I'm writing a story as part of a birthday present, is it sounding alright so far?

[Tobin]

I'm usually fairly convinced that I write likwe a twelve year old, can you guys let me know how this is sounding so far?

The whistle blew on a near empty train. The attendant twittered a last call and skipped around as fast as her aging legs could allow -not very fast- muttering a mile a minute in a voice too low to hear.

Signs of life came from only one cabinet where a small girl with raven hair was accommodated in the space with a book in her lap. Her tortoise shell glasses were far enough down on her nose that her eyes could peek out over the top when she looked up. You could see the soul in her eyes. An elder. Smart and very kind. She wore a yellow shirt with lace accents that underscored her warm, golden skin. She was young.

“hello deary!” the attendant said as she passed by. Her warm eyes met the girl’s before fluttering away; surrounded by wrinkles that could only have been earned by a long hard life. Her nose was long and pointy, and her hair, surprisingly long for an older woman, flipped in under her chin and framed her face.

The girl lifted her book from her lap, closed it gingerly and then placed it down beside her. Pride and Prejudice. The spine was worn and the bookplate meticulous and hand drawn, it was obviously well loved and well read, perhaps her favourite. As she looked up from the book she seemed to come back from a different world, a little too late for a timely reply. Instead, she smiled politely. The woman continued to flutter around the car. It was fascinating. She pulled out box after box and filled up every nook and cranny on the trolley. It was an old train and an old trolley so the front wheel let out a tortured squeal with every movement. She opened drawers that whined in pain and closed cupboards that let out long exaggerated sighs. The girl’s eyes widened when she saw that wonderful tell-tale, shiny, green wrapper of aero mint being piled up along with the others.

The woman started her walk from the end of the train. She walked as slow as one could imagine anyone walking, barely lifting her feet. She took her first step, the drag of her foot along the ground created a long crunch that was layered with hundreds of squealing scrapes from each grain of sand. She took her second step, the sound continued. She let out a slight wheeze and then paused for a second before it was joined by a coughing as powerful as two rounds in the ring with a scrappy martial artist. She coughed for what must have been minutes in exaggerated, low sounds. When she finally stopped it was quite. The footsteps began again.
Extended, stringy, drawn out scrapes.
Crunch.
Dirty, wet, sandy screams.
Stomp.

[Butterfly]

I think your story is sounding great so far. I don't think you write like a 12 year old!


Can you please answer mine:
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;...522AAV6kAd

[ella]

I really like it! You definantly don't write like a twelve year old!
Your descriptions and style is really great! I want to read it now!
Anyways, you have real talent!

[Elise]

It sounds good keep going i kinda want to know what happens next.