Book Of Narratives

untitled

Hi,

So this is a piece I did for like a practice question with a photo, the one that I smugly got 35 marks out of 40 marks, and now, thankfully, I can add it to my book.

When I had to do this practice question, and while I was writing it, I got inspiration from this song my dad was playing in the car, booming out, and it was in my head. The video gave me the inspiration. But, it ain't a very modern song or anything. I don't even know if much people would know this but it was by a singing duo called Milli Vanilli.

My teacher couldn't even believe it when I told her. It was so funny. Oh, and she showed off this piece to other English teachers, and me, I was smiling like a bloody meerkat. My jaw hurt.

I also want to say, that this picture that I have on here, is NOT the actual picture, but i cannot find the picture on the internet, so I had to settle with a similar one, even though it is not the actual one I used. but, oh well.

But yeah. I am rambling.

So, I hope you enjoy it.

**

I awake suddenly, as the sound of the cold, dense and forceful waves splashing coarsely and madly, floods my ears and drowns my hearing. I look out of the window of my beach house. The wild ocean hits the clumps of ebony like a drum. The sky is painted in various shades of grey, and in the distance, I can just about see the translucent yacht that was once heading my way; now leaving the harbour, leaving the country, leaving me. Slowly disappearing. Out of sight.

Regret.

Regret is what I feel at the nostalgic memory that reminds me of the mistake I made all those weeks ago, as if mocking me. A terrible tragedy. A horrible misunderstanding. And I lost everything.

I was taking a stroll across the bay, having decided to clear my mind, when a yacht came floating into the harbour. The sky was a clear, cloudless blue, filled with planes, flocking birds, kites flowing with the wind from the field ahead.

Coming off the yacht, an African-American man stood, clad in black jeans, white tank top, dreadlocks, and bandana. He had an air of confidence, yet not arrogance. His head held high, unafraid of the looks of disgust and judgement he was given.

Two days later, purely by coincidence, we had bumped into each other in the supermarket; while I was on the fruit stall, he was going to the art aisle, looking for art supplies. It was where he mentioned that I had lovely eyes, saying that he wanted to paint them.

If that isn't a pickup line, what is?

So, after not much persuasion on his part, I came to his temporary flat, where he started to paint me.

Looking back on it, I wish I hadn't persuaded him to sell his artwork, because maybe he would still be here with me, not going off to sea, his painting destroyed, his talent wasted.

On the night of the gallery tour, where his artwork was on show, the picture he had painted of me hung hugely on the wall, for all to see. Now, it wasn't the fact that the picture was explicit, it just felt like everybody close enough was analysing it, comparing me, looking for any noticeable imperfections or flaws.

I felt scrutinised.

That misunderstanding is what left me heartbroken, what left us broken.

I wipe the tears away with my hand as I stare out to sea, the waves of water washing out the memories of the track of the yacht. As if, he wasn't here in the first place.

I don't know what happened to the painting, but I wish I could have some sort of memory, other than the memories in my mind, and in my heart; the memories causing inner turmoil.

Maybe, one day, he will return from his voyage across the world via sea. And maybe my memories might change, and I will be able to see him...

Some day.

**

By the way, I have put the title as untitled as I don't know what to call it. So, someone, anyone, help me out and think of one. Please? Cause my brain cells are too tired to come up with a suitable title