One step, two step, tickle her under there. Silly nonsense rhyme stuck in Sheila’s head as she paces up and down the garden path. Head down, legs powering as fast as a hamster trapped in its wheel. Don’t think about it, it only makes it worse. What is it that she’s fretting about? ANXIETY. On and on the worry goes. When will it stop? Nobody knows.

Sheila’s calm inner voice advises her not to brood on the disquiet of her mind, although it’s hard not to when she’s spent years living with nervous tension. Can’t go out; might faint. Can’t go out; might have palpitations. Can’t go out; might have a heart attack. There’s nothing wrong with her except for her infernal racing brain. Not racing with anything productive, only worry, worry and, oh yes, more worry. It’s so exhausting. When she thinks she’s worried something to death, along comes something else to get her teeth into. Well, not her teeth, more likely to be her constantly firing synapses, habituated into longing for the physical symptoms of too much adrenaline coursing through her body, like a heroin addict searching desperately for their next fix. Sheila’s brain makes a mockery of her body: makes her feel nauseous; light-headed; gives her a headache; makes her think she’s going to die of a heart attack.

Sheila keeps pacing, eyes focused on the cracked grey paving slabs below. “I will go out; I will do what I want; I will live my life” she tells herself. “I refuse to bow down to this irrational worry. What a waste of my life. Aside from the constant stress, it’s also incredibly boring. I’ve bored myself senseless with the persistent negative thoughts, boring family and friends with my constant refrain of how anxious I feel”.

This has to stop and it has to stop today. The years she’s wasted; the opportunities she’s squandered; the times she’s said no to something because of anxiety, fear and worry.

Sheila thinks, “today, I’m going to lift my eyes from the confines of my small front garden and I’m going to turn my nervous energy into something productive. I’m going to look forward with excited anticipation to where the path might lead. Goodbye irrational fear. Hello life. Here I am, ready and waiting to say yes to what you have to offer, to look around and be thankful that I am alive, creative, valuable and worthwhile. I’m going to take the first few steps to liberating myself from crippling panic. I’ve spent so long imprisoned in my self-imposed brain cell that I’ve missed out on what the world has to show me. It’s time to throw off the shackles of the dark room and feel the fresh air of a new dawn”.

Sheila opens the garden gate and steps out into the street.

The doorbell rang, waking me from my afternoon nap. It seems anymore that I am always taking a nap, be it afternoon or whenever.

The six men in black were back; the second (or maybe third) time today.

"Go away," I say, my voice quivery and barely audible.

"But, Sir, it's the law. It has to be done."

They had the sheriff with them, this time.

I shake my head. I shout:

"No! Go away! Please just leave me alone. I'm not hurting anyone!"

"It's been five days, Mr. Cranton. You're--you're in a really bad-off way. You've got to let us take you to--to them. They know what to do to make everything all right."

"No! They'll embalm me. They'll close my eyes for good, then close the coffin lid and--and dig that damnable hole and put me in the ground forever! I couldn't stand that."

I turned from them, started back to my couch and my nap. But something caught my eye. I glanced sideways and--saw myself in the hallway mirror.

I shuffled back to the front door, my key in hand to let them in.

"Yes," I say, turning the key in the lock. "Take me away quickly. They need to hurry. They need to fix me up--right now!

Franklin Zindall was a scoundrel, a gigolo, a fiendish opportunist. Gloria spurned him, but he refused to give up. He knew when he saw a good thing. And the good thing was my cousin's fortune, inherited from her parents.

He crashed the party that night. I glimpsed him slipping behind the curtains, spying on Gloria. Finally, he ventured out, went straight to her, and began trying to get on her good side. He put his hand on her arm, but she shrank away. "No," she said, loud enough for me, and everyone else, to hear; but I could sense she was till fascinated by him. Without thinking, I rushed over and pushed him back. "Leave her alone," I said. "Can't you see she wants nothing to do with you."

"She does, damn you!" he said, his face becoming a mask of rage. He swung at me, connected and knocked me out for a few seconds. Then stormed out, tugging Gloria along with him.

Two months later they were married; a year later Gloria was pronounced dead of natural causes. He inherited her fortune and suddenly went away.

Although I can't prove it, I am certain that the cause of my cousin Gloria's death was anything but natural.

"I know you're here," Mark called. "Come on out with your hands above your head."

I stood beside the front door, the automatic in my right hand, waiting. I had been expecting him, and I was ready.

"I'm here to take you in, Larry. For Mom's murder. Just come on out and give yourself up. We've got the whole house surrounded, so you can't possibly get away."

I nudged the door open a couple of inches.

"So you want me to come in after you, eh," my brother said, pushing the door wide open. He stepped into the room, and I placed the muzzle of my weapon against his right temple.

"I saw you put the pillow over Mom's face and kill her. You were next in line for the bulk of the estate--and you couldn't even wait till Mom died. You could have let her live another two or three months--that's all she had left."

I squeezed the trigger until I had fired all the rounds into my older brother's head and body. Then I dropped the gun and stood waiting quietly as the other agents stormed into the room and cuffed me.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

The heavy rain pelting against the window at dawn’s first light had had Dog’s Mistress scurrying around in the kitchen cupboards for waterproofs, umbrella and boots, before heading out the door. ‘Later, Dog, when Master wakes’, she had said.

Dog had settled back down in his basket with its well-worn blankets, head resting on outstretched paws. After an hour, with day’s light increasing and the rain easing back from its earlier intensity, Dog had heard his Master moving around upstairs. Five minutes and then outdoor time he had thought.

Standing, he had stretched in anticipation of a gloriously muddy walk, when he heard an abrupt screech, followed by a tumbling and crashing before a final thud as his Master’s head hit the small table in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs.

Dog had skittered along the linoleum flooring and had found his Master slumped in a heap, his head at an unnatural angle, unseeing eyes staring fruitlessly.

Dog had nudged against his Master’s sprawled form. Nothing. No response or sound had come from Master despite Dog’s frantic pawing.

Whining softly, Dog sat beside his Master and began the long wait for his Mistress to come home.

Glazer regularly blew his top; he had the disposition of a rabid gorilla.

Jeff caught the brunt of Glazer's temper because he was the office gofer and nearly always present and handy.

"I'm gonna get him!" Jeff told himself over and over. "I'm gonna tell my brother, Big Jeff, to give him what for!"

Several days later Glazer left the office, as usual, about 7:00 p.m. He saw a large, hulking man standing at the corner bus stop, staring down at the backs of his hands. When Glazer started to walk past the man, the other turned and held up his hands. He wore brass knuckles.

"I was told to give you this," the man said, swinging his fists.

By the time Glazer got out of the hospital, two weeks later, his disposition had greatly improved and all his employees received substantial raises--with Jeff getting the biggest raise of them all.

Roger and Loren stopped to watch the man as he proceeded down the street, lifting the lids of various trash receptacles sitting at the curb.

"Yuck!" Roger said, wrinkling his nose. "Nasty looking fellow. Not mean-nasty, but dirty-nasty."

"Yeah," said Loren. "What the heck you suppose is up with that guy? He ain't natural lookin'.

The man seemed not dressed at all, but littered--covered--with bits of newspaper and other kinds of papers, old clothes none of which matched, leaves, twigs, and splatters of apparent filth that neither of them even tried to guess at.

"Must be some kind of trash man."

Loren nodded. "Scavenger's more like it. I think we oughta call the sheriff's office and let 'em send out a deputy to get this guy off the streets."

Meanwhile, clouds had been building in the western sky, and a winter storm was upon them before they realized it. A strong, cold wind blew across the town, and almost bowled them over. The wind caught the odd-looking man and sent him tumbling down the street as though he weighed only a few pounds.

After the initial blast of wind subsided, Roger and Loren ran after the man. But as they neared where he had come to rest, lying in the street, they were horrified at what they found.

There was no man there at all. The wind had blown apart something--an unbelievable, impossible scattered mess of old paper, clothing, small tree branches, last summer's leaves, candy wrappers, cigarette packages, and all manner of other loose trash. Somehow it had all been animated, and had walked about as a man. But it was nothing but trash. It had been animated, well enough; but nonetheless it had been only a pseudo-man. Quite literally a "trash man." 

That was the way of it. Dave Johnson sat on the red-clay bank of the pond staring at the brown scummy water. The water table was sinking, and soon the pond would be bone dry. No matter; he had sold all his cows, anyway.

They were coming to take possession of the farm. He couldn't pay the mortgage, which was now a second mortgage, and the payments were almost six months overdue. He'd have been all right if he hadn't gotten laid off at Alton's last spring . . . but he had. He'd have been all right, at least for a time, if he hadn't had crop problems two years running and had to spend just about all his savings . . . but he had. He had nothing in reserve, and nothing coming in. He couldn't pay the mortgage, and that was that. He'd have to leave the farm, find somewhere else to go. That wasn't going to be an easy thing to do. No, sir. Not easy at all. You needed money to get another place, and he was down to his last few dollars.

He stood, put his hands on his hips and stared fixedly at the water. It'd be so easy--just to jump in and end it all. He couldn't swim a lick, so that would take care of that. If you can't swim, you drown. Period. All his problems solved in the blink of an eye. That was the way of it.

He took the first step toward the water's edge, trembling. This was something he had to do.

"You gonna take a swim, Mr. Johnson?"

The voice startled him. He looked over his shoulder. Johnny Sturgis, the bank manager's smart-ass teenaged son, was sitting on his bike, back at the edge of the meadow, grinning at him.

"Aren't you a little old to be swimming in the cattle pond? But I guess it's all right. Dad said you wouldn't be around here much longer, so I guess you better do your swimming while you still can!"

Dave Johnson stiffened. It was like someone had smacked him full in the face with the bottom of a cast iron frying pan.

He turned back to the pond. What in God's name had he been thinking? His daddy hadn't raised him to be a coward--but he almost took the coward's way out. He felt an overwhelming surge of anger at himself for even thinking about giving up.

The boy's words had jolted him back to his senses.

He turned, climbed back up the bank and walked to his pickup truck. At least he still had that. And a few friends who would probably help him get started again--if he'd stop being too proud to ask for help. And he'd find another job, too, and work himself back up. Sure, he'd lose this farm, but eventually he'd get himself another.

He opened the door of his truck, turned and waved to Johnny Sturgis. "Thanks, boy!" he said with a hearty laugh. He climbed into the cab and drove away, leaving the Sturgis boy staring after him in wonderment.

I cannot recall just when I first met Rozalia, and though many years have passed and though I may have forgotten many things she still haunts my memories with the freshness of a brand new day. Time cannot erase this chapter of my life, for she was my life and while recollections of our time together bring great joy our parting reserves a memorable place for great sorrow. In truth she was my first love and in certainty my only love. Had my youth been endowed with the knowledge of my now aging years then my wants and desires would ne’er have begun. But begin they did and I now know, there can be no peace for me without Rozalia.