Windows were boarded up and people were told not to leave their homes. The blizzard had been going on for hours, and it was just getting worse. "Jack Frost must be upset tonight," they would say.

If only they knew how right they were.

On the frozen lake of Burgess, sat a figure in a tattered white shirt, brown pants, and a brown cloak, decked out in frost patterns. He wore no shoes and beside him lay a wooden hooked staff. Hair as white as the snow he created being whipped around by the wind. Icey blue eyes were clenched shut. Tears had frozen halfway down his face.

People were getting hurt, and it was all because he couldn't get his stupid emotions under control. The wind, his friend, would not listen, and that was only making his frustration go through the roof. All he wanted was a little snowfall, but it started coming down heavier and heavier until he couldn't even see 3 feet infront of him. He had tried to stop it, of course, but he just didn't know how to work this magic stick of his. With every failed attempt, he would get more and more upset, the weather reacting to his emotions and snow coming down more heavily. Jack couldn't do anything to stop it, and so he finally gave up.

And as the storm raged on, the villagers could swear they heard the cries of a young boy, but they dismissed it as just the wind screeching outside.

If only they knew how wrong they were.