Prompt: from the short story "there will come soft rains," borrow a line and continue your own original story from there; borrowed line will be in italics. 

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air.

As disastrous as it was, it was truly a sight— oh, if only anyone alive had been there to see it.

And, as to why no one around was alive? Apocalypse, Ragnarok, asteroids, whatever you want to call it— the truth is, it doesn't matter. As I said before, no one alive was left to witness it. The living had taken their break, and indeed, their souls would rest for a long, long time before they had to return again.

I know it, because after seeing all that there is to see, I have noticed a pattern. In fact, whatever happens next, I will always be there to witness it. Who am I? I have a liking for suspense, so perhaps I'll tell you later. You'll come to know what I'm speaking of as I go on, and eventually you will know what I am.

Back to the story. The fire spread its wings, running over tree logs and dead grass and whatever was there, feeding itself with the bits of fuel humans had left behind. It was an inferno, and only stopped its meaningless destruction when it met high waves, eager to crush anything that stood in its path.

Fire versus water. This time water won, of course, but it was quite the scene. If the living had seen it, I'm sure that some of them would be hypnotised, oblivious to the danger as Earth would continue to destroy itself in the days to come.

But then again, it doesn't matter anymore.