2010-10-24 00:11:46 UTC
But anywho, What do you think? would you read more?
too much description? does it flow properly?
Oliver Fincher approached the small, round table with caution, not wanting to startle the girl occupying it. Her face was twisted in an expression Oliver couldn’t quite pinpoint, and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten the poor young lady, who had failed to notice the now-cold, lemon honey tea placed on the wooden table in front of her. He moved slowly to her side, hooking his thumbs through peacock-patterned braces, letting his elbows hang, relaxed.
After a moment, the girl’s eyes flickered and she turned her head to face the old man who had now appeared at her table. Her gaze was unfocused, her amber eyes bleary and Oliver wondered whether it was because she had gone on unblinking for some time. His brow creased, worriedly.
“Anything I can help with, Florence?” he asked.
Florence shook her head and smiled weakly. “Nothing at all to be honest, Mr Fincher.”
Oliver Fincher nodded but did not leave her side. The dimly lit teahouse was far from busy and no customer was in need of his hospitality quite yet. And as much as he knew the girl was wanting to be alone, her desperate eyes kept him tethered to the spot.
“You know,” he said, his own eyes large and blue, twinkling in the lamplight. “Sometimes talking to a fickle old person like me can do wonders – we are an expert bunch when it comes to those wearisome, unwanted mind matters.”
Florence sat in silence, struggling for an answer. The ticking clogs hidden under her mass of tangled hair, could be almost audible, Oliver imagined.
“Thanks Mr Fincher...” she said after a long moment. “But I’ve got to head back to school – lunch’s almost over.”
Florence placed her hand inside her blazer and pulled out a handful of coins, holding it out for Oliver to collect. Her eyes rested on him as he pocketed the shrapnel, while she shrugged her school bag onto her shoulders.
The last thing she wanted to do was leave the comfort of the cluttered, miss-matched Oliver’s Teahouse. The small place was cramped with unusual assortments of teapots, cups and matching saucers which lined the entire room on dark wooden, built-in shelves. Colourful bags of various flavoured tea were wedged in between. Sighing, Florence gave the odd cafe one last sweeping glance before stepping out into the bright, spring sunshine; all the while struggling to hold back her tears.
thanks :)
(it goes onto talk about why she is 'sad' but it leaves a lot of mystery at the same time)
BQ - what do you do if your starting chapter just isn't clicking?
I haven't found the right one thus far, altohugh with a little work this excerpt may just tickle my fansy. Also, I HAVE written on, but I just don't feel comfortable chopping and changing, I'd rather rite from chapter one to the end, not all-over the place.