least that he's not escaping. I can't shake the uneasy feeling though. It's completely drained me. “I'm going to see a Gaze Reader,” I mutter of a spoon of cereal. Gaze Readers are magical beings from the Devotion Pack. They have the ability to look into your eyes and see what you have seen, and what you will. I need to know if what I've been seeing is real, or just a fabrication in my mind. “I suppose that's an option,” Cal mused, giving me an immediate feeling that he's not fully opposed to the idea, however, seems speculative.

The Reader stumbled backward. Their faceless hood twisted violently, body bending in impossible angles. “You’re not supposed to hesitate!” they gasped. Liora clutched the book to her chest. “Then maybe this isn’t the final chapter.” “You can’t stop what’s been written,” the Reader hissed. “You can’t outrun the ending!” The floor cracked beneath them, Not ground, But text, Pages of her life peeling apart like skin, And rising from between them, Was a figure made entirely of titles. No face, No features.

"Nobody else appreciates the worth. They think we are crazy." Jonah had looked up, his eyes shining with a fierce, possessive triumph. "But we do know, Robert. That's the point. They see coal and wood. We see the geometry of fear. We see the syntax of power. We are cartographers of the unseen. What could be more valuable than that?" We. He had said we.

another marveled, leaning slightly toward a vivid impressionist piece, “The texture, and depth. It’s extraordinary. You can feel the emotion radiating from it.” And this, Isla pointed to the next one, “The Veil of Solitude by Schwartz Stuart,” she smiled, “It is an image of a person sitting in a room with walls made of flowing water, while their silhouette blends into the surroundings,” she turned to them, her eyes studying them to gauge their interest.

I could feel the words being processed, translated into pixels and light on a screen somewhere far beyond this field. The Eye blinked. The clouds around it swirled, forming into the shape of a colossal, transparent hand that descended toward the ground. It didn't try to crush me. It hovered, palm up, waiting. "It wants a conclusion," the Reader said, appearing at my side. Their form was fading now, becoming a sketch of pencil lines. "The Archive was a prison. This field is a sanctuary. But the Audience... they want an ending. They want to know if the tragedy was worth the price of the ticket."

This, Dear Reader, is my leap to a world beyond the cycle of clichés. Book IV Vision

he says. "The whole city the way you feel it," I say. "Not the way a drawing usually works — one subject, one frame. The way the city is." I pause. "The cartographer made a two-dimensional map. Senna made three-dimensional frameworks. You have been reading cities in a fourth dimension since before you knew you were reading anything." I look at his hand. "Draw in the dimension you actually perceive." He looks at the sketchpad. He opens it. He begins.

"The city is harder. It moves. The olive tree holds still." "The city holds still if you find the right angle," I said. "The part of it that doesn't change." She looked at the view with the assessing quality I recognised from the office — the artist's eye, the person who was always doing two things at once, looking and translating the looking into something else. "Maybe," she said.