Stolen

I'm writing a new book, loosely titled Stolen.   I've just started. Literally. I'm one page in.  I have worked out a plot, conflicts, stakes, etc., but now I'm trying to decide if this story is more interesting in first person or third person.

So, internet world, what do you think? Help me create the break out novel, give me your thoughts. Here is the same page, written both ways:

OPTION ONE

I hate you. Oh God. I hate you. So much.

I stood at the kitchen sink. My brain stuttered under the tender mahogany gaze. Eyes the size of eggs, sunk deep in a massive head, peered at me from behind the glass. I pulled my hands free from the lukewarm dishwater and struck the window, gray suds unintentionally artistic.

 “Get outta’ here!” I pounded rhythmically, desperate. “Fuck. Ing. Thief!”

The ichor of my rage stopped the twins’ excited chatter from the highchairs behind me but had no effect on the elk. She simply chewed and stared. Chewed, stared and occasionally parted domino-sized teeth to delicately pluck rosemary, thyme and cilantro from my window box.  The rest of the herd moved heavily through the mist in the yard, heads buried in the carrot beds and blueberry bushes.

“Momma, why you no like deer?” Oliver held his oatmeal covered hands palm up, an adult gesture of questioning. Jack, seizing his chance, bashed Ollie in the nose with a red plastic spoon, screeching, “We hate deer, too!”

I shook my bruised knuckles at the beast beyond the window. “See what you’ve done!”

I limped to the boys, soothing and re-directing, seething behind my Momma façade. “All right, all right, let’s get the show on the road, boys, you’re gonna’ be late.” Momma needs to hunker down on the couch, spend some quality time feeling righteous over those housewives in New Jersey.

Jack of the red spoon waved and wailed. “We hate pre-school.” Ollie nodded frantically, beating his blue spoon on the highchair until he realized the opportunity for revenge was upon him. I caught his wrist just as the cereal was to be loosed onto his brother’s face.

 “Put that in your mouth, Ollie. No were else.”

 “Speaking of mouths, you should watch yours, Gwen.” Justin emerged from the shadows, white in the gloom. He took the cup of coffee out of my hand, my coffee, and walked away. Drinking my coffee. Thief.

OPTION 2

I hate you. Oh God. I hate you. So much.

She stood at the kitchen sink. Her brain stuttered under the tender mahogany gaze. Eyes the size of eggs, sunk deep in a massive head, peered at her from behind the glass.  Gwen pulled her hands free from the lukewarm dishwater and struck the window, gray suds unintentionally artistic.

 “Get outta’ here!” She pounded rhythmically, desperate. “Fuck. Ing. Thief.”

The ichor of her rage stopped the twins’ excited chatter from the highchairs behind her but had no effect on the elk. She simply chewed and stared. Chewed, stared and occasionally parted domino-sized teeth to delicately pluck rosemary, thyme and cilantro from the window box.  The rest of the herd moved heavily through the mist in the yard, heads buried in the carrot beds and blueberry bushes.

“Momma, why you no like deer?” Oliver held his oatmeal covered hands palm up, an adult gesture of questioning. Jack, seizing his chance, bashed Ollie in the nose with a red plastic spoon, screeching, “We hate deer, too!”

Gwen shook her bruised knuckles at the beast beyond the window. “See what you’ve done!”

She limped to the boys, soothing and re-directing, seething behind her Momma façade. “All right, all right, let’s get the show on the road, boys, you’re gonna’ be late.” Momma needs to hunker down on the couch, spend some quality time feeling righteous over those housewives in New Jersey.

Jack of the red spoon waved and wailed. “We hate pre-school.” Ollie nodded frantically, beating his blue spoon on the highchair until he realized the opportunity for revenge was upon him. Gwen caught his wrist just as the cereal was to be loosed onto his brother’s face.

 “Put that in your mouth, Ollie. No where else.”

 “Speaking of mouths, you should watch yours, Gwen.” Justin emerged from the shadows, white in the gloom. He took the cup of coffee out of her hand, her coffee, and walked away. Drinking her coffee. Thief.