Everlasting Snow: Chapter 4

“More snow expected all throughout today in (your town’s name),” the weather(man/woman) announces. “Wind gusts of up to 30mph will hit today, too. Be sure to bundle up and be careful out on those roads!”

You smirk ever so slightly at the meteorologist’s precautions, losing interest in the news as it goes from the weather to the main news anchors. You take another bite of cereal as you stare outside the nearby window at the snow and grey clouds that cannot wait to unload more.

There’s frost on that window, too.

Nothing like the one on your bedroom window, of course. This one’s more plain. Wondrous, like any act of nature, but still nothing like the art embroidering the bedroom’s view.

Nevertheless, curiosity gets the best of you and you get up to examine it, secretly wondering if there’s any little tiny design in it that you’re missing. You go over each part closely. Somewhat to your disappointment, you find nothing out of the ordinary here. But wait, in the very last part of your close study of the frost…

In the tiniest handwriting you’ve ever seen, someone has written “JF” in thin letters through the frost on the very bottom right of the window.

Your heart begins to race. Like a person possessed, you run back to your own window, flipping on the light so you can see everything better. You ignore the rest of the window, your searching gaze dashing straight to the bottom right corner.

Tiny letters. Thin. Scratched through the ice. “JF.”

You cover your agape mouth with your hand, utterly astounded and confused. He…He’s real? You slump onto your bed, unable to stand. But how? That’s impossible…That’s right, it’s impossible. This is just a few idiot thugs playing a trick. That’s all it is…

Still in your pajamas, you slip on a hoodie and go outside, believing that you need the fresh air to calm down and clear your mind. You sit down on a chair on the small porch, bringing your knees up to your chin and holding your legs, resting your head on your kneecaps.

It takes a bit for your heart to slow down to a normal pace and you to stop shaking. You take a few deep breaths and look out at the postcard-worthy scene spread out before you. The snow-covered world causes you to forget all of the oddities and questions.

So calm and wonderful…guy, I love the snow. You unravel yourself, letting one of your legs dangle off the chair, your bare foot mingling with the crisp, cool air. Winter is by far the best season.

A sigh of awe escapes you. “It’s so beautiful,” you whisper aloud to no one. You begin to wish that there was someone that you could tangibly thank for bringing this exquisite miracle to the earth.

A sudden icy breeze caresses your right side. You think nothing of it. The news did say gusts were expected.

“It’s really something else, isn’t it?” you hear someone to your right quietly say. You become nervous. You’re hallucinating again. Was there something in that cereal?

To get your mind off it, you start to sing.

“Chestnuts roasting,” you begin, “on an open fire.”

You put your hands behind your head and close your eyes. You smile at this next part, remembering the snowflake from yesterday.

“Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”

A chuckle stops you in your tracks. It came from your right. Definitely more audible. There’s no mistake, no way that this could have been a figment of your imagination. Wary, you slowly turn to your right.

There’s a boy. Sitting…no, crouching…on the top of a long, thin stick.

You jump, completely startled. “Holy—! Who’re YOU?!?” you exclaim as you fall out of your chair.

He loses his balance, teetering on the top of the stick for a second or two trying to regain it. He yelps as he tumbles to the floor, the stick falling beside him.

He’s obviously unconscious. You start to get up cautiously, using your chair as support.

The first thing you notice is that oddly long stick that he was perched on moments before.

It’s no ordinary piece of wood. It’s a long branch, ending in a hook and a long line swirling around and up it, sort of like the stripes on a candy cane. You’re immediately reminded of a shepherd’s stick.

A staff…

Brow furrowed, curiosity getting the better of common sense, you slowly approach his limp figure.