Beneath the heavy shade of a grapevine arbor stood a tall ogre named Grumble.
He reached up with his long arms and plucked the divine grapes that hung like swollen drops of purple glass. One grape, two grapes, three grapes—Grumble loved the look of them. They were round, plump, and heavy with juice, their fragrance thick with sweetness.
But he never ate them.
Instead, Grumble carried the grapes to the nearby village, where children waited eagerly for his arrival. One grape, two grapes, three grapes—the children cheered as he handed them out. Their laughter rang like bells, their lips stained violet, their hands sticky with juice.
The children’s joy warmed him, but it did not fill him.
Grumble’s stomach ached with a hollow pain that never left him. He was starving. His bones jutted out beneath his skin, his steps grew slower each day.
For all ogres lived on meat. Their jaws were made for tearing, their stomachs for blood and flesh. But Grumble had never eaten meat. As a child, he was found by a poor farmer’s wife who had lost her own son. She took the ogre in, fed him boiled roots, fruits, and bread, and raised him as her own. She was a vegetarian, and she raised Grumble to be one too.
“Life is precious,” she told him as they worked the fields together. “We must not take it needlessly.”
Grumble loved her dearly and obeyed her. In front of her, he would chew carrots, apples, or leafy greens. But once her back was turned, he would stumble into the fields, retching, vomiting up everything. His body rejected the food she gave him.
And so, to quiet his stomach, he ate soil. He clawed up clumps of earth and swallowed them, tricking his body into feeling heavy, if not nourished. He longed for the food the soil produced, but he could never hold it down.
The years passed, and his mother died. Still, Grumble clung to her teachings. He starved, but he endured, believing that if he stayed pure, one day he would find joy in the grapes—the one food he desired more than any other.
But no matter how many he plucked, no matter how many he gave away, he never dared to eat one. Grapes were sweet, delicate, innocent… just like the children who devoured them.
One evening, as he handed out the harvest, his vision swam. The children’s laughter cut through him like knives. Their breath smelled of crushed grapes, their mouths overflowed with the taste he craved more than life itself. His chest burned, his hands trembled, and the soil in his stomach churned uselessly.
One child, two children, three children—
their grape-stained mouths sparkled in the twilight.
And then he understood.
He was an ogre. He was not meant to live on soil and roots. He was not meant to starve beneath the vines, longing for sweetness he could never taste. He was meant for meat.
That night, Grumble gave in.
One child, two children, three children—
their laughter ended in silence.
For the first time in his life, Grumble’s hunger eased. His body grew strong, his stomach full. He sat beneath the arbor, staring up at the purple clusters swaying in the breeze.
But the sweetness never came.
The children’s joy, the innocence he had loved to watch, was gone. No matter how much he chewed, no matter how full he felt, the taste of grapes never reached him. His hunger was satisfied, but his longing was not.
And so Grumble wept beneath the vines. His mother’s voice echoed in his ears, her gentle hands guiding him through the fields. He had betrayed her, betrayed the children, betrayed even himself.
The grapes hung heavy and untouched, glowing in the moonlight.
Grumble whispered into the night:
“Mother… why was I born an ogre?”
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