Feb. 17th, 2011

The hat was scavenged from a graveyard. “Residual magic,” purred the doctor, sniffing its silk lining. The snow-corpus was assembled, the platform raised. Thunder! Lightning! “SUCCESS!!!”

They named him Frosty, taught him to laugh and dance. But the power in his broomstick arms was inhuman; the light behind his coal eyes, unrecognizable. He fled.

Frosty found solace in the company of children, but the hunters found him. Down the streets of town they gave chase.

“Stop!” the policeman shouted. Trapped, Frosty found his stick-fingers inexorable; his tormentor, fragile. Over snowy hills he dragged the throttled corpse.

Thumpety Thump Thump.

THUMP.

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September 2012

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