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.
Eric Clayton is the author of the book, Cannonball Moments. His essays on spirituality, culture and parenting have appeared in America, NCR and more. He lives in Baltimore, MD, USA with his wife, daughters and cat, Sebastian.