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.
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.