Snowflake

By Harper Dent

I watched the snow fall. 

Tiny crystal flakes drifted down, floating and twirling in gentle pirouettes. The snowflakes landed silently, joining the shroud of ice encasing the land. The black limbs of trees speared through the snowscape, the oaks and maples dusted with powder. A weather station hut cut across the view, the wooden walls ribbed with pine. A waft of smoke puffed from the chimney, streaking grey in the white sky.

I shivered and pulled my parka tight. The Met Office logo crinkled across my chest. I stood still, silent, letting the flutter of snow tickle my outstretched hand. I’d loved catching snowflakes as a child. Even at almost thirty, I cherished the winter ritual. 

My hands were bare, the skin pink from the cold. My fingers ached, but I didn’t mind. I watched the snowflakes fall onto my palm and melt against the heat of my skin. The beauty of the snowflakes, the chill of the air and the quiet of the landscape filled me with warmth. It was like the first sip of coffee in the morning—sharp and revitalising. 

A snowflake fell, fluttering down with a soft bow. It landed on my wrist. The crystals glistened. As other snowflakes melted at the touch of my skin, that one remained intact. I watched the delicate form, wondering why it did not melt like the others.

The crystal shivered, the branches wiggling like spider silk in the wind. 

I pulled my hand close to my face, my nose inches from my palm. The snowflake’s branches shifted, turning to the side. 

The snowflake was moving.

My hand was so close to my face I could smell the dampness of the melted snow. Tiny creaks, like squeaky door hinges, whispered from my palm. The snowflake arched its strands and pulled its limbs under itself. It wobbled and stood, balancing on spiky tips. I gasped, my jaw opening like a shored fish. What strange creature had I found?

Shaking its branches loose, the snowflake crawled along my palm, walking like a pinhead-sized crab.

Was it a bug of some sort? Or a parasite?

No. It wasn’t a bug. Its body was as clear as crystal, its limbs as delicate and complex as a fractal. It was a snowflake; there was no doubt about that. But what sort of snowflake walked?

The snowflake settled on my skin, curling into the crook of my finger. It pulled its spindly legs over itself, as if it were preening. 

Had I discovered a new being? A new life?

I barked a soft laugh, my voice echoing in the silence. What would my colleagues at the Met Office think of this?

The little crystal toddled along my skin, its ice-flake legs softer than the touch of a feather. 

I needed to get it inside, find a container to hold it in and take it to the Met Office. Whatever amazing creature this was, people needed to know about it.

I began to curl my hand, cupping the snowflake in my grip. At the first movement of my fingers, the snowflake scuttled down my skin, hurrying to my wrist. It paced back and forward, its movement fast and erratic. It didn’t seem to want to touch my clothes.

I opened my hand flat, pulling the fingers wide. Testing a theory, I took the glove from my pocket and gently brought the fabric towards the snowflake. The ice creature flittered backwards, hurrying away from the touch of the cloth. Was the cloth too porous for its body?

Using the glove, I coaxed the snowflake back along my palm. Reaching the middle of my hand, I snapped my hand closed, trapping it in my grip.

Something tapped against my skin.

Tap, tap, tap… slice.

I screamed and opened my hand. The snowflake sheared its razor-sharp leg into my palm, slicing like I was made of butter. Its legs twirled, spiralling and slashing, carving a hole. 

Gasping in pain, I slammed my hands together, crushing the tiny creature in my grip. I rammed my arms until I was sure it was dead.

Gingerly pulling my hands apart, a trickle of blood spilled down my wrist. I searched for the creature. Tiny fractures of ice rimmed the hole in my palm. The fragments began to melt, the drops mixing with my blood. Within moments there was no sign of the creature; its body dissolved in death. 

I wiped my hands on my clothes and glanced at the snow falling around me. I pulled my gloves back on. My fingers shook. Stepping quickly, I hurried inside the hut.

Safe inside, I considered calling the Met Office and telling them what I’d found. But with the creature gone, I had no evidence. Who would believe me? 

I moved to the fireplace and slumped into the armchair. I eased off my glove and looked at the wound. It was smaller than I’d thought — a pinprick hole. Had I overreacted? The shock of the pain had cut through me like electricity. I’d smashed the creature before I’d stopped to think. 

I picked at the congealed blood on my palm. The wound would heal quickly. 

Regret twinged through my gut. Perhaps I’d been too hasty in destroying the creature. It might have only attacked because I’d trapped it. Would it still be alive, scuttling on my hand, if I hadn’t closed my fingers?

I looked out the window, watching the snow settle against the glass. I watched for signs of movement in the power. There were none, the snow as still as sand at the bottom of an hourglass. 

Regret turned to guilt, and I considered going back outside to try to find another snowflake. I’d made a mistake trapping the first one, but I couldn’t bear the thought of the creatures remaining undiscovered.

Taking a moment to warm my muscles, I stashed my gloves in my pocket and headed outside. I stood in the falling snow, watching the snowflakes melt on my hands. I waited, searching for glimpses of life. If I had the chance to find a snowflake creature again, I would know better than to contain it in my grip. If I found another life, I’d be sure to keep my hands open.

About the Author

Harper Dent is a speculative fiction author writing about anything from spectral monsters to unique magical worlds.

Much of her inspiration comes from her science background and love of nature, allowing for unique views in creating her fantastical realms.