Jack Frost

JACK FROST

Jack Lewis walked out of the foyer onto the bustling city street.  He glanced upwards, beyond the tops of the skyscrapers and saw steely grey clouds gathering, heavy and threatening.  Turning up the collar of his coat, he dove into the crowd heading towards the subway station, allowing the flowing mass of humanity to carry him along.

It was snowing when he stepped out of the dank gloom of the station and onto the near-dark street.  Jack hated snow.  Had always hated it. It was falling heavily, settling onto the sidewalk and staying there, silently building itself up into a bank. 

As he slipped and skidded his way along the icy street, Jack tired to remember a time when he had liked snow.  He’d hated it even as a child, never rejoicing over it the way his brothers and sisters had.  He’d never dashed out into the yard upon waking to find the world blanketed in white, never rushed off to make a snowman as soon as enough snow had fallen to form a small ball.  No, Jack had never liked snow.

He remembered one winter - he must have been younger than six because his memory was of the old house, the one they moved away from after his sister was born – snow piled high against the side of the house, the porch steps buried.  His mother zipped his jacket, stuffed the thick legs of his snow-pants into his high rubber boots.
“There!” She stood back and studied him, tugging the woollen hat down further over his ears.  “Off you go then.  Have a good time.”  She opened the door and hustled him out, closing it quickly behind him to keep in the heat.

He stood for a moment on the porch, staring around at the white world.  Under its blanket of snow, the familiar yard seemed alien.  Jack took a few steps, his feet breaking through the icy crust to sink deep into the soft snow.  Bundled in so many clothes he could barely move, Jack was careful.  If he fell, he might not be able to get up again.  In the distance he could hear voices, children shouting and laughing as they tumbled in the snow.

As he rounded the corner of the house, Jack saw the seven children, his two older brothers among them.  They had dragged whatever they could find to slide on to the top of the low rise behind Jack’s house, and were taking turns speeding down it on metal trays or thick, black garbage bags.

“Can I have a go?” Jack asked his brother, Ben, as he skidded to a stop in front of him.  “Please?”
“If you want to slide, you have to take it to the top!” Ben thrust his tray into Jack’s arms.  Already sinking into the snow, Jack felt his legs drop further as the weight of the tray was added,
“I can do that!” he declared, stamping off in the direction of the top of the hill.
“Bet you can’t!” Ben taunted. 

Jack ignored him, focusing his attention on the task at hand.  Each step sent him thigh high into the snow, forcing him to dig his leg out before taking the next step.  Icy water dribbled down the inside of his boot, soaking his three pairs of socks.  He made a face but kept on, determined not to let Ben be right,
“Here, let me help you.” Someone took the tray from his arms.
“I can do it!”” Jack protested as his oldest brother, Mickey, helped him up the slope,
“I know you can,” Mickey whispered, “but you’re taking forever and Ben’s about to come and swipe this.  If you want a go, you gotta get up to the top now, ‘kay?”

With Mickey helping, Jack made it to the top of the hill.  Usually it didn’t seem like much of a hill at all, but sitting on the tray at the top of it now, it seemed a mountain.
“Ready?” Mickey was behind him, hand on his back to push him off.
“I’m not….” Jack’s words were lost as he went whooshing down the slope, the metal tray singing as it rocketed over the icy crust on the snow.  Jack closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, his face a rictus of terror.  The tray bumped as it slowed, finally stopping with its nose buried in a mound of soft, fresh whiteness.

“That was fun!” Jack exclaimed, leaping to his feet and wiping the runnels of snot from under his nose with the back of a mittened hand.  “Can I go again?”

But no one was listening.  While he’d been racing down the hillside, the older kids had divided into teams and were now embroiled in a massive snowball fight.  Jack watched as Mickey picked up a handful of snow, expertly moulding it into a ball before tossing it at Ben, the entire exercise seemingly effortless.  Abandoning the tray where it lay, Jack scooped up some snow of his own, and tried to make a snowball.


After three attempts he had something that resembled an egg more than a ball, but it would do.  He threw it with all his strength towards Ben.  It fell to the ground with a disappointing plop, just a foot or so away from him. He tried again, with the same result.  When he tried a third time, with no more success, Jack grew frustrated.  He dug down in the snow until he found a small rock then packed the snow around that, hoping that a little extra weight might make the ball fly better.

The older kids were oblivious as Jack crept nearer.  He hurled the snowball with all his strength, grinning as it arced through the air and hit Ben right in the temple, the snow exploding off the side of his skull.

The blood was bright red as it splattered across the pristine snow, darkening as Ben crumpled into the scarlet pool.

995 words