The worms rolled and twisted in the soil, upturning it in little flecks through her garden. She laughed watching them; she had always loved worms.
Plucking one from the soil, she took a minute to examine it and brush the dirt off of it with her pinky, and then she popped it into her mouth, chewing brightly.
Uh oh. A child, looking to be twelve or thirteen, has seen her. He pulled up to her lot on his bike and stared up at her for a good one minute or so.
A smirk cracked his face and he laughed in that annoying way teenage boys always do. "Worm-eater!" he cried, pointing his finger straight into her face, cackling far too loud.
She stood politely, pushing his hand back to his side, and smiled gently at him. "Now," she said, her voice like rustling leaves in the wind, "that's no way to talk to an old lady, is it?"
He laughed louder. "It is when you're a WORM EATER!"
With that, he planted his hands roughly on her chest and pushed her back, her body landing in the garden with a thump. "You squashed my petunias," she said, a hint of sadness in her voice.
She stood and brushed the dirt off her skirt.
"I think," she said, the boy's eyes going wide as she pulled a little wooden wand out of somewhere in her clothing, "that a rude little child like you needs to be taught a little lesson."
She mulled over it for a second and quickly zapped him, and he vanished, his clothes falling to the ground.
She rifled through, looking for him, and sure enough, a little pink line squiggled out of the fabric.
She snatched it up between her thumb and index fingernail and gave it a quick squeeze, delighting in its frenzied movements.
"Never call a woman names," she whispered to it, and she realized she would have to hide the evidence. She tucked the worm into her breast pocket.
She sighed and hid the boy's bike in her backyard, going into the living room and thunking down on the couch before greedily consuming the worm. They always tasted better when they were fresh.