From the prompt “fern” for Ad Hoc Fiction
Icy tracery on my window; the thin tendrils of frost speak of the chill outside, and I shiver from something more than cold. Jack Frost’s ferns warn me of his arrival.
He showed me the live ones, once. They were fragile and ethereal in the weak sunlight; but the delicate tracery vanished under my fingers, and Jack pouted. My warmth was deadly in that place.
He has never lost the scar that my lips caused on his frozen skin; the angry red that blossomed has not faded. He asked for the kiss, but has not forgiven me for giving it.
And so I shiver when I see the spreading ferns on my window.
Jack Frost comes.