A storm destroys your uncle’s shed and kills his six-year old son. Describe the colour of the sky right before the storm hit.
The day he died, the sky was like any other sky, but bluer. The clouds were the white, fluffy kind where they shape shift into anything you can imagine. When the first drops of rain began to fall, the sky turned ominous. The sky became a blanket of grey, just like the wool of the blanket he slept in as a that time he had scarlet fever. The clouds flashed and banged. I used to tell him that thunder and lightning were just the angels bowling. We spent storms guessing the score: The big ones were strikes, and the smaller ones just knocked down pins. Two close together were spares. But that night, it was a strike that killed him.
What did you think? Would you be interested in hearing the end?