Welcome to Week Three! Can you believe we’re at the halfway mark for the challenge?
You all did so well with your stories last week! There were so many interesting and unique ways you interpreted the prompt. It’s now the third week, so it’s time to do it again! Will your story have aliens? Zombies? Maybe it’ll have a dragon in it! Whatever you decide, we can’t wait to see what you come up with.
So, without further ado, here’s your next prompt!
Week Three Prompt – The Starting Sentence Prompt
Write a story that starts with the
following sentence: So this is what drowning feels like.
Wait…what’s a “Starting Sentence” prompt?
A sentence prompt is a prompt that uses a particular sentence. It doesn’t matter where your story takes place, who’s in it, or what’s said. The only thing that matters is that your story must start with this sentence: So this is what drowning feels like.
Before you start writing, we have some important rules for you to follow.
Writing Rules
1. Please keep the content of the stories you post to a PG rating. Please avoid real curse words. Violence/fighting should be limited and purposeful. Please do not include any spice.
2. Your story must be 1,000 words or less, and must contain the prompt to be counted for the challenge. You’re not required to post it in order to “win” the challenge, but if you want it to count for your team, your story must be posted by Sunday at 11:59 PM ET, and you must include your team name.
Remember to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and post your story as an “answer” to this question, not a “comment”. 🙂 You’re all doing such a great job! I’m so proud of all the stories you’ve posted.
Happy Writing!
Will you notice if someone is like 1-25 words over the 1000 word limit (asking for a friend hahaha)
what if i accidently posted my story as a comment last week lol? does it still count?
Hey Izzy and Ava,
If you accidentally post your story as a comment instead of an answer, you should get an email to alert you! It will still count for points for your team, but no one will be able to vote for it.
And, to answer your question for your friend 😉 As far as word count, for your story to count for the challenge, it does need to be 1,000 words or under. Great questions!
Team #1
Different Isn’t Broken
So this is what drowning feels like.
It starts with the alarm—not the soft, apologetic beep of the microwave at home, but a monstrous shriek that splits the classroom wide open. It crashes through the ceiling, tears through the walls, and dives straight into Lila’s chest like a flock of wild birds with needle—sharp claws.
She clamps her hands over her ears. It doesn’t help. The sound is already inside—buzzing, burning, bouncing off every part of her body.
Around her, chairs scrape back. Kids are shouting—some laughing, some complaining—but all of it melts into the same unbearable noise. Ms. Bauer claps her hands, trying to herd twenty-seven third graders into something like a line.
Lila can’t move.
She’s locked in her seat, frozen mid-breath. Her arms curl around her head like armor. Her heart is galloping, her stomach churns. Her mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.
The air feels thick. The light overhead flickers. The hum of the fluorescent bulbs turns into a siren of its own. Even the floor seems to vibrate beneath her sneakers.
Everything is too much, too loud, too fast.
So this is what drowning feels like.
A memory rises, uninvited—a time when she was six and got knocked over by a wave at the beach. The water pushed her down and spun her around, filling her nose and eyes and ears. When she finally surfaced, coughing and blinking, she didn’t know which way was the shore.
This feels like that.
She hears her name, distant and far away. Once. Then again. A voice slicing through the chaos like a small, thin thread of silk.
Footsteps. Closer now.
A hand touches her shoulder.
The lights flicker again. The hum of electricity drills into her spine.
So this is what drowning feels like.
“It’s okay, Lila,” Ms. Bauer says. Her voice is low and calm, like a weighted blanket in sound.
Lila likes weighted blankets.
“It’s just a drill, sweetheart. I know it’s loud. But we’re safe. You’re safe.”
Lila doesn’t answer. Her legs are shaking. Her hands are still clamped over her ears, but Ms. Bauer stays beside her, kneeling on the tile.
Lila peeks up through her hair. The classroom is almost empty now. The other kids are gone—lined up outside, chattering, waiting to be checked off on a clipboard. No one notices the girl left behind.
Except Ms. Bauer. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t pull. Her patience like soup steam on a cold day.
“Can I hold your hand?” Ms. Bauer asks.
Lila blinks once, then nods—barely. Her fingers uncurl, and Ms. Bauer slips her hand gently into Lila’s, palm to palm.
Lila lets herself breathe. In. Out. Slowly. The alarm is still blaring, but there’s something about that hand in hers—solid, steady—that makes the noise feel a little further away.
She stands. Her knees tremble like they might give out, but they don’t. Together, they walk. Past the desks. Past the wall of crayon drawings. Out into the hallway.
Her teacher shields her slightly, like a buffer against the chaos. Another teacher down the hall gives them a thumbs-up. Ms. Bauer returns it with a nod, her other hand still holding Lila’s. They don’t speak.
Outside, the world is different. The alarm stops. The sky stretches wide and blue overhead. The breeze smells like grass and warm pavement. There are birds somewhere nearby. Real ones, not the kind with claws in their chest.
Lila squints in the sunlight. Her body still buzzes, but the worst of the storm has passed. Ms. Bauer anchored her through it. She’s still holding her teacher’s hand. She doesn’t let go just yet.
“You did something really brave,” Ms. Bauer says gently. “You stayed. You breathed. You let someone help.”
Lila lowers her gaze to the ground. A small ant crawls over the toe of her shoe. It doesn’t seem to mind the drill. It just keeps going.
“I didn’t mean to get stuck,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.
Ms. Bauer crouches beside her. “You weren’t stuck. You were overwhelmed. That’s not the same thing.”
“But everyone else—”
“Everyone else isn’t you,” Ms. Bauer says. “And different isn’t broken.”
Lila looks up. Her throat tightens again, but not in fear this time. She lets go of Ms. Bauer’s hand—slowly, on her own.
The breeze lifts her hair. She breathes all the way in, and all the way out.
For the first time since the alarm, her chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in.
I didn’t drown.
Wow! Descriptive and rather visceral. I love it! This story needs to be shared. There are many children (and adults) who get overwhelmed and feel alone and broken.
Thanks, Annette. That’s very encouraging to hear! I’ve written a few pieces related to neurodivergence which really tugs at my heart. We are a neurodivergent family 🥰
This story is beautiful! “Everyone else isn’t you. And different isn’t broken.” I will write those words on my heart. Thank you for this powerful story ❤️.
Wait so if we like accidentally post our stories as a comment here, will it count or be ignored?