BULLSEYE

It's not exactly a crafting post but it has a colourful splodge in the middle (that's the climax, btw, heh.) so I figure it's good enough. This here is my new attempt at Getting Plot Right. Shut up, I've just started on that beauty, kids. It should get more complicated.

 

The random bird is not part of the plot, but thinking on it now, it probably should be. *adds it in*

I also changed the opening again. Because I have a problem. And I know it.

 

So the current start is this, and as usual subject to immense change:

 

We were leaving everything, but at least we were still human, still sane. None of us had died yet, not like Father, who had become a falling angel, his biomagic-wings burning up like the tails of twin comets.

Or perhaps that's just how the newsmachine wanted us to imagine his glorious end. I think it was more like this; like pulling away from my life on a train I didn't want to be on, too scared to show how scared I was, with the blanket of the future clamped down on me – thick and wet and soaked in ethanol. I wondered if he felt that same small cramping deep in his body, just under his lungs, the way I did as the station was swallowed into murky fog, and the train rattled and heaved.