Jack was so much bigger than the others, with a huge belly and a head the size of Tiny Tim. He’d also been given boxing gloves. Everyone else had mitts, or nothing at all. Massive and strong was Jack and he knew it.
At first, he just flung his gloves this way and that with his spindly, fresh-cut sticks. It was the joy of animation, the look-what-I-can-do. They yelled at him to stop, but he laughed his manic laugh and went on with his punching.
With a crunch of snow compacting, off flew Tiny Tim’s head. Fragile, delicate Tim was no match for Jack’s galumphing gloves.
Jack boomed out his delight into the silence of the others. Not content with just beheading, Jack pounded Tim’s swan-white body. Tim’s twig limbs went flying in the frenzy and in moments, he was strewn about Jack’s bloated, hungry belly.
So began the battle cries.
Alice rolled her tiny head forward, ramming Jack with the bobble of her hat. Launching his gloves downward, Jack shoved off another head. The bobble was embedded in his belly, the hat hanging forlornly from his side.
Peter summoned up himself to float just once, landing his kamikaze sacrifice on Jack’s great ugly head.
Jack was nimble, Jack was quick. Jack made new snowflakes from the splendid flight. Then he howled his victory at the moon, but she was gone. She’d hidden her face.
In the dark before the dawn, Jack made new skin from the bodies. Extra armour against the dawn.
It did not help. Nothing could prevent his punishment. Fury rose the sun, burning Jack into a vapour. He pointlessly punched up his defiance.
Jack’s malevolent spirit lives on, the voice of howling in the wind. He is cursed with ceaseless waking, and the haunting of ill deeds done in snow.