I think it's time for another open story. Herewith is a stub. Feel free to add your voice, your twist. Something in the way of continuity might be fun, but basically this is an open exquisite corpse. Enjoy!
Everything leaves a mark on the world. A tire track leading to a smashed railing and drop into the gaping gorge. Such a view down there; white water braiding through rocks, stands of blackberries, a shattered yellow motorcycle helmet, the scent of gasoline rising on the wind. Just the same, a contrail high in the sky, interrupted by grayish black smoke and the long, slow, screaming fall amid a rain of aluminum shards and dampened shreds of life.
Endings come for us as surely as a predatory stalker in a 1970s B-movie. Some people find their terminus quietly at home, others die in a flash of bright light and a battle cry of "Hold my beer and watch this." Still more are eaten from within, slow predatory intent by the body's own betrayals.
But the world? The word for world is plural. The ending for world must be plural as well, and massive as the soul of God. Such a weight of life to be lifted from the uncomplaining lithosphere, blown like glass bubbling too hot to anneal until it vanishes in a red haze and leaves behind only the ghosts of trees looking down from cracked basalt at lands once more made void and without form.
It was all my fault, really. Stupid stupid stupid. This is how it happened.