This a narrative I have to write for my English c/w, and I sort of like it. I'm going to pretend I posted this in March so it doesn't mess up my '3 posts a month' pattern.
We had to base it on someone being stuck in a cuboid and couldn't get out - for my narrative I tried to make it so the authorial voice's imagination is the cuboid. Tell me what you think?
Look at him, sitting down, leafing through his tattered book, caressed more often than my own lips. He seemed so engrossed in his own world and unfazed by the low flying seagulls. This man, sitting peacefully opposite me in my local park could easily have been one of the most enticing and thrilling people I’d ever laid eyes on and he was merely reading a book. He reminded me of a pirate; big leather boots (I’d say he was just hitting a size 11), scruffy un-brushed hair, a sheepskin coat, plain white shirt, worn down jeans, and those eyes. Oh gosh, those eyes. He looked in his late twenties but along with the way he cupped his stubble ridden chin with his dirty hands and squinted his piercing blues, he portrayed a lifetimes of stories.
I wanted to sit there all day and study his body language and drink every ounce of him in. I sort of expected him to pull out a guitar from under the bench and start singing – it would be an explanation for his rough ended fingers. This sunny, cloudless day was so picturesque and I took immense pleasure in knowing I had the best view in this humdrum town. I took my eyes off of him for just a second to take a glance at the now terribly boring other inhabitants of the park and I couldn’t deny the fact that they were nothing. Compared to him they were the most dire, worthless and pointless people to grace my world.