What follows is a totally fictionalized look into the life of a woman in my town who walks down the street yelling. It's a short glimpse.

Today she woke up and thought it was yesterday. Or the same day it had been for the last eleven years. Wednesday. The day she had to meet the bus in town. God-awful things could happen to her nephew before he found her tiny house, well-hidden by wild tangles of bushes and weeds.

She moved slowly toward the edge of the bed. First her right leg, then her left, then her hips and chest and head and over and over until she was there. She felt around the cement floor for her cane and when she had it, she pushed her top half up with it, letting her legs fall off the bed into a sitting position. Then she heaved until she finally stood facing the wardrobe.

It took a full thirty minutes to get into her flowered dress. Another ten to pull up her hose and lace up her orthopedic black sneakers. She hobbled toward the door then, taking her floppy hat off the hall tree and placing it over her matted hair. It would have to do.

She took one deep breath before she went onto her doorstep, cane first, and began the long walk to town.  She was sure that the devil lived between her house and the bus station. She felt his heat rising up from the sidewalk and heard his voice on the air stirred up by passing cars.

"You git on from here now, ya hear?" she yelled.

"You won' git me t'day, no sir," she muttered. "The Lord's got me t'day."

"The Lord's got me t'day," she bellowed, flailing out her cane.

As she passed, people on the street snickered. To her, it sounded like fire licking toward the edge of her dress. "Go on now, Satan, you Hell fire, you won' hurt me again," she yelled.

And quieter, "You won' git him this time. No sir, not this time."

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