So I'm finally posting something. Only a couple people here actually know me, so I doubt this'll be seen by many. This is an idea for a story I got from a dream, and I'm trying to draw it, which is failing. Really, I'm a better writer than an artist. So I'm putting in an excerpt here because my friend said I should get public opinions...be honest, but not too harsh. Sorry there's not much action in this part, that's later.

Perspective: Lyssie.

Obviously, Mothy wasn't my sister's given name. That came from Beth, Henry, and I. Ever since she learned that she was named after an ancient flying goddess, Aurora was obsessed with flight. She waved at airplanes and talked to birds and ran after bugs, flapping her arms like wings. She'd tell me in great detail the dreams she had about flying. She found the caterpillar one day in Beth's garden, inching its way across a leaf. She was three years old, so I was twelve. When Beth told her the caterpillar would become a butterfly, she decided she had to see that. We put it in a jar with some twigs and leaves. For days, my little sister was transfixed by that creature and sat on her knees by the jar that held it. It didn't become a butterfly, though. It became a little brown moth. Aurora didn't care--it had wings. The morning we went out to release it, Beth held the jar and I held my sister up so that she could see everything. Beth carefully lifted a twig from the jar. The little moth rested on the twig. The moment didn't last long. The moth fluttered its wings and took to the air. Aurora's bright blue eyes lit up. She waved and called, "Bye-bye, Mothy!" The name she gave to the moth became hers. It was the kind of thing people write corny poems about. The wind blew back Aurora's long, dark hair, and mine. I was laughing because it was so rarely that she got to be a normal little kid, not a young warrior-in-training. Yeah, even when I was little, we knew what was going on. My parents and their parents grew up trying to stop it from happening. But that's another story. The year I was fifteen, the opposing forces became too strong to be held back, and they'd unleashed something that even they couldn't control. And that is the reason that Mothy and I were in the town that day, in the pouring rain. Cold. Alone. Wanted. A great deal of the country believed us to be violent, ruthless killers. Which wasn't true at all--quite the opposite, actually. To this day I wonder what would have happened if Mothy hadn't tripped and fallen. Such a simple thing, really, except the situation was so hopeless and she wanted to just give up. She didn't want to get back on her feet for yet another garden search in the harsh, relentless downpour. So we didn't stick to our original plan. That moment changed everything, made it into a story that is, in my opinion, very worth the time it takes to tell it--if you think that it's worth the time it takes for you to hear it.