Tornado Descriptive Writing

Sitting in the yellow-white classroom, on the indigo-topped shelf, I gaze out the window. The cherry-blossom pink leaves on the trees are turning into a forest green and auburn color. The day is dark overcast, with just a sprinkle of rain. Xavier and Logan are sitting to the left side of me, but I can’t see them, as I am looking the other direction. The classroom is packed with its eighteen student, while the substitute teacher is frantically typing on the teacher’s computer, but the tapping sounds of the keys are satisfying to my ears. “Isn’t there a tornado warning today?” a male student (I think Dallen Nixon) said. “No, I don’t think so,” Callie Raber says. Taking in a gasp of cold air, I look up, the cloud looked closer to the ground

Since our school didn’t have a basement or an interior building, we are supposed to evacuate through the back of the building, or whatever direction the tornado is not going. Already running towards the exit, the tornado sirens starts to blare, and we feel a strong gust of wind blow our hair back. We felt the suction of the wind pulling us back. Adrenaline flowing like a river through our veins, we start running across the lime-green pasture behind our school. Approaching the fence surrounding the school, we leap in unison, managing to jump the six feet of barb wire. Our feet hitting the ground firmly. We were out of the school, and running for our dear lives. We ran up a short hill, which was covered with the same soft, lime-colored grass. Once on top of the hill, we were met with dry, dead, beige-colored weeds. “Don’t fall! There are goatheads, and we don’t have any antibiotic cream!” I

Both of them turn around, and breath hard in disbelief. The tornado began to disappear, from the bottom up. The shrapnel took the control of gravity and fell from where it was, straight down. We were at the foothills of a steep mountain range, the gray-maroon mountain, with snow glistening over us. “We are probably in deep trouble for leaving the group,” Logan muttered, “Yeah, no kidding!” I screeched quietly. “Ivy Cater! Logan Nichol! Xavier Layne! Come down!” a man boomed from the bottom. “Run,” Xavier said with concern. We started uphill from the mountain foothills, our left wrists connected to the person to our left, Xavier being the one on the farthest.

We reached the top. A valley was at the bottom. We beamed. This was our freedom.. Until…

A sharp hand grabbed the collars of our shirts, starting to drag us down the mountain. The hand was strong and unresisting. We were walking at a fast pace, the man breathing hard with anger.

We reached the bottom of the hill, and he let us go. We turned to see who it was.

It was Bill Cosby.

“Mr. Cosby, what are you doing here!?” I yelled.

“Don’t yell at your teacher, young lady!” he firmly reprimanded back.

“You were on trial, why aren’t you in