Other stories for this prompt

I thought, looking at that bloodshot sky, wow i thought, this is a sky to die under. Look at the sun. I bet it's not looking back. I also remembered that scene with Leo DiCaprio on a beach, when he is dragging himself and he has that look on his face as if he is dying. He must be really dying I thought. What is it like to die? I couln't answert that, so I took another look at this sunset with the clouds darkly in front of it. Then I imagined what a world it would be if you...

Nicky crouched, letting sand dribble through her fist. If only the sand were falling through the hour glass instead, the time for departure drawing closer one grain at a time. The water was almost flat, small wave rolling onto the shore.
"Why can't we leave?" She asked without looking back. A sigh and a rustle of sand and clothing.
"Red sky at night, sailor's delight," Dirk answered, letting the rest of it go unsaid.
Nicky grumbled, dropped the rest of the sand and stood. "Why do they hold everything up for an old saying?" Just above the high tide mark...

Your blood is the light in the sky and the night is the new blood replacing the old.
That darker blood you receive each day is the sweat of the earth swallowing itself with huge, heavy gulps.
Sure, time is running out, but it always comes running back in.
Time, blood, day, night.
Everything new is old again.
Isn't that the song?
Isn't that a song!
Thick dusk is coming,
whetting the waves
with you,
whetting the waves
with you.

I think that I shall never see
A sight so fine as irony
For all my life I lay in wait
To see a sight profound and great

This rosy glow that lights the sky
Answers every truth and lie
Every hope and all despair
Is wiped from mind and earth and air

Would that the sun had caused this glow
Sinking down in sunset low
Would that tomorrow it would rise
In sunrise warm and soft and wise

No shockwave yet, though it will come
The world will end and all fall dumb
Yon mass of rock that hurtles...

Tom watched the sun set slowly over the skeletal remains of Brighton Pier. He had spent the day wandering through the narrow lanes of the town, stopping in the curio shops, selecting strange items from dusty shelves. A pocket watch, its mechanism rusted by age and inattention, was warm in his hand. Its smooth surface, touched by a hundred hands, was plain and unadorned. He wondered who had bought it, seen it in the window of a watchmakers, taken it home. Who had carried it in their pocket. Had they perhaps stood at this very spot, looking out to sea,...