Outdoor Furniture, Outdoor Patio and Outdoor Gardens

Frequently Asked Questions

1. QUESTION:
   What effect does the Winter (chicago) have on teak furmiture? Can I leave it on the balcony in winter?
   Oiled teak and aluminum patio furniture on covered balcony.

   • ANSWER:
     Teak is a very hard wood and is full of natural oil. It will probably be ok but if it was mine I would cover it with plastic or something if it is left out for the winter. The cold will not hurt it. A lot of boats or yachts have teak all over because teak will repel water and like I said it is full of nat. oil.

2. QUESTION:
   What do you think of the start of my book?
   Ok, so first I describe the city of Chicago and then there is a scene featuring the guy who saves her. He's at work (he's a special cop) and he's told to look out for her. Here's the next scene:

   “Reagan! Hurry up or you’ll be late!”
   I sighed and put a Q-tip under the tap and then quickly withdrew my hand as the water splashed a little onto my skin. It was hot! I shook my hand that the water had hit and then wiped the bit of eyeliner that mother’s yelling had caused me to ruin. I started over and drew a thin line. Then I quickly finished with mascara and put my makeup away in the drawer of my on suite bathroom.
   My sweater vest for my school uniform sat on my bed, ready for it. I popped it over my head and quickly fixed my hair in the mirror on my vanity. And then I trouped down stairs to the dining room of the large penthouse that my mother and I lived in.
   She sat at the table, platters and dishes of breakfast set before her, all made by our live-in housekeeper. She had the Tribune open to the society pages, folded along the ceases backwards to show a large picture of mother at one of her makeup gala events at Neiman & Marcus on Michigan.
   Everyone said that Mother and I looked alike. I had to admit that they were right. My mother was pretty. She had blonde hair, dyed to be rid of grays, that was either worn in curls around her cheeks or back into a tight bun for business, as it was today. Her face was round, her eyes a rich shade of brown. She was of average height, built well for her age of forty-five. She really showed that anti-aging products worked, along with the occasional shot of Botox of course.
   I was on the short side, only about five three. My body was crafted like hers but without the curves of childbearing and birth. My hair was blonde as well but I wore it a bit longer, to my shoulders and I defined my waves into soft curls. My face was a little more square than hers but with similar features. The only main difference between us was the I had my father’s green eyes. An unusual color and even more unusual shade of that color as they weren’t moss green or gray green or even blue green, but green green, the color of traffic lights or spring grass.
   Taking a seat at the table, I grabbed a plate and began topping it with food. Mama watched in horror as I put a pasty, croissant, apple, some strawberries and a sticky bun onto the plate. She reached over and removed the sticky bun.
   “Mama!” I gasped.
   She glared at me over her reading glasses. “Too many carbs in the morning aren’t good for you. Fruit has a lot of natural sugar too, you know.” She took the apple away as well.
   “Mama,” I protested, “I don’t need to watch what I eat. I’m not fat.”
   “This is why. I watch what you eat even if you don’t.”
   I scowled at her.
   With a sigh, she looked down at her Rolex. Her eyes widened at the time. “Oh, you’d better hurry or else you will be late.”
   After stuffing the rest of the croissant into my mouth, I grabbed the apple off the plate and left the dining room.
   With my bag over my shoulder, my feet in my boots and my Burberry trench coat on my back, I headed out of the apartment. Bernard, our weekday doorman, smiled at me and held the glass door open as I exited and headed out into the streets of hustling and bustling downtown Chicago.
   Even though Mama insisted that I take a car and driver, I much preferred walking to school. I absolutely loved downtown Chicago. My walk to school took me up near Oak Street, a timely walk from where I lived by the river, near Michigan. But I liked it.
   The world was waking up. On Michigan the shops were opening, the restaurants on the side streets putting out their patio furniture and people milling about on their way to work, or just out enjoying the weather while it lasted. Being the beginning of September, the summer heat was trying to hold on, but it was being pushed away by winds blowing in from Green Bay. Today is was cool enough to wear a jacket, but still rather pleasant.
   I headed past the John Hancock centre with the Cheesecake Factory in the basement, with the ditch before the building opening up to reveal the restaurant with over-priced desserts along with some other shops. There was a girl in the waitress uniform washing last’s night’s rain for the outdoor tables.
   The beach came into view and I cut left, west, down Oak. I headed past Bravo and towards Prada when I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Expecting a friend or lost tourist, I spun around. I didn’t get either.
   In my face was a gun. It was small, perhaps a pistol or revolver. I couldn’t tell for I was not good with guns nor was I thinking about anything but the fact that there was a gun in my face!
   Instinctively, I put my hands up like a convicted felon. I was shaking in my bones, fear swarming like bees inside of me. I couldn’t move or speak or even breathe. I managed to swallow and tears spilled from my eyes.
   “Now you listen,” the man behind the gun said. He was young, too young I thought to be holding a gun. It dominated him, even with its small size. He had dark hair that grew in curls around his face. His eyes were a simple dirt brown color, but angry inside. He wore a white suit with a purple shirt beneath, very feminine I noted. Silly of me to note such things when a bullet was less than a second from possibly shattering my skull. His brows were extremely unruly and thick, giving him a caveman appearance who dressed like a girl.
   He went on, “If you do what I say, I won’t hurt you. You understand?”
   I couldn’t speak. My tongue was like cotton. Like those cotton balls, thick and fluffy.
   “I asked you a question!” he shouted.
   “Yes!” I cried. Tears pooled down my cheeks, surely ruining my makeup. My stomach felt sick and my knees were weaker than after running all the way home from first base.
   One of my great hobbies was watching primetime TV. I loved crime shows especially. CSI, CSI: NY, NCSI, Without a Trace, were some of my favorites. I had see so many times when people were shot and killed, so many female victims. Every time something could have been done to prevent the death of said victim. But I couldn’t think. My mind wasn’t working properly. But I could do the simple math in my mind. There was no one around Oak Street this early, not even a damn car drove by! I could scream, but the time it would take for a scream to muster in my throat and then people to come was much greater than the time it would take him to pull the trigger plus the amount of time it took a bullet to travel from the barrel to and likely through, my skull. The odds were not in my favor.
   “Do you want my purse?” I tried, thinking of anything. “I’ll give you my wallet, my debt card, my jewelry! Just please…”
   “Shut up!” he shouted. “Don’t say another word, you little-“
   “Hey! Put down the gun and get away from her!”
   My attacker spun around, the gun taken from my face and pointed in the opposite direction.
   Standing on the sidewalk, some feet away, was a man. He had orange hair, was young, of average height and build, wore a suit and was holding a gun at the man who had pointed the gun in my face. His face was hardened and he wore an expression of anger and justice that made me feel much better about the entire situation. At least a little.
   “I’ll kill her!” My attacker pointed the gun back in my face. I panicked again and froze, near sobbing without trying to move a muscle. I was only eighteen, a senior in my fifth year of high school. I was too young to get shot and killed in the street. Images of my mother and friends around my body, blood seeping from my skull, crying and sobbing, filled my mind and made me even more upset and ragged. I started to sob. “Shut the hell up!” the guy yelled.
   The cop, or whatever he was-my savoir, took a steps towards the villain. “Put down the gun,” he said slowly.
   My attacker let out an angry growl and stepped towards me, pressing the barrel against my temple. My body shook violently. If he didn’t shoot me, I was certain I would die of fright anyways. I was surely going to vomit. I couldn’t die! I had yet to go to the world series, to fall into true love, to even go to post-secondary school, to-
   Bang!
   The sound of the gunshot racked my body, sending tremors up and down my spinal cord. I fell to the ground, clutching my stomach and thinking, No, this can’t be! Was this it? My vision was blurry, my mind wasn’t working. Blood was running across the pavement, towards my knees.
   Wait…towards? There was no pain. Fright and disorientation and a sick stomach, but no pain. I pushed my hair from my face with sweaty hands and saw the guy who had attacked me. He was lying on the ground, moaning and screaming. Blood seeped from his legs and stained his pants, soaking the sidewalk.
   I was unharmed!
   “Miss? Miss!” The man was kneeling at my side now, a hand around my shoulders. Up close I saw he looked very young and rather handsome, his eyes a pretty steel gray.
   “I…I…” I pitched forward and vomited onto the sidewalk.

   • ANSWER:
     Hey

     My opinions:
     - The first line of this scene is good, makes the reader wonder what she's late for, however I suggest tagging it, as the reader doesn't realise till later whether it was the mum speaking, I thought it may have been the protagonist

     - Try not to use exclamation marks in the context other than the dialogue, and even yet, try to minimize the amount of those you use in dialogue too. Usually the exlamation mark should be shown, rather than told.

     - Cut to the chase. Though your writing is good, detailed, and mostly well written with good word use, there are some bits we don't need to know, e.g. the whole paragraph about her mascara.

     - Show, don't tell. Don't tell us your characters favourite show is this, show us that when she goes home, before anything, she rushes to the tele to watch the latest episode. Of course, if only it's relevant.

     Those are my thoughts as a whole, rather than singling out each line, but keep at it, overall you have good potential with good words

     ~ JLT

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