The Long Tale No. 18 - Frozen in Time

The frost glistened and shone in the slight sunlight that attempted to pierce the dawn. Stars twinkled on the ground as the sun just peeked over the horizon. Crisp and clean, the man left his footprints behind him. A sense of purity followed the frost, as if the ground had been cleansed by its presence. New grass would grow and more mud would form but, for now, everything was frozen in time. The power of the cold was terrifying and peaceful at the same time and many other things besides. But soon it would be gone and time would thaw. 

The Long Tale No. 17 - The Door

The door slammed shut and darkness replaced light in the blink of an eye. It was a wooden door, with rings and grains that told a thousand stories of a thousand pulls and pushes, slams and shouts. The golden handle gleamed and reflected the images and thoughts of those going through. Many people had walked through, for many different reasons and at many different times. The man had walked through once, adding his story to the grains and his thoughts to the gleam. And there were wounds in the door, of knives and fire. Of people forcing their way through. 

The Long Tale No. 16 - The Time Changers

The clock ticked steadily on. Always forwards. Always on beat. Never stopping. Never a miss. Sound fell down the hourglass and a hand spun round and round. The man stared at time passing slowly by. The sun rose and set every dusk and dawn. The moon phased in and out, light and dark. Creatures were born, grew old and died. And time passed ever on. Never stopping and never going back. But there were some, some that could control the flow of time and control its constant pull. Changers and saviours, recorders and destroyers. The controllers of time were here. 

The Long Tale No. 15 - Nature's Wrath

The lava constricted and spasmed in the torched crater. A writhing inferno of boiling rock and metal. Plumes of smoke gushed from the crater's centre and a storm of ash rumbled overhead. The man fell down the side of volcano, trying to escape nature's pure wrath. Rocks crashed and splintered as the Earth shook itself awake. Bombs were shot from its belly and noxious gas cascaded down the side like waterfalls. The sun was gone, replaced with a crimson twilight. The mountain's blood erupted from wounds as the scars of the past were ripped open with the ferocity of hell. 

The Long Tale No. 14 - Broken Glass

The glass lay on the cold ground, cracks spider-webbing over its once clear surface. The handle rested a few feet away, where it had splintered into a rough knife. Wine spilled over the cobblestone floor and settled in the cracks and crevices, like veins of blood. The man stared down at the chaos before turning to the pain in his hand. A wave of emotion flowed through the room, of anguish and hate at an untold demise, drowning all happiness and hope and joining the sea of crimson. Another glass was filled and downed before being thrown away like before.

The Long Tale No. 13 - The Portrait

The portrait stared down at all who walked by. The person it depicted had long since faded into the dusk of time but still her steely gaze bore into passers-by, her grey eyes peeking over the rim of her cold metal glasses. The man stared at this portrait for the longest time, taking in the wiry hair and twilight complexion and wondering about who she may have been and what had made the painter paint her like this. Was it out of emotion? Rage or spite, perhaps, or possibly kindness? Or, maybe even an accurate depiction? The portrait stared on.

The Long Tale No. 12 - The Spreading Disease

The illness spread throughout the forest like wildfire, contaminating all in its wake. Trees, plants and animals alike fell to its grasping touch, each a finger for its poisonous reach. The very air was merely a breath of destruction, the sickness carried on the breeze. The man ran through, dodging between the trees, hand over mouth as he tried to escape the oncoming death. He didn't know where this disease had come from, nor when or how, but only that it is would stop at nothing to destroy the forest. But, it would seem, that the forest had other plans...

The Long Tale No. 11 - Remembrance

Will you be remembered? The man was asked this a long time ago. Remembrance is a strange phenomenon. Connecting and distancing people. Keeping them alive and others dead. Their struggles and triumphs, their lives and legacies all remembered forevermore. A testament to their deeds and their shaping of their life and the lives around them. People, places, wars and celebrations, some remembered, some forgotten. Some tales were sad and some joyous. Some were bland and some were colourful. And as for the people, places and events themselves? Some wanted to be remembered and some lost to the sands of time. 

The Long Tale No. 10 - Dancing Inferno

The ground was dappled with light from the fire. Shadows danced with sparks to the wooden beat of their forebear's destruction. The heat was intense and the man felt his hair singe. Red and orange, green and yellow, black and white - the fire portrayed each colour as emotion. The fierceness of the flames and slow burning of embers. The growing inferno and dying ash lay in harmony and fed off of each other. A pillar of smoke reached for the sky and brought attention to the warmth. A stream of water fell upon it and it was gone. Extinguished. 

The Long Tale No. 9 - A Prison of Clouds

The fog had appeared without warning that night. It consumed everything. The stars no longer twinkled and the moon no longer shone. Even the darkness was overcome by the soft twilight. The man stood in the middle of it all and breathed deeply, a clearing forming in front of him, only to be covered once more by his own misting breath. All sounds were dampened to silence and all smells and tastes, bar the pemuating dampness, were deadened as well. It was strangely peaceful, yet panicking at the same time the man thought. A prison made of the softest clouds.