A comet burned in the sky and snakes fell from the heavens the night of my birth. Problem is, there were another couple hundred thousand people born that night, too, and I think maybe the comet was for them. Not the snakes, though. The snakes are mine.
This is a gift to you. Make of it what you will. Given the same opening lines and even the same premise, writers can create vastly different works. Even the same writer, sometimes– Robin McKinley’s Rose Daughter is not the same as her Beauty. You don’t have to keep the lines, but if the prompt sparks, run with it.