It’s completely out of this world.
How could a stick—a fairly ordinary-looking piece of wood—transform so quickly?
He just touched it, and it came alive. The moment he wrapped his hand around his staff, a magical, bluish white ice spread over the area on and around where he was grasping it, thick around his hand and progressively thinning until it stopped a few inches in either direction.
You can’t help but smile at the remarkableness of it all.
“Do you have a sled?” Jack Frost asks as he turns to face you once again, beaming.
Do you have a sled? “I think so…Lemme go check,” you tell him. You hear him laugh a little as you dash off to your garage. What is the spirit of winter plotting?
You spend a good five to ten minutes rummaging through your mess of a garage for a sled or anything you can use as one. Just as you’re about to give up, you find the perfect thing for the job.
You rush back out to the living room, holding a good-sized storage bin lid over your head.
Your heart immediately sinks.
The fire has been put out and isn’t even smoking anymore. The blanket is neatly folded and put on the arm of the couch. The tray and the food it once held are put back into their proper places. Jack’s cloak that you had taken off of him is nowhere to be found. The room is cold.
But not a Jack Frost kind of cold.
An empty kind of cold.
Still with a tiny spark of hope in you, you take your lid and fling open the door, running outside with searching eyes. You look in all directions for any sign of a white-haired teenage boy holding a wooden staff, listening for even the slightest sound of the familiar laughter.
Nothing. No sign of him anywhere.
Your fantasy has ended as quickly as it started.
You drop your storage bin lid and halfheartedly kick the snow at your feet. You were really looking forward to having an adventure, even if it all turned out to be a dream. You knew, somewhere in the back of your head, that it was all too good to be true. But you didn’t want that little part of you to turn out to be right.
It begins to snow.
Just a weather phenomenon. Science. Not caused by a mythical spirit.
You pick the lid back up and start to make your way back to your house.
But it was all so real…Jack Frost…real…
“Careful, it’s slippery!” you hear a familiar, mischievous voice playfully warn you.
“Huh? Wha—WHOA!” You slip and fall, ending up on your makeshift sled.
The next thing you know, you’re sledding backwards down your hill at full speed.