Writing Great Fiction - Lecture One Exercise

Fisher sat, stooped on the bench outside the cafe. Not an old man, but grey nevertheless, weathered and tired. His faded woolen hat was pulled down over his brow, almost covering his eyes. Sometimes he imagined if he couldn't see people, they couldn't see him.

The birds shuffled forward as another shower of breadcrumbs fell around his feet. He smiled grimly. He didn't really like the birds, but he liked feeling in control. When one brave creature flapped onto his knee he scowled in shock and swept it to the ground. The bird struggled to its feet and returned, pecking and shoving, into the scrum. He stared at the pigeon and wondered.

A car horn burped in the distance and he stood abruptly, hurrying to the nearby stairs leading up to street level. He was late and the scowl returned to his face. His employer only seemed to acknowledge his presence to rebuke Fisher for some minor, though admittedly frequent, infraction. His tardiness would certainly be noticed.