Literature
Jack Frost
The cold biting wind spreads Jack Frost's fingers over my window. The fire inside is desperately fighting to stop the cold at it's portal. Unwrapping myself from my blankets, walking waking, and warming. I start to the fuel, and with sudden gusto, I hastily feed the inferno. I feel it's searing warmth on my face, balanced by the cold nipping at my backside.
The wind now kicks up, it is pompous and does not like to be negated. It forcefully pushes on my window, and pulls away my warmth. Frantic to guard it, I begin to feed the fickle fire. But the cold, the cold is worse, vouchsafing only