Jayme | Lawson The Penguin

The only thing not perfectly ordinary about Jayme Lawson was her feet.

Inside was not a derelict warehouse. It was a cathedral of ice. Frozen waterfalls cascaded from the ceiling. The floor was polished mirror-smooth. And in the center of it all, rising from a throne of crystalline frost, was a man made entirely of frozen starlight. jayme lawson the penguin

The trouble began on a Tuesday. She was walking home from the bus stop when she saw it: a puddle. Not a rain puddle, but a long, glistening smear of meltwater on the sidewalk. And at the end of the smear, waddling with purpose toward a storm drain, was a small, disgruntled-looking penguin. The only thing not perfectly ordinary about Jayme

They were cold. Not a little chilly, not the kind of cold you fix with a thick pair of socks. It was a deep, ancient, polar cold that radiated from her bones. Her toes were perpetually the color of a winter sky, and the floor around her favorite armchair was permanently damp from the slow melt of an invisible frost. Frozen waterfalls cascaded from the ceiling