The world ended at the horizon, a fact drawn in detail on maps that piled high and vexed librarians who had run out of drawer space.
But small ships, lured by curiosity or fate, sailed like lemmings day after day into that unknown. If they ever returned, there is no record. But it's whispered that they must have sailed right into an ocean of clouds, the air-borne sea at earth's end.
Sometimes there were gales, and other days the wind was but a breeze, gently puffing out the sails and ruffling the silvery water with naught but ripples.
Into this pewter realm the mortal seafarers squinted their eyes into the glare and licked salt from their lips, intent only upon the mystery.
This is an eerie photo I took into the sun's glare. If you imagine another tiny tale, share, please!
