"The Dirt Eater," a story by Ken Wetherington

The Dirt Eater swept into town without portent, surprising residents with its power and speed. Rolling down broad avenues, it cleansed hard pavements and flushed debris from gutters. Into homes and businesses, the relentless Eater forced its way. Every alleyway and subtle corner felt its efficiency—minute spaces between floorboards, obscure crevices, and dank basements.

The white steeple on the church shone with renewed luminescence, and the red brick post office exuded a hue rivaling that of the fire truck. At the school, wads of gum disappeared from under desktops. Grime and grease no longer plagued factories; their machines hummed with reconditioned potency. Manual laborers felt a presumptuous nipping at the crud beneath their fingernails.

At first, the citizenry feared the vastness and strength of their unwelcome visitor. Streets emptied, windows shuttered, and the people quaked. They hid as best they could, but the Eater inserted its presence into every refuge. It grew fat and satisfied, watching, like an insolent sentry, the seeds of its labor bear fruit.

Gradually, the population emerged to a reluctant coexistence. Perhaps the oppressor wasn’t so bad. The dirt-free life had its appeal, and daily routines returned to a semblance of a regular, though somewhat somber, existence. The grudging acceptance evolved into a near universal respect, and finally, an appreciation for a job well-done.

Work resumed. Freed from worry, the town lapsed into paeans to its new life. “Clean and Sober” became the mantra on everyone’s lips. None denied the uniform tranquility brought by the Eater.

Despite the general serenity, a troubling listlessness emerged among the children. Play stagnated. An aimless shuffling replaced running and shouting. “Just a phase,” the adults opined. “They’ll get over it.”

Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the Eater departed. Overnight, the concerned populace hastened to fill the void. A self-appointed committee established a “Clean and Sober Patrol” to replicate the absent authority. Debate on parameters sprung up. Discord ensued. Prayers begged for the return of the Eater. But no answer came.

Meanwhile, a few began to long for the grit of dirt that would give texture to life. For them, clean equaled boring. An underground resistance formed and festered. “Viva la dirt,” they cried. The rebels were met with harsh repression and severe punishments. Hardened with resolve, the factions fought to an enduring stalemate.

In time, memories of the Eater dimmed and passed into the realm of folklore. Had it truly existed? Would it return? Was it a god? Was it a devil? No one knew. Many no longer cared. Ultimate goals were forgotten, and only the fight at hand remained. Some, however, swore they heard the distant echo of deep-throated laughter emanating from within and without.