Jack Frost who? He scoffed at the comparisons, there were none. More like Jack Fraud. The notion that the two were on the same level was as ridiculous as the idea that snowflakes were these dainty little helpless crystals of water. No, winter was a killer; a stone cold ruthless hunter.
Who knew better, than Winter himself?
A shriek and a moan; the storm billowed and swirled over the mountain like a terrifying face in the cloud. It roared with a ferocity not known by man for centuries. Its mouth agape, a flurry of wind and snow poured out. Thick black clouds gripped the valley like an iron fist hell-bent on unadulterated destruction.
He woke from a deep slumber, one that held his body and mind hostage in the wells of distant dreams. His ears first to attune themselves to reality, but were met by muffled silence. The soft comforter and down mattress beckoned him to stay in their warm embrace. He needed to move. There was work to do before his family arrived for a weekend getaway at the cabin…
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© Alan Zaugg 2019