There’s nothing in the previous entry because it is “hung up.” I tried to copy and paste it and obviously that didn’t work. I’m going to try one more time:
THE SNATCH
Kidnapping me was a lark. I was so unsuspicious he could have scooped me up with a butterfly net. Never again will I be so trusting of strangers, even if they do seem friendly and 
sincere. What could I have been thinking? Oh yes, the lost mother beagle whose pups were crying up a storm. I know that’s a popular pitch when nabbing kids, go for their sympathies, entice them. It’s just my luck that I’m twelve, only look eight. Evidently at the time of the big S at the school bus stop I had to be thinking like an 8-year old, too! Or younger.
I don’t remember the details of the snatch because to tell the truth I don’t seem to remember much at all, since he held a handkerchief soaked in what smelled like ether over my nose and well, hat was it until I woke up in this basement with my hands ted behind me. Ether smells so pukey! He must have hit me on the head, too. Though I don’t remember it, I’ve got a pretty big knot on my top.
Since I’m super short and wear glasses, guess he figured I’d be no flight risk. If only he knew! –Wait, don’t go there. This is real and life-threatening. The knot on my top is starting to throb, and I can feel my heart bamming away. What is more troubling is that although I’m pretty sure I’m twelve, I can’t be completely sure of my name. Strange that I can remember some of the self-defense lessons from last summer. I may be little and bitty, but those courses weren’t for nothing, although I didn’t use my head in the current situation.
I inch over to the heating duct to see what I can hear. Definitely no crying puppies. Can I hide somewhere? Dumb thought. Maybe he is going to try and ransom me. Would that mean 
my parents are rich? Even if they are it doesn’t mean they would be willing to pay for my return. Although my memory of them is foggy, I get the feeling that I have been a handful for them and they might just welcome a respite.
My thoughts turn inward. Where did that thought come from? I don’t even remember my parents and yet I just caught a negative glimpse of them, true or not. I look around, recalling how other prisoners have freed themselves by rubbing their restraints against something sharp, (although I can’t even recall my own name?) Zilch. This is not the basement of a handyman. Fire? No thanks. My eyes are beginning to adapt to the darkened basement. There are two very small windows up near the floorboard above, and a drain in the cement, which means I can pee. Whoop de doo!
After what seems like ages the cellar door opens. He flips on a light and comes down the stairs carrying a tray. I barely look at the tray and say, “Thanks, Daddy.”
He draws his head back and says, “I’m not your daddy,” as he holds out the tray, apparently forgetting that my hands are tied behind my back.
“Well, who are you?”
“I’m your worst nightmare,” he snarls, whereupon I giggle. He is acting like a monster from one of the movies I can’t remember, either.
“But you will spoon feed me like when I was a baby won’t you, Daddy? ‘Cause I can’t hold the spoon or the tray myself.” If looks could kill I wouldn’t be around to tell you this story. He cuts the rope that restrained me, and as I rub feeling back into my wrists, I say, “Where’s Mama?”
Looking at me suspiciously, he says, “What’s your name, little girl?”
“I can’t remember. What’s yours?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”
Oh good, he’s regressing. We’ll be down on he floor playing marbles soon…or not.
“Not really. Just being polite. I really can’t remember my parents, my name, even my age.” I swing my legs against the chair as I swallow a spoonful of canned chicken noodle soup.
“Yum! I was getting hungry!” I look up at him and smile. He stands with his hands on his hips, watching me eat. My last meal? Nah. I hope not.
“You don’t know who you are!” An incredulous, worried look crosses his face. “You could be anybody!”
“Yep.” I think I slurp a little. I really am hungry.
“How many kids get off the bus at that stop?”
“Oh…” Here I am pretending to count, because I really can’t remember. Would more or less be better? “Let’s see–one young girl rides the bus when their chauffeur is toting her mother around, and–aw, I can’t remember! You took my memory away from me!” I don’t have to fake the sniffle that follows that statement, because I’m not having fun any more. “I wanna go home!”
“Yes, and I’d like to return you home, but I don’t know what I’m dealing with here.”
“I know the feeling. I can barely remember a bunch of big houses in the neighborhood, but not my parents. My mother could be head of the house or the maid, or the butler could be my own dad–here I shoot him a dark disparaging look. I feel my face brighten as a possibility crosses my mind. “Or I could even be a poor relation.” With my last statement he turns to leave.
“Hey, aren’t you going to tie my hands back up?”
He turns and gives a little-boy smirk. “You can try and escape. Be my guest. But I rather thought you liked it here, with me as your Dad-dee.”
I call up the stairs after him. “I’ll bet you don’t even have any kids of your own!”
He calls back over his shoulder, “I can think of a lot worse things!”
“Yeah? Name one!”
He emits his Prince of Darkness snarl. “Like being held prisoner underground by a childless villain.” I hear him double-lock the door. Several hours later he descends and sets down what he calls “a pot to poop in.” He stands over me again with his hands on his hips. It must help him think. “Nobody in the whole world has missed you yet. Is no news good news or bad news?” Here he seems to be asking himself.
The next time he brings me vittles I have a new question for him. “Do you really not know who I am?”
“No. Do you?”
“No, but I want to know what happens to me if I remember.”
“I guess we’ll have to see.”
“Well, who did you think I was? People–even childless kidnappers–don’t just run around snatching total strangers…I think.”
He does his heh-heh-heh thing and an idea occurs to me. “Hey! Wait a minute! Is this some kind of audition? I was in that play at school last fall…and are you trying out for Hulk or something? We’d make a great team!”
He scrunches up his face at me and says, “Are you from the funny farm or something?”
“No, but you must be, a grown man with nothing better to do than pick on and scare little kids for fun.”
“No, not for fun.” My statement seems to come closest to making him feel a little ashamed. Hey! Just maybe he is religious! Can I tweak that banjo string?
“Do you know why I’m still alive?”
He seems curious and shakes his head.
“Because God watches out for me and takes care of me.” He does not reply. “And do you know why I forgot my cell phone and left it at school today?” He was silent, listening. “Because He is watching out for you, too. He knows you have a better life ahead of you than playing bad guy–or somebody else’s stooge.”
Growing increasingly desperate despite my bravado, I break into song, revealing the voice lessons I can barely recall. As I sing”He walks with me and talks with me and He tells me I am His own…” my captor flees up the steps. I call after him, “Remember that I don’t have any memory of you or what’s happened!”
It is several minutes before I realize that there has been no sound of the door being locked behind him. Crossing my fingers, I tiptoe up the steps and try the door. It is unlocked! On the kitchen table is a sheet with big black words scribbled on it: “I QUIT!”
Without a moment’s hesitation I run out the door, turn left, and hightail it towards home as fast as my short legs can carry me.
According to a survey of American pet 
I had to laugh at myself this morning. We know that images that appear as we go to sleep are hypnogogic and those upon wakening are hypnopompic; that dreams/images can be over-determined, and that they often reflect events or thoughts of the day before (day residues), and moreover that the Dream Maker is a great punster. Well, as you may know I wrote my “cow pee” post entitled I’M STILL ALIVE (FOR NOW), BUT… last night, so when I woke up early this morning and “saw” a tall cowgirl complete with straw hat, jodphurs and boots standing in the doorway, it took me just a moment to remember the post about cows last night, and that I currently had to pee!
connection or contact with one another. When I am with such persons I experience deep feelings of loneliness, and I want to break through the empty words and come into touch with the feelings; I want to go beyond the icebergs on top, and into what is actually happening deep down. I have become keenly aware that individuals rarely express what really matters: the tender, shy, reluctant feelings, the sensitive, fragile, intense feelings. Too often we receive the words but not the concrete, actual messages and meanings. What has happened to us as human beings that we can be so near and yet so far, that we can be so distant from each other and not even know? Where are we anyway in those hours when the human spirit cries out in despair, when the hunger for sharing and for loving comes through in disguised and devious forms? What has happened when we have become so radically cut off from our own humanity that we kill the human need for compassion and understanding, when the longing for response is not even recognized or noticed?
It just occurred to me how vulnerable humans are–physically, but even moreso emotionally. Maybe emotionally is not the right word–I mean sensitive to slights, to being discounted (a word I learned in psychology), ignored, being made fun of, mimicked, belittled. Perhaps all these terms refer to the same thing: vulnerable to being hurt. Is anyone impervious to being emotionally hurt? Some have a stoic front, counter-aggressive, hardened defenses. The image that comes to me is of one with a shield which “slings and arrows” bounce off of. I’ll have to think some more on this. (Photo Pixabay)
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