A young girl, about seven, sat down on the curb in front of her house, which looked out across a large verdant park. Her bob of blonde hair was unkempt from a day of outdoor activity. Her freckled face was stained with dried popsicle juice. Dirt lined her fingernails and dusted her knees. She chewed pensively on gum that had long lost it's flavor.
It was evening, in summer, and neighbor kids played in the park, their movements dancing in the golden light. Bugs floated lazily through the air, yellow wisps of fleeting life. She peered across the road, examining every move, every howl of delight. Her chest burned with anger. Their rebuffs and laughter at her still rang in her head. She closed her eyes tightly and smiled.
The girl raised her hands slowly, then clenched her fingers into fists. She shot up standing, straining to punch her hands into the air. With each punch, across the road, grass erupted, soil exploded. The children screamed. Out of the earth crawled creatures of clumped dirt. They clawed forth into the evening, with heavyset shoulders, and sloped heads. They silently opened maws, and ran after children with the gait and pace of professional football players. Their large hands scraped and scooped up the children, and shoved them into their mouths.
When all the children were chewed against teeth of rock, and consumed, and lifeless, the creatures fell still, then toppled over into heaps of dirt and grass and stone. The girl sighed, then smiled. She spat out her gum and went up the walk to her front door. She glanced back one more time before entering. The park was unmolested, the children screamed and played, and the bugs floated. The girl looked down at her hands, disappointed.