Nothing Lives Under This Dirt by Eric Clayton

They light their fires in a circle, an old wives’ tale ward to keep away they-know-not-what.

But in the darkness, the flames illuminate my sky, warm my back, reveal the presence of those who trespass upon my sacred temple. Every twig that snaps under their ill-fitting boots I deem a sacrilege.

But still, they come, these hairless, godless creatures. And the leaves turn brown.

When my wrinkled hand bursts up and through the stone and dirt, they know they’ve made a mistake. Their screams betray their cowardice. To run, or to bow down and worship?

I eat the worshippers first.