With a crash the thunder erupted outside the shack. Dark clouds rushed over the sun and the wind whacked the shutters against the walls of the wood shack. Musaafir looked at his two guests, realizing that he may have a made a grave mistake. A note from his father warned him of this very thing and here he’d gone and done it. The two women sat on a bench under the open window. Their eyes told him everything he needed to know about how much harm he’d brought to them. He should have just left them there. Besides, how was he to blame that he’d stumbled onto a planet that had an evil God waiting for any reason at all to destroy the people. He fumbled with the mouse next to the screen and mumbled to himself to avoid their glares. Finally, when the rain started to blow in through the open window and he couldn’t take it any longer he blurted out, “It’s not my fault! The dumb bird attacked me. I had to defend myself.” When neither responded, he added, “Well didn’t I?”
“No, no you didn’t need to defend yourself. That’s the problem,” Sarina said resolutely. She looked over at her sister, then reached up and closed the window to stop the rain from encroaching on their little bit of safety. “And you,” she whispered, “Why did you have to let him in.”
Now up to this point there is no way that Sarina could even imagine why her sister would let a stranger in, but you and I can guess as to the reason why. Plot. Yes I said it. It is all about the plot and story. I mean really, it would not be that exciting of a story if Musaafir had died, because he didn’t defend himself or because Alex didn’t let him in. Seriously, Sarina, have you never read a novel? Now, don’t think I’m crazy. Of course I’m not really talking to Sarina but just making a point about plot. And while I’m on the subject let’s talk a little about how I try to better my writing skills. Many of you may say, “What writing skills?” Well, all I have to say to you is… well nothing I guess, but anyway one of my favorite things to do to better my writing skills is to go to critique groups. Not the ones that just tell you you’re doing an amazing job. And definitely not the ones that cut you down so they feel better about their writing. No, the ones I enjoy are the ones that do both. They let you know how to improve and carefully build you up at the same time to match your skill. This is so nice. Now back to the story. Not sure where it’s going to go from here, but I’m sure it’ll go somewhere. So, onward, ever onward.
Musaafir looked down. The discomfort grew, kind of like when you have an itch in your nose and you know that you’re about to sneeze and it’s in the middle of a very serious lecture. That’s how Musaafir felt at that very moment. Then something happened that saved him, and this story. The plot thickened. A loud bang rang through the woods toward the shack. The bang had not been heard on Musaafir’s world for quite some time. It was the sound of a gun. Now don’t get me wrong, people still hunted and made sport, but this was a different type of bang. It came from the old defense tower where the rail gun had lay still for eons.