First Line Friday: “The entire class was excused after the announcement that a storm would hit the city.”

In our quest to encourage creativity, we post a writing prompt every other Friday. Write a story with the prompt as the first line. Share your story below or on social media using the tag #FirstLineFriday. We can’t wait to see your stories!

“The entire class was excused after the announcement that a storm would hit the city.”

The entire class was excused after the announcement that a storm would hit the city. Maurice ran inside, panicked, as the sky grew darker and the air grew more charged. “Momma!” he cried. His mom was already waiting for him and scooped him up, pulling him down into the basement. “It’s okay baby” she soothed. Maurice’s dad was already downstairs fiddling with the storm watcher radio. The lamp was on and blankets were piled everywhere. His favorite books and comics were stacked by the couch, next to Momma’s Southern novels. Outside the storm lashed at the house and the sky howled. Inside, the hearth was tended and warmth was shared.

Emily Stachelczyk

The entire class was excused after the announcement that a storm would hit the city. The most unforgiving, torrential hurricane that our small coastal city would ever see was headed straight to us. The governor issued a state of emergency and encouraged all residents of our county to evacuate north. Panic echoed through the school hallways as I huffed my way through the masses of students and towards the nearest exit. I wormed my way out of the crowd to the glass door to find that rain was pounding against it and the exit was locked. Then the sirens came.

Sarah Morris

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About Jillian Murphy

Jillian Murphy is the Assistant Managing Editor of the UNG Press. She is a UNG alumna, class of 2016.

View all posts by Jillian Murphy →

2 Comments on “First Line Friday: “The entire class was excused after the announcement that a storm would hit the city.””

  1. The entire class was excused after the announcement that a storm would hit the city. But it didn’t, at least not the campus. He went home, 25 miles away. He got home about dark. Bad move. It hit the next day. Now, two days later, James found himself digging furiously through the pile of rubble that was once his home, looking for her. He heard a far-off whimper. Mom? Please dear God, let her be okay, he thought. They had found his dad the day before at the factory where he worked. He couldn’t lose both of them. He picked the clock that had sat on the mantel. Damaged, it had stopped at 8:30. He kept digging. Then movement. He fought back tears. He worked faster, yelling for a couple of buddies to come help. Soon, they were pulling what remained of his family from under a mattress that had somehow saved her life. A stretcher appeared, and soon they had her secured on the back of the ambulance that had been hauling milk three days earlier. Others stopped and gathered around, some praying, as they tended to her. As he leaned over to kiss his mom, who had almost a smile on blood-streaked face, he happened to see the calendar from the kitchen laying on the ground. He reached down and picked it up. The last day it had been changed was still there. April 6, 1936. A day he would never forget.

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