Second, check out my first ORIGINAL NOVEL! The Breaking of Poisonwood by Paradise Avenger. (Summary: People were dead. When Skye Davis bought me at a slave auction as a birthday present for his brother, I had no idea what my new life was going to be like, but I had never expected this. It all started when Venus de Luna was killed and I was to take her place, to become the new savior… Then, bad things happened and some people died. In the heart of the earth, we discovered the ancient being that Frank Davis had found and created and used to his advantage. The Poisonwood—)

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Takes place one hundred years before the events of the movie. (Jack is epically hot, no?)

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Two endless centuries… Two hundred lonely years… Twenty empty decades… Two thousand, four hundred months… seventy-three thousand, fifty long days… Jack Frost didn't want to count the hours, the minutes, or the seconds, that he had spent alone. Most of the time, he just left himself with the vague length of 'a very long time.' After all, what was the sense in counting how many Christmases, birthdays, and other special moments that he had spent alone? None. Honestly, thinking about it just made him more depressed, more lonely, more… empty.

Jack Frost sighed, watching his breath plume on the chilly night air.

He told himself—what was it?—fifty-seven years ago that he was going to stop counting even the years, but some treacherous part of his mind marked every winter he spent in the small village where he was born in that frozen lake as the passage of a year. After this Christmas, he would be alone for two hundred and one years. To top it all off, it was even a leap year, a day longer than most normal years. Jack had been alone for fifty leap years and one hundred and fifty regular years.

He sighed, resting his cheek on his bent knee. His staff dangled from his fingers, blowing softly in the wind.

From his perch in the tall pine tree, he watched over the small village below. Just a few hours ago, he had dusted the quaint little place with powdery snow and now it glimmered in the moonlight beautifully. A few candles glowed in a few windows—a few unable to answer the call of the Sandman or maybe children waiting up a few days early for Santa because they couldn't yet understand the passage of time as adults did. The longer he watched, more and more soft candlelight vanished from the windows until only one remained.

Someone else was still up as well, singing a tune, and in the distance, he heard someone crying softly.

He heard a window creak open, nearly silent, and spotted a young girl dressed in her warmest winter clothing sneaking out of her window. She dragged a small satchel out after her, slinging it over her shoulder as she looked around surreptitiously. No one saw her but Jack.

He leaped down smoothly from his perch and let the wind set him gently on his feet below, stirring the thin snowflakes beneath his bare feet. He walked down the streets, following the girl as she hurried to the small bridge that crossed the village's small river. She waited there, her breath cloudy and her teeth chattering softly. Jack seated himself on the railing beside her, just watching her, waiting with her. Soon enough, in a great hurry with a large horse, a boy approached the bridge.

Breathlessly, they embraced and kissed. Then, the boy helped the girl mount the large horse and tethered her small bag beside his own on the horse's flank. After a moment of struggle, the girl pulling at his cloak to help him, he swung into the saddle behind her. When she shivered again, he wrapped them both in his cloak and kissed her cheek. For a moment, they hesitated, looking back at the tiny village sparkling with newly-fallen snow, but they did not turn back.

'They're eloping,' Jack realized. For a moment, he thought about doing something to stop them, but decided not to. 'They're in love.' If he could find even one person who could see him, who believed in him, nothing would make him leave their side. So, he let them go and remained sitting on the railing above the rushing water in silence.

For so long, no one had been able to see him. No one had heard his voice. No one had seen him sitting among the trees or dancing on the frozen lakes nearby or flying through the sky like a bird. No one knew he existed. They all just… walked right through him, through his body, through his soul, without even knowing he was there. He felt a moment of fleeting warmth as they passed through him and it only made the ache worse inside him. What would it be like to be embraced by that warmth, to really truly touch and feel?

But Jack had a feeling he would never really know what it felt like to be believed in.

The only time anyone even spoke his name—a moment that made his heart soar with hope only to be crushed again—was when mothers warned their children. "You don't want Jack Frost nipping at your nose, do you?" And then they'd bundle their babies in warmer gloves, hats, and scarves.

Sometimes, a child would ask, "Who's Jack Frost?"

And mothers would answer, "No one, dear. It's just an expression, an old legend. Now, go out and play." And Jack would stand nearby, his heart breaking a little more, as the child ran right through him on his or her way to play in the snow and their mother would close the door in his face.

Sometimes, mothers reminded their children to be careful and be certain not to play on the frozen lake. "You don't want to drown like Jackson Overland did, do you?" they'd caution. Though the name pulled a chord in Jack's heart, he figured it was merely his sympathy for a child that had died during winter. Or maybe it was a distant twinge of guilt because winter was his element and maybe he could have—should have—done something to protect that child.

Jack rose from the railing of the bridge and headed back into the village, idly swinging his staff and delicately frosting everything in his path. After all, he didn't want to create a patch of ice and hurt anyone come tomorrow morning.

A single light still burned in one window of the village. Curious, Jack rose with the wind and peeked in the small window on the second floor, peering through a crack in the shutters. Inside, a bean-pole of a man was working furiously at his desk. His quill was flying, but then he'd suddenly stop, ball up the paper, and throw it away.

'A writer,' Jack thought, 'and a blocked one at that.' His blue eyes glinted mischievously, a smirk pulling up the corner of his pale lips. 'Why not give the poor sap something to write about?'

So, Jack palmed a snowball, breathing on it lightly so that it would be perfect, and threw open the shutters. The writer shrieked, quickly slamming his hands down on his desk to keep his papers from blowing everywhere. Jack tossed the snowball at the writer, catching him cleanly alongside the head. Who knew? Maybe the writer's imagination would allow him to see Jack. Suddenly, that hope blossomed in Jack's chest and nearly overwhelmed him.

'Let him see me,' Jack pleaded. 'Please, let him see me… if just one person could see me, I would be…'

But there was no such luck on Jack's side—no one listening to his silent prayers.

A screech owl swooped past outside the window, hooting loudly. Snow swirled into the room on the cold night breeze, spinning across the braided rug and around Jack's ankles. The wind wanted to comfort him, but he was beyond comforting. His hopes had been dashed again. The writer mumbled a curse under his breath to the Gods and at the bird and moved to close the window, treading on the remains of the snowball Jack had thrown. Jack had to hurry back out the window before the writer shut him up inside the room with him.

Back outside among his element, Jack lifted his head and gazed up at the bright orb of the moon. "Why?" he spoke aloud, knowing that he wouldn't disturb anyone. No one ever heard his voice. "Why can't anyone see me? Do I really… not exist?" Sorrow pulled at his heart and he lowered his burning eyes to the frosted path beneath his feet. "Maybe…" he whispered, "I did something terrible and I'm being punished for it… Do I… deserve to suffer? Am I… a bad person?"

But no one answered him—not the Man in the Moon, not a fellow spirit, not the wind, not even an owl.

He moved silently through the small village, unsure of what exactly he was hoping would happen. All he knew was that he needed to feel like he was a part of something, like he belonged, like he existed, but walking the empty streets wasn't making him feel any less lonely. Then, as fate would have it, he heard the faint creak of a window opening a few inches and the soft chatter of someone's teeth as they shivered. Was another couple eloping tonight or was it the parents seeking their children already?

He curiously followed the regular creaking sound and found that it was merely a shutter that had been opened a few inches by the wind. He moved towards it, lifting a hand and intending to close the shutter and move on, but something stayed his hand on the cool wood as he went to close it. Inside, her face cast in faint moonlight, a young girl was sleeping. She lay on her side, hands folded on the pillow beside her face, patchwork quilt pulled up to her chin, and she smiled faintly in her sleep even as she shivered.

Temptation chewed at Jack's soul. No one ever saw him and the window was open like an invitation—even though it was probably one from the wind. If he slipped inside, he could spent the night among this girl's home and maybe, just maybe, he could pretend he belonged there. So, he hefted himself in through the window and closed the shutter tightly behind himself. Inside though, he hesitated. Why did it feel as though he was doing something naughty, something forbidden?

He knew about the human traditions and how he could ruin everything for this girl if the one time someone happened to see him, they caught him inside her room. It wouldn't matter that she didn't know him and he didn't know her. All they would care about was how it looked and it would look wrong. But… in two hundred years… no one had seen him. What made him think that this one time, while he was here, someone would see him? He was being… too hopeful and just a bit silly.

Jack pushed the feeling away and moved towards the girl's bed. She was quite pretty, her pale hair strewn across the pillows and her delicate features smooth with sleep. She murmured in her sleep, shivering slightly, so Jack pulled the second quilt that was folded at the foot of her bed up over her sleeping form. He fully intended to move away from her after that, to explore her house and pretend her family was his, but the feeling of the quilt between his fingers was lovely. He had been wearing his ratty cloak and trousers for two hundred years and the feeling of the plush thick fabric was amazing to his cool fingers.

Even though he was a winter spirit and wasn't cold in the wintery weather, he still liked the idea of a warm soft blanket to wrap himself up in. Even though he was perfectly comfortable sleeping in a snowdrift or on a tree branch, he still wondered what it would be like to sleep in a real bed. And, because it was night and he was already feeling so lonely and desperate, he sat down on the girl's bed beside her. When she didn't stir, he stretched his long svelte body out beside her.

The bed cradled him, softer than the wind or even a soft fall of powdery snow. And the girl's body, though she passed through him where their shoulders touched, gave off that faint heat that he craved. He imagined he could really feel her, wrapping himself in the warmth of her room and the smell of her clean hair and skin. Though he still didn't feel like he quite belonged here, it was the closest he had ever come to the feeling he so desperately wished for.

Jack set his staff down beside the bed in easy reach, just in case. Then, he closed his tired eyes and cuddled up against the unaware human's side. He didn't need to sleep, so he just rested, listening to her breathe and enjoying the feeling of the soft bed and faint warmth he gained from her body. It was almost everything he wanted.

She shifted position after a while, rolling in her bed so she was facing him. Her hands were still folded beside her face, fingers lightly curled. Jack opened his eyes and gazed at her face, smiling faintly. Then, he lifted his hand and rested it on hers on the pillow. She murmured, teeth chattering faintly, as his cold hand passed through her. Ashamed, he pulled his hand back and thought about leaving.

He really should, but he just… he didn't want to. He couldn't.

Jack settled down beside her again, gazing at her pretty face dappled with moonlight. As if sensing his scrutiny, she rolled over and put her back to him, pulling the covers up higher as if to hide within them. Jack sighed sadly, closing his eyes again, but remained lying at her back. He soaked up what he could of the almost-touch he felt where her body just barely touched and passed through his own. What would it feel like to actually touch her?

Sunlight began to peek through the shutters, playing through the icicles that hung outside the window. The light fell across her face and she moaned softly, beginning to stir into the waking world and leaving her dreams behind until the next night.

It was then that Jack felt it.

It was so sudden and strange that, for a moment, he didn't understand. He felt pressure where her back was pressed to his chest. She stretched and her muscles flexed against him, pushing back and not passing through his body. He quickly lifted his hands, cupping her covered shoulders and squeezed softly. Sure enough, her flesh felt real and so amazingly warm beneath his cool hands that it stole his breath. He gasped softly, his heart hammering.

But as quickly as the moment came, it ended. Feeling his touch, the girl came quickly into full wakefulness and whirled to see what was touching her. For a moment, Jack tensed—caught between fear and desperate hope that she would see him. But her dark eyes went right through him and his hands suddenly passed through her body, causing her to shiver.

She didn't see him.

He couldn't touch her any longer.

It seemed that right on the border between awake and asleep, children believed enough for him to touch them, if only for a moment. In two hundred years, Jack Frost had never once been touched—walked through and ignored, but he had never been touched. The feeling was… he couldn't even describe it, but he craved more. There was an empty place in his soul that was suddenly so much more painful, so much more forward and glaring. It was like a physical wound.

He wanted—no, he needed—to be touched more.

But the girl had risen from her bed and was beginning to undress. A flush quickly colored Jack's cheeks. He grabbed his staff from the floor and dove for the window, nearly catching himself comically with his staff on the frame in his rush. He heard her shriek behind him as the wind and snow swirled into her warm room and she hurried to close the shutter.

Then, the morning was quiet and beautifully frosted.

All around him, the village was stirring.

Someone was called two names, probably the names of the young couple Jack had seen elope the night before, but he couldn't find it in his heart to care. (Distantly, he hoped they were alright and happy and that they had kept each other warm in the cold night.)

He had been touched!

A soft whoop of joy escaped him and he did his best not to show his happiness by frosting the people that milled nearby. He let the wind lift him up like a leaf and blow him into the forest where he could let out his powers and his joy without restraint. He found his way to the lake where he had been born and danced across it, skating nimbly across the surface, laughing.

He had been touched!

And it felt so unbelievably wonderful!

How had he lived without that feeling for two hundred years? Even those few fleeting seconds he had experienced were more than he ever desired. Being touched made him feel like he really existed, like he was alive, and he was already looking forward eagerly for night. Maybe, he would slide into bed beside another child and—in that moment before they woke completely—they would be able to touch him and he them.

A smile pulled his lips and he leaned on his staff, watching the frosty patterns spread beneath his bare feet. The village was coming awake. Men headed off to work, accepting kisses from their wives. Mothers bundled up their children, warning them of Jack Frost's chill and to be careful lest they become like Jackson Overland. Children began to play and laugh, enjoying the snow. It was perfect for making snowballs, after all. Jack watched over them, his faint smile remaining on his face even as the children skated right through him on the lake's surface.

Finally, Jack had been able to feel someone's touch—even for a few seconds. Somehow, those seconds wiped away two hundred years of neglect and loneliness. He knew that he could somehow exist if only one person would believe in him. If they believed, they could see him and touch him. Somehow, someday, he would make that happen.

He gave himself that one promise.

"Someone will be able to see me," he whispered. "I'm sure of it."

One of the children turned, but looked right through him. Maybe it was mere coincidence, but Jack wasn't worried. He knew someone would see him, and touch him, again someday. Little did he know, one hundred years was a long and painful wait. By the time another managed to touch him, he had given up on it ever really happening. He had given his frozen heart over to the thought that he as doomed to only ever feel a child's touch in those fleeting seconds between awake and asleep. He had forgotten his promise to himself, along with the promise that he would stop counting the long years he spent alone.

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You know, it occurred to me. If Jack hasn't been believed in or seen for three hundred years yet he still has all his powers, wouldn't that make him epically strong once four or five kids start believing in him? Makes more sense to me. That's probably why they need him—because his powers don't seem to have anything to do with children's belief in him.

Questions, comments, concerns?