CAA: Christian Anime Alliance

Ok, I am attempting to write a short story about a flute player who had cancer and her battle. I will submit it in chapters as I finish it, so any critique and critisisn is much appreciated. Thanks and here's Ch. 1:

The fresh morning was a light, warm kiss on the sleeping face of young Klara Jolan. Bright sunlight woke her from her
restless slumber, and she lighted brushed her hand against her tired, hazel eyes. She began to listen. Birds were waking up, and she could hear them sing their soft, cheeful tunes. She heard her father downstairs: occasional banging and clattering of pots and pans.The aroma of eggs and bacons was a light scent that was silently creeping into her small bedroom. With a sigh, she rose herself to a sitting position and slung her legs over the bed. She stood up, and slunked over to her mirror. The face that stared back at her was a one of exhaustion. It was paler than its usual bronze hue. Their eyes dark, sullen circles in their face and strands of long, curling fawn brown hair hung randomly around the forehead. They had a delicate, feminine nose and a strong, pointed chin. Klara tried to smile, but the only response her mouth would give her was a long sigh.
She walked over to the small bathroom on the far corner of her room. As the water from the sink heated, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Her long, graceful fingers let her hair down, and she arranged it carelessly until it suited her. With stout legs, she made her way to her closet, where she changed into a clean pair of jeans and an orange t-shirt. The room became dark when she flipped the switch, and she made her way to the kitchen.
Her father greeted her with a warm, friendly smile as he turned quickly to see her from the refrigerator of their small apartment. This was their home. Her mother had left them when she was only eight, and since then, the two had lived together in the old complex: Golden Oaks Apartment Buildings.
" Good morning, Dad."
" Morning, sweetheart. Breakfast's on the table."
She meekly smiled and sat down. The food looked very good, but her appetite was not enthusiatic about eating. Her fork worked its way through the eggs, but she barely ate any. Her father joined her at the table with his plate and a weak cup of coffee. He looked at her with concerned eyes.
" Klara...you don't look so well...how do you feel?"
" Oh, I'm fine....it's just I keep coughing at night and it keeps me awake."
" I need to see if my employer will give me some extra money to send you to a-"
" I don't need to see a doctor, Dad. It's just a little cold. Don't worry about it."
" Well, you have been this way for the past two or three months...."
" It's cool, Dad, I'm okay. By the way, I have band practice today."
" I know. Every Tuesday until 5:30. So, how is your flute solo coming along?"
" Good I guess...."
" Well, hurry up, we need to be leaving in a few minutes. Is that all your eating?"
" I don't feel very-"
" Klara!"
" I know, I know...I need to do better."
" I wish you were as enthusiastic as eating right like you are about playing."
She got up from her chair, and grabbed her backpack and instrument case. All the while, she silently thought to herself:
" But nothing is like playing."

Is flutist misspelled intentionally?

-.-* Not really....I really wanted people to focus on the story and not the title. Besides, I wrote this late last night, so I knew their would be misspellings. Thanks for your critiquing, though, and I hope to hear of what you think of the first chapter.^^

ooo interesting this has piqued my interests

It sounds awesome so far.I can't wait to read more!

The fresh morning was a light, warm kiss on the sleeping face of young Klara Jolan. Bright sunlight woke her from her restless slumber, and she lightly brushed her hand against her tired, hazel eyes. She began to listen. Birds were waking up, and she could hear them sing their soft, cheeful tunes. She heard her father downstairs: occasional banging and clattering of pots and pans. [I would suggest reworking that sentence to say, "Her father's presence downstairs was announced by the occasional banging and clattering of post and pans."]The aroma of eggs and bacon was a light scent that was silently[not according to the pots] creeping into her small bedroom. With a sigh, she rose herself to a sitting position [Your phrasing here is awkward.] and slung her legs over the bed. She stood up, and slunked over to her mirror. The face that stared back at her was a one of exhaustion. It was paler than its usual bronze hue. Their [Their?] eyes dark, sullen circles in their face and strands of long, curling fawn-brown hair hung randomly around the forehead. They [What's they?] had a delicate, feminine nose and a strong, pointed chin. Klara tried to smile, but the only response her mouth would give her was a long sigh. Good sentence.
She walked over to the small bathroom on the far corner of her room. As the water from the sink heated, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Her long, graceful fingers let her hair down, and she arranged it carelessly until it suited her. With stout legs [Are they built stoutly, or is that just how they are moving this morning?], she made her way to her closet, where she changed into a clean pair of jeans and an orange t-shirt. The room became dark when she flipped the switch, and she made her way to the kitchen. [I would avoid using passive voice here.]
Her father greeted her with a warm, friendly smile as he turned quickly to see her from the refrigerator of their small apartment [This sentence is awkward.]. This was their home. Her mother had left them when she was only eight, and since then, the two had lived together in the old complex: Golden Oaks Apartment Buildings.
" Good morning, Dad."
" Morning, sweetheart. Breakfast's on the table."
She meekly smiled [I would put 'meekly' after 'smiled'.] and sat down. The food looked very good, but her appetite was not enthusiatic about eating [As opposed to being enthusiastic about doing something else?]. Her fork worked its way through the eggs, but she barely ate any. Her father joined her at the table with his plate and a weak cup of coffee. He looked at her with concerned eyes.
" Klara...you don't look so well...how do you feel?"
" Oh, I'm fine....it's just I keep coughing at night and it keeps me awake."
" I need to see if my employer will give me some extra money to send you to a-"
" I don't need to see a doctor, Dad. It's just a little cold. Don't worry about it."
" Well, you have been this way for the past two or three months...."
" It's cool, Dad, I'm okay. By the way, I have band practice today."
" I know. Every Tuesday until 5:30. So, how is your flute solo coming along?"
" Good, I guess...."
" Well, hurry up; we need to be leaving in a few minutes. Is that all you're eating?"
" I don't feel very-" [She was going to say "hungry," right? I would change it to avoid the reader first thinking that she was going to say she wasn't feeling very well. Try something like this: "I'm not h--"]
" Klara!"
" I know, I know...I need to do better."
" I wish you were as enthusiastic as eating right like you are about playing." [Review that sentence.]
She got up from her chair, [I think this comma is superfluous.] and grabbed her backpack and instrument case. All the while, she silently thought to herself:
" But nothing is like playing."



[I myself am a flautist who suffers from a condition that severely hampers my playing. I will be interested to see how this story develops.]