“My name is Jaric.”

She just stood and stared for a moment. No one had made any attempt to interact with her before. What was this about? Then she made sure to position herself so that the table was between them. Whoever this Jaric was, he was part of the group that had abducted and imprisoned her.

“My name is Jaric,” he said again. He wanted her to respond with her name. Screw that, she thought.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I am here to make sure you are adequately cared for. Do you have enough food and water? Is there anything you need that is not being provided?” Jaric asked. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, being sure not to tell her too much or invite her to ask more.

The hell with that, she thought. “I NEED to go home,” she said, crossing her arms.

Jaric looked at her with those piercing eyes, but offered no response. Okay, she thought, let’s try another tactic. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want from me?”

For a moment she thought he would refuse to respond again, but then he said, “In time, I will answer all of your questions. But for now, it is important that you are well cared for.”

Hitting this brick well, and she felt suddenly tired. She wanted to slump down on the bed, but she didn’t dare. This Jaric was a big man, and capable of God only knew what. She wasn’t about to let down her guard.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked again.

“Since you aren’t prepared to give me what I need, or even to explain what’s going on, well, I’ll have to think about it,” she said, raising her chin in defiance. Perhaps if she asked the right questions in the right way, she would get some answers. Maybe she could even use this Jaric to escape somehow.

“I will visit you periodically. Your comfort is important to me,” he said. They studied each other for another minute or two, and then Jaric, keeping his eyes on her, slipped out the same down he had entered. When she heard the lock engage, the woman collapsed back onto the bed.

“That was a disaster,” Jaric said. He was once again seated in the chair in Hauntly’s office. “She hates me already.”

“Nonsense,” said Hauntly. “It actually went rather well. I have seen amaratas actually attack their keepers. Remember, you know what’s going on and the end result. She does not. She is confused and afraid right now. You must win her trust first and foremost. Under the circumstances, that will take some time. That fact that she talked to you and dealt with you in a civilized manner is a good sign, indeed. A very good sign.”

Jaric said nothing. He looked away and hoped that Hauntly was right.

Have you ever been tired but didn’t know why? That’s the way I’ve felt for the past week or so. I am tired. I just want to lie down and rest. But why am I so tired? I don’t know.

Sometimes I do this, keep going until I end up calling in sick and sleeping all day. But I really don’t want to do this. I am under this impression that if I am sick, THE WORLD STOPS TURNING WITHOUT ME. Silly, isn’t it. But what else explains my reluctance to take a day when I need it?

Perhaps I truly am sick. Maybe I have a bug that is making me tired, and I need to rest so my body can get rid of it. Or, it’s possible that I have pushed myself to do too much lately. All I know is…

I’m tired.

I found this gem in a website of stupid quotes. I guess it caught my eye because I am having trouble thinking of anything to write.

I have a couple of comments on Ms. Trump and her writing endeavors. She wrote something?!?? I guess I haven’t read it. Or heard of it. Did she write a second novel?

I notice that Ms. Trump doesn’t say that writing fiction is easy. That makes me feel better, because it certainly is not easy. Even for good, seasoned writers, it takes effort.

Another thing I notice is that Ms. Trump says you can make up (almost?) anything. Well, that would be true, assuming you have the creativity for it. Sometimes (like now) I am all out of creativity.

Oh, well. Chalk this up to the 85%

(According to Ray Bradbury, 85% of what you write is crap. About 15% is genius. I suspect my percentages aren’t nearly that favorable…)

We’ve all heard of the deadbeat dads, those men who make babies with woman and then take off, not supporting their children financially or emotionally. My children have a father like that. We were married for 8 years and had two children. Actually, one and a half. I was pregnant when he decided to leave, giving lame excuses like my family was getting in his business. (huh?)

I should say that I decided early on not to sabatoge the relationship between my children and their father. I figured he was an asshole, and they would eventually figure it out, right? From there I moved to the idea that even if they didn’t figure it out, and the children idolized him, that was okay, too. Many of us have idealistic (and unrealistic) views of our parents. I decided to try to keep my views of the man to myself and let the kids develop their own.

Well, after several years of minimal communication (read a few phone calls a year) the deadbeat seems to want a relationship with his children. A couple of weeks ago he called and said, “Can I speak to A and M?” It gave me great satisfaction to tell him, “A is in college, so he isn’t here.” No, he hadn’t kept up with his kids. He didn’t know that his firstborn was a college freshman.

Maybe it was guilt, but now he has been calling to talk to them every few days. It seems he calls when A is gone. (He was home for Christmas break. Today he left just before he father/sperm donor called.) So M gets to talk to him all the time.

The thing is, M doesn’t want to talk to him. Apparently, his father asks the same questions: what classes are you taking in school, how is school going, what sports are you in, etc. M doesn’t know what to say to him. As far as he is concerned, this man is a stranger.

The deadbeat only lives 90 miles away, and has lived there for several (5?) years. He has not seen the kids since before the oldest was in high school. Now he is trying to make a relationship with these teenage boys. Good luck with that one.

Beware of what bridges you burn. It’s Hell trying to rebuild them.

The days in the room continued on for the woman. She could tell by the coming and going of light through the windows that day turned to night and turned to day again. Her body began to fall into a rhythm of sleeping in the dark, being awake in the daytime. She awoke in the morning, did her toilet and was up for the day. Food magically reappeared each night.

Partly to alleviate bordom and partly because she needed the exercise, the woman began calisthenics. She hated them, but the pushups, sit ups and jumping jacks gave her something to do, and it made her feel she was at least doing something good for herself. Besides, there were no other options. There was not TV, radio or computer. There were no books. There wasn’t even paper and pencil. The alternatives for amusing herself were quite limited.

On occasion, she would hear the hooded figure enter the room. She would dash toward them, but they were always too fast for her. She had rearranged the room so the table no longer stood between her and the door, but then they started leaving the tray on the dresser. Whenever she rearranged the room, they always left the tray on the closest surface to the door. Once she moved everything as far from the door as possible. They had simply left the tray on the floor. She had finally given up on playing musical furniture.

Who were they? What did they want from her? At times these questions plagued her. At other times, she didn’t care. She just wanted OUT. Periodically the room seemed to close in on her, resulting in a bout with claustrophobia. But there was nothing she could do.

One day, the robed figure arrived early in the morning. The woman was awake and heard the door softly open. She bolted toward the figure. She froze when she realized that this time the figure was not retreating as it always had before. She stood up straight. Like a dog that chased cars and finally caught one, she was not sure what to do next.

The figure pulled back the hood, revealing a sandy-haired man with the most intense eyes. He studied her for a moment before saying, “My name is Jaric.”