Jasper and the Home Invasions

Apparently, what makes burglary such a vicious crime isn’t the loss. It’s the invasion. Your home is where you feel safe. It’s more than theft. It feels personal. If someone can enter your home and steal, what’s to stop them from doing something much worse?

Every bump you hear at night shakes you with insidious dread. A simple thud conjures a plethora of bone-chilling scenarios, each one more vicious than the last.

Therefore those who commit such crimes should be dealt with accordingly. Tried and punished in a way fitting to the offence.

They shouldn't be lorded as heroes in books. Their side of the story told to hordes of impressionable children. Teaching that the man in this tale was a good guy.

The victim is blamed for it all. As if having a home and belongings is wrong. Apparently I’m at fault for the consequences that followed.

It's always, humans are good, giants are bad.

What really keeps me up at night is, how far would he have to go before people saw him as the bad guy.

I live alone, in the clouds. It isn’t an ideal location. People imagine the views are incredible, but clouds lose a lot of their charm up close. Unless fog is your thing.

I have to be self-sufficient. It isn’t easy. Giants aren’t particularly skilled at living off the land, especially when that land is made of tiny water droplets. I’ve adapted, reluctantly.

Humans once lived among giants. We don’t concern ourselves with them any more than they concern themselves with rodents. As long as what you do doesn’t affect what we do, we coexist.

But just as one human can have a devastating effect on a herd of hamsters, one giant can have the same effect on a village of humans.

Hamsters, however, do not possess the same vengeful instincts as the average human.

That’s why I live here. Out of the way. I don’t want to bother anyone. Try to keep myself to myself.

Still, I’m the monster.

I was having a lazy morning when it happened. Normally, I’d be up and about, working through the never-ending list of jobs. That day, though, I’d read that rewarding yourself with time off was good for your mental health. A me day.

Then there was a noise. It echoed through my room, killing any chance of relaxation. Another followed. Then another. Each one made it harder to pretend it was nothing.

I stood up and looked around for something to defend myself with, anything that might help against whatever unknown prowler lurked beyond. Nothing. I saw no weapons, no makeshift tools, no self-defence implements of any kind. I was completely unarmed.

The sounds continued outside my door.

My body slipped into fight-or-flight. The decision was immediate.

I had no control over what happened next. My body ran straight for the window. It didn’t check it was open. It was, thank goodness. I like to think my body remembered leaving it that way, I’m not sure it did.

My face hit the ground first. The adrenaline did nothing to dull the pain. A jolt shot through my jaw, down my spine, and all the way to the tips of my toes. It wanted every part of me to know it was there.

I lay on the ground, stunned. My body hadn’t planned what came next. Do I keep running? Where exactly?

Flight had been tested, and failed. Fight was never an option.

I needed another.

I saw the stalk, punched straight through my vegetable patch. Soil everywhere. The whole place in ruins.

An old feeling crept up. It wasn’t quite anger. This was disappointment. All that hard work was destroyed by the actions of some selfish lowlife.

My disappointment burned just as furiously as anger ever could. However, it didn’t drown out reason. I wanted to stop whatever was unfolding, but with brains, not brawn.

This could be resolved without grinding anyone’s bones.

I’ve always been a gentle soul. It’s the thing that stood out most about me.

Every young giant dreams of the old days, when giants were feared. They’d stomp through the woods yelling, “Fe-fi-fo-fum,” claiming to smell the blood of an Englishman. That part was always a little controversial. A giant’s sense of smell isn’t good, and suggesting that people from different countries have distinct aromas, starts to wander into troubling territory.

I wasn’t interested in those games. Not because I cared for humans. I had no opinion on them. Aggression simply wasn’t my cup of tea. I wanted peace. I had no time for their infantile warmongering.

My serenity didn’t sit well with them though. They tried hard to coax fury out of me. I was teased constantly. They called me Jasper the Cowardly Giant. They’d chant at me, so I’d never forget. It wasn’t even a good nickname. That made it worse. It didn’t need to be clever. My life choices were doing the comedic heavy lifting.

My home was the only place the teasing couldn’t reach.

Even with the constant fog of ridicule, and a steady background hum of violence, I never became angry. Only disappointed in my peers. Genuinely devastated that they couldn’t allow a personality to exist that wasn’t inspired by theirs.

Growing up was difficult, but it’s over now. The pain and disappointment remain, but they’re memories rather than wounds. Time dulls their edge.

My isolation wasn’t a choice, but I’ve tried to make the most of what was forced on me. My home became an oasis of calm. A place where I could be whoever I wanted to be. No judgement. No humiliation. No Jasper the Cowardly Giant.

That was over. Tranquillity was dead. Long live disappointment.

Another crash dragged me back into the present.

First I needed to understand what I was dealing with. I crouched low and shuffled along the outside wall, trying to pinpoint the source of the intrusive clatter.

It was close.

Then, like a small smudge on my window pane, he came into view. I didn’t know his name then. It’s difficult to escape it now.

He wasn’t sneaking cautiously, worried what might lurk around each towering corner. He strutted with the confidence of a boy who had never known consequences. He feared nothing, because he was only aware of his own existence.

I knew what had to be done. This little reprobate needed to learn that there were things in this world worth fearing. Things worth paying attention to.

Me, Jasper the Terrible Giant.

I crept around to the front of my house and eased the door open. I glided down the hallway, towards my egotistical enemy.

He was trying to open one of my cupboards.

He looked impossibly small in comparison. Although it didn’t trouble him. Jack tugged at the door as if everything inside belonged to him.

I stopped just outside the room and reached deep inside myself, for the ferocious giant that surely lived in there somewhere.

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,” my internal titan bellowed.

Jack froze. A new expression settled on his face, one so unfamiliar it sat like a poorly fitted mask.

“I smell the blood of an Englishman,” the words poured out of me. The internal titan had no issue assigning nationality based on nothing more than a sniff of the air.

The concern on Jack’s face collapsed into terror. The realisation struck him. This was not a place where he was in control. He had wandered into the territory of something far bigger than him.

My voice continued, having not finished its lesson.

”Be he alive, or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.”

I almost giggled. I’m a vegetarian. Baking bread with bones would make it inedible.

It seemed to work.

Jack turned and ran for the beanstalk, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks.

For a moment, I felt proud. Imagining what the others would say if they could see me. That feeling didn’t last long. The hypocrisy caught up with me immediately.

Self-disappointment followed. I hated it because it was entirely my fault.

I watched as he scuttled down the stalk. I stopped myself from calling out a warning. Children falling from the sky was not a good look. The mob would be straight up the beanstalk ready to slay.

He made it down safely.

Disappointment again. I didn’t hate it this time though.

I was confident he wouldn’t come back. I saw his face. It was full of fright, regret, and a lesson learned.

I spent the rest of the day unsure whether I needed to relax or stay alert, so I attempted both at once, and achieved neither. The day collapsed into a single, shapeless moment that felt no longer than five or six minutes.

The emotional back and forth exhausted me. By the time night fell, my eyelids wanted nothing more than to hold each other in a sleepy embrace.

Nothing disturbed me that night.

I woke believing my sanctuary had returned. Once again wrapped in quietude. Blissfully alone.

I got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. As I moved from room to room, something felt wrong.

The sense of peace I relied on, felt thin and stretched too tightly, as though it might burst and leave me drenched in anxiety and unnamed dread.

Something was different. I couldn’t say what, but the atmosphere of my home felt altered.

Maybe it was just the residue of the invasion. My refuge needed more time to heal. The disappointment hadn’t receded. It had settled in, heavy and persistent.

I made and ate my breakfast in what felt like one long, continuous motion. I neither loved nor loathed it. It simply sat in my stomach, unimpressed.

I went to the living room, hoping the music from my harp would calm me. My grandmother had engraved the magic into it herself. It would play the most mesmerising music. It reminded me of her.

Grandma was the only one who ever truly accepted me for who I was. She would play the harp and say, “You shouldn’t try to be anyone other than yourself, and no one should expect you to.”

She would smile, and add, “A cat doesn’t expect a dog to be a cat just because it doesn’t like its unapologetic enthusiasm.”

The music began, and my heart rate slowed. My breathing steadied. Until then, I hadn’t realised how fast and loud it had been.

I closed my eyes. I could hear her voice telling me I didn’t have to be a cat. People needed dogs like me.

I’m not sure if I drifted to sleep or the music simply held me in place, but I stayed there for hours. Long enough to be late.

I hurried to the garden. Cassandra was not someone you kept waiting. I stopped, brushed myself down, and tried to tame my unruly hair. Not to impress her, but to look presentable enough to avoid a lecture about my appearance.

She’d warn me that humans might mistake me for an ogre. Form a hunting party. She said it with venom, although I believe she meant well.

When I walked in, Cassandra wore no expression. Geese rarely do. Still, frustration and disgust were dominant in her eyes.

”Sorry I’m late, Cass,” I said. “I’ve had a tough few days.”

“I can see that,” she replied, repulsed. “I can find other customers. I only deal with you because I liked your nan.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” I said again.

No one actually wanted her eggs anymore. Extravagance was dead. But she had many beaks to feed. If I didn’t buy them, no one would. Luckily, my gran had left a few gold coins. Enough to keep Cassandra afloat until her kids fly the nest.

“I’ll take all you’ve got,” I insisted .

The frustration drained from her eyes, replaced by something close to gratitude. She tried to blink it away, but it lingered.

“No problem,” she said casually. “I have three.”

“Superb,” I smiled, reaching for my coin bag.

It wasn’t there.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, already turning away. I could feel Cassandra’s stare burning into the back of my skull.

“Okay,” she sighed, not meaning it.

I walked back to the house faster than usual. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to keep Cass waiting. It wasn’t true.

The feeling had been with me all morning. That slow, low dread.

Had he come back? Had my bubble of bliss burst?

I searched the house.

The coins were gone, stolen by that petulant brat.

Disappointment burned my bones. The heat got hotter and hotter. I could hear my insides sizzle. Smell my organs cooking.

I had to stop this before anything else was taken.

I cursed that very moment in time. Then something cut through everything.

Honking echoed across the garden, through my house, and hit my eardrums with the force of an angry troll.

“Cassandra!” I shouted, running back towards her.

As I rounded the corner, I saw her tangled in a net, being dragged towards the beanstalk.

He was back.

My internal titan roared to life, fuelled by a rage I could no longer contain.

“Fee-fi-fo-fum,” I bellowed. “I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive, or…”

Jack looked irritated.

My supposed terror frustrated him. Not a threat, just an inconvenience,

He reached the beanstalk, turned and met my gaze. Wiped away imaginary tears.

Cassandra had stopped honking, as if accepting her situation. I knew Cass, she hadn’t given up, just conserving her strength. Waiting for the right moment to fight back.

I couldn’t reach them before Jack lowered her and himself down the stalk.

I grabbed the first branch and started to climb.

“No. Stay,” came a sharp, stern honk.

I froze.

Climbed off.

Cassandra was right. Blind reactions wouldn’t help. I needed a plan. Jack would return. He was far too arrogant not to.

Next time, I’d be ready.

The next part of the story gets bastardised the most.

Most versions are broadly accurate, if you ignore the motivations. I am cast as angry and cruel. Jack is painted as a hero helping his mother live the life she deserved. In reality, he was just a narcissistic scumbag.

I decided to use the harp as bait. Draw him close. Surprise him, and hope whatever lived inside me knew when enough was enough.

I moved the harp to the front of the house, and hid.

My stomach churned, trying to escape my body. I wasn’t sure what frightened me more. The possibility that the plan might fail, or that it might succeed. I was afraid of what the internal titan was capable of. I was petrified that if it went too far, I might enjoy it.

If I did, who would I be then?

I heard him before I saw him. The admiration he held for himself demanded attention.

He came straight for the harp. The way he salivated at it only encouraged me.

I leapt out, baring my sharpest teeth. My eyes burned with rage and punishment.

He stopped.

Look at me with the same interest, one might spare a discarded orange peel in the street.

I was determined to wipe that smug expression from his face.

“No more games, little boy,” I hissed.

That got his attention.

“You will bring back everything and everyone you took.”

His eyes widened.

“I don’t want to grind your bones into bread,” I said, “nor devour you.”

Jack swallowed.

I let the silence stretch till it hurt.

“But if eating you is the only way to hide the evidence,” I continued, staring at his throat, measuring it up, “then I will consume every last piece of you. Leaving nothing behind but the disappointment your poor mother will have to bury.”

His face tried to hold firm, as if I hadn’t just seen him trembling moments earlier.

His eyes betrayed him.

They flooded with tears. Then a howl of panic so pure, it gifted my face with a smile.

Panic curdled into real fear. His face suddenly understood that his entire world was about to be swallowed.

And then I felt it.

Pity.

I wanted to comfort him. Say it would be alright. Apologise. Make it all stop.

That’s when he ran screaming.

“I’m sorry,” I shouted, chasing after him. “I didn’t mean it.”

He didn’t hear me.

He scrambled down the stalk, sobbing as he went.

I watched him descend, my heart sank as I failed to catch him.

“I’m sorry,” I called down. “Let’s talk about this.”

I began to climb after him.

He was too fast.

He reached the bottom, an axe already waiting.

The moment his feet touched the ground, he began to hack at the stalk.

“No,” I screamed. “Please. We can discuss this.”

I was too high to reach the ground safely. Too low to climb back up.

Three strikes.

The stalk gave way.

I fell.

The air left my body first. Then everything else followed.

The last thing I heard was Jack’s laughter.

The story says I died.

I didn’t.

I survived. Crown unbroken. I used the remaining beans to grow another beanstalk and climbed back up to my deteriorated utopia.

Cassandra’s goslings live with me now. She’s a fighter. She’ll return soon. None of us doubt that.

My home is no longer a sanctuary of contemplation. The noise of infant birds brings a different kind of comfort. I’m never alone. I need it that way. It scares me knowing that anyone like Jack, could come and take whatever, whenever they felt like it.

Disappointment still clings to me. The disappointment of Jack and the Beanstalk.

Aside from my invented wife and the ending itself, nothing in Jack’s heroic fairy tale ever really changed. He broke into my home. He stole from me. He tried to kill me. And he remains the hero.

History is written by the victors. The rest of us are just story points.