short story

I had to write the first page of a short story for a creative writing class I'm taking. I've never really done a lot of fictional writing, so this was a fun challenge. I thought I'd share what I came up with. [=

~~~
You know those stories that they show on the christian tv stations, the ones about the Christians held captive by oppressive governments? The kinds of stories that you see and say, “Oh, I’ll pray for them,” and then never do. I can’t stand to watch those. My friends used to tell me that they were all scams run to get donations from grannies, but that’s not why I hate the programs. --I hate them because they never get people to do anything. “Here’s a problem, do you want to see if we could maybe, I don’t know, possibly, kind of help just a little?” If you really knew what kind of situations these people actually faced you’d be knocking down doors to help.

It all started when I took the semester to study abroad in Kenya. We were working extra hard because we had to stay caught up in our honors courses, and complete the foreign language and culture classes. After an especially long week, we decided drive to see the Indian Ocean. All we wanted to do was have a fun time away from the village. It’s not like we were trying to convert the nations! We didn’t even know we had crossed the boarder into Somalia until the guards stopped us and we couldn’t cross back over.

I guess they decided that we were a threat to society, or maybe they just wanted to send a message to the world because, well, let’s just say that I’m not welcome here. But I’m also not welcome to leave. As the leader of our outing, and class president of sorts, I’ve been deemed as unsafe to let go. I think that the others were only held for a couple of days, but they want to make us an example. As far as I know, I’ll be here forever. I’ve learned to rely on sounds. They are all that keep me from going mad in this room. It’s pitch black, no windows. I can hear the clanking of the doors along the corridor, and the footsteps of the guards changing posts. The daily scrape of my metal food pan sliding across the floor, and the occasional grunt of a guard on his rounds are the only break from the oppressive darkness. They are the only times I can imagine that there is life on the other side of the door. It’s too early for my meal, and certainly not time for rounds, so I am surprised to hear my cell door open. As light floods the cell, and a guard pushes a young man into my cell. Apparently I’m to have a roommate. The young man is bruised and has obviously recently sustained a beating. He collapses against the wall as the guard leaves. “Aren’t you going to welcome me into your wonderful abode?” His voice surprises me; it’s deep, rough, and American.
~~~

~So, what do you think? Should I continue with the story? I may use this for NaNoWriMo next year.