Third Person Fiction      The paint felt cool and smooth as her hand swept across the billboard’s surface. Then she noticed her dirty fingernails against the clean background and quickly hid them behind her soiled and tattered dress. She glanced about for any disapproving adults on the lookout for homeless kids like herself.      Feeling sure there was no danger, she turned her attention back to the vibrant colors of the cartoon image. The smile on her grimy olive face, revealed yellow and missing teeth between parched lips. When she realized the scene included adults reaching for a happy girl, her smile vanished. She leaned closer to study the intentions of the adults in the scene, her brown, slanted eyes continually questioning the girl’s happy look.      "Hi...I’m Vivian," she whispered to the cartoon girl. "Why do you look so happy?"

First Person Fiction      Oh, these bags of rice smell so good and feel so warm! I hope they last a long time, then I won‘t have to dig through gross garbage cans for a while... or beg. I hate begging. I feel so.. so... ugly when people roll their eyes and walk around me.      I would work for money if someone would let me. Street boys, like José, say I’ll never get good work because I‘m a dumb girl who takes care of starving brats. Well! who else is going to take care of them? His gang is so mean, and so scary. I hope that none of them saw us come to this side of the amphitheater tonight. If they feel greedy, nothing stops them from taking our food.      I’m so tired of being afraid. I wonder if I’ll go crazy like that nutsy old bag lady.

Objective Description      She was the first figure to emerge from the dark, humid shadows that night in Rizal Park, in Manila. Smaller children crouched and slinked behind her, but she walked with steady feet into the light surrounding the Relief truck. On her narrow hip she balanced a fragile toddler who clung to her oversized, tattered and sleeveless dress.      Her hair was jet black, but it was longer and thicker than the other girl’s, and it almost appeared tidy compared to the other heads of disheveled and matted hair. I went to meet her, bowing slightly. She courteously did the same. The other children giggled at her, but she sharply shushed them with her glaring green eyes.      "Your bata?" I asked kindly, pointing towards the toddler she carried.      "Abá!?" she said surprisingly. "No, no! Bata...no mama," she said sadly, patting the child’s scaly scalp, then kissing it affectionately.