The Anywhere's 2: Disappearance

The delivery wasn’t what she expected.

Kaitlyn dropped the box, spilling packing peanuts all over the front entry. Dropping to one knee she carefully pulled out a bundle of bubble wrap.

“Oh my gosh!” Peeling back the protective layers, she found cracked leather and ancient paper. “Mom?”

No response. After so kindly pointing out the package, her parent had disappeared into the kitchen, and was undoubtedly sampling her “cooking” wine while Kaitlyn’s back was turned.

“It’s worth a fortune,” she mumbled, transported to utter bliss by the eighteenth century stamp-press ink. Most fifteen-year-olds wouldn’t know or care what this was, but Kaitlyn had been dying to own an early US edition of the poems of Ossian—ever since her father read one to her, right before he disappeared. Original full marbled sheep; spine with simple gilt rules and with a red lettering piece, gilt… Oh she could die this instant happy!

But this couldn’t be the very copy he read to her?

Carefully turning back the cover, she gasped. Old fountain ink pen read, “To my dearest Charles”.

It was the same! The very same! The rarest book in his collection, the one that disappeared around the same time he did, a final puzzle piece the cops never tracked down.

No return label on the box.

She scowled at the package, dying to know as she hadn’t in ten years what happened to her father, and why he simply vanished from the face of the earth.

“You’re going to be late,” Mom reminded from the kitchen.

Late? Right!

Off to piano, then Karate, then Biology study group. She groaned and kicked the box aside, throwing her life-sustaining backpack over both shoulders, and cradling this new jewel. She stepped out.

“See you at nine, Mom. Ahhh!” She tripped through the door of her New York-style townhouse, somersaulting down five steps, and landing with a whomp on her stomach.

“Ugh.” How many people saw that one? Ballet the last seven years hadn’t been enough to graceful-ize her, but maybe, just maybe Karate would? Mom might have actually come to the rescue after that crash if she wasn’t so used to Kaitlyn.

At the top of the steps, a hose stretched from the adjoining townhouse’s railing to hers.

There could only be one explanation: Brett Michals, neighbor and annoyance extraordinaire. Grr. She still couldn’t believe Mom had the audacity to suggest he liked her—that his constant pranks were a sign of affection. Dumb boys.

“All else fails, look first,” she grumbled, newly acquired treasure still clasped safely in her arms. Her Karate uniform and carefully packed dinner sprawled across the sidewalk. A ruby apple rolled to a stop at a glistening black dress shoe.

She looked up, then up some more.

“Can I help you young one?” The mutant-ly tall man offered a hand.

“Are you from England?”

He reminded her of a reaper, drawn, gray, aged as he began gathering up her things. “Perhaps once upon a time, Kaitlyn Strom. Where are you from?”

He really shouldn’t know her name. Did she do something dorky like wear a name tag today? Nope. No name tag. Oh wait, Karate uniform. Yup. Purple permanent marker and her forever label.

“Who are you?” She got to her feet, pulling wild brown curls out of her eyes.

“Oh, no One.” His attention turned to the still open door, and the brown package.

Okay, Mr. Strange, she thought. “You here to see my mom?”

“Hm? No. Are you a collector?” He pointed to her book.

“Maybe.”

“In that case, there is a special symposium at the Museum of Art tonight. Rare artistic opportunity, invitation only.”

“Well see, I don’t have an invitation.”

“Then you are in luck.” He offered an off-white envelope.

Don’t take gifts from strangers! her head screamed, but she couldn’t refuse the crimson wax seal and high quality parchment.

“Nine sharp.” He smiled.

“But the museum closes at 8.” And she would know. She went twice a week if she could manage.

“Special events require special treatment.”

Pulling the ineffective clip out of her hair, she lifted the seal without cracking it. A glimmer of light dropped to the pavement.

“What the…” A key no larger than the tip of her pinkie blinked up at her. “Um, mister-”

He was gone. Just like that, gone. Weird.

The tiny key gleamed up at her. Numbers were engraved across the top: 0097. Some kind of locker key?

The Anywhere's: Ferdinand Fairbock

"Science hates you." Mr. Gilchrest dropped an exam on the desk.

Staring at the giant red "F", Kyle shook his head. Spit wads snowed from his too-curly hair, a reminder that he occupied the first row today. Even if he hadn't, the result would be the same. As the only West Junior High pupil to repeat the eighth grade three times, he should expect it, the trouble that landed him in hall fights twice a week.

He wasn't stupid. Heck, he could name every artist from the fourteenth century on, so why couldn't he remember the rudimentary layers of the earth? As he scowled at the belligerent cross, he began to consider maybe he belonged in a "special needs" class after all.

"...and although it was a relatively simple test, I'm pleased with most of your results." Mr. Gilchrest grilled Kyle with a frown, indicating the statement didn't apply to him. "A great review. Most of you seem to remember the material from last year. Now, for next weeks-"

The classroom door flew open. Principal Jorgan, five-three and as wide as he was tall, fumbled forward--as though he'd been kicked through the frame. Kyle imagined him a football, wide, brown, skidding to a halt on the low-grade linoleum.

The principal straightened his flamingo tie. "Excuse the intrusion Melvin."

His Jersey accent made Kyle cringe. The "pal" in his title didn't so much apply here. Jorgan was only interested in making sure Kyle passed enough classes to boot him off to high school. Nobody wanted a problem child.

"I need Kyle Fairbock."

A chorus of "Oooh!" turned all eyes his direction. Kids snickered.

Kyle sighed and got up, dusting the floor in more spit bombs, and followed the principal out the door.

It was not uncommon for him to be summoned out of class--in light of the last fight, or some recent vandalism he got blamed for, but usually a secretary came to escort him--not the head of the school. He studied the disciplinarian as they moved down littered halls, wondering what this short-on-stature not-on-temper man had in store for him now.

Instead of returning to the office, Principal Jorgan led him out the side doors, to the sunny playground, and turned. His face was red from the walk, eyes curious and worried. Had he ever looked at Kyle that way?

Mr. Jorgan cleared his throat, and held out a minuscule key on a regular sized ring.

"What is-" The disciplinarian dropped it in Kyle's palm, halting his question. He gave the boy another wary look, shook his head, and returned to the air conditioning.

The little key glittered.

Kyle debated returning to science class, but the sun, the last of summer, forbade it. He turned the key over, numbers refracting the light.

"0097. Huh."

"It's your number." British baritone drew his attention to a shadowy stairwell. "If you want it."

A man in a dark suit sat, cross legged, peeling a peach.

"Excuse me?" Kyle asked, "Who are you?"

The peach man rose. Kyle cranked his neck, peering up at the stranger as he approached, way up.

"Call me 'One'."

"How about if I call you tall?"

The stranger did not smile.

Kyle swallowed.

"I can tell you where to take that key, or you can stand here making ridiculous observations." One continued to frown.

"Um, about that," Kyle scratched his head, littering the asphalt with paper remnants. "Shouldn't I be in school--trying to finally pass 8th grade? And who are you anyway? Why did I get pulled out of class?"

Here at last the peach-peeler grinned, a grim crescent of aged skin. "Go home Kyle Fiarbock, or shall I call you Ferdinand?"

Kyle reddened. No one knew that name. Only his "perfect" mother who abandoned him shortly after birth would ever understand the reason for such an atrocious name. Dad still puzzled at it.

"Go home and study your...art."

Goosebumps crept up Kyle's arms as One reached into his pocket, removed a cell phone, and disappeared.

ACTION!

Why are action sequences so hard to get right? You can spend hours pounding out the exact moment, and still come away with it all wrong.

I dabbled in film once upon a time, and I realized cinematography can be compared to writing. Both arts require that we depict a world, create the right mood, and engross our audience. What are some elements of cinematography? Shot length. Saturation/Coloring. Angle.

Have you ever noticed the length of camera shots in any given film? Try it. Pull up your favorite movie and count how long the camera remains in one place. Ten seconds? Three? Now compare an action sequence to a panoramic scene. See the difference? As a writer that’s exactly what you have to get your reader to feel—but your tool is not a camera, it’s sentence structure.

Choppy sentences engender urgency. They demand we pay attention. They speak volumes. What’s not said is as important as what is said. Word choice is paramount.

Saturation and hue are another important aspect of cinema. You may not notice it initially, but compare Pushing Daisies (awesome old TV series) to Underworld (for all you vampire fans). Do you see it? The over-saturation of brilliant colors in Pushing Daisies immediately communicates to the observer the mood—chipper, and primed for smug comedy. Contrarily, the dark, luminescent coloring of Underworld instantaneously tells us this film is serious, potentially brooding, and timeless.

In our sequences, how do we see the scene? Bright? Dim? Comedic? Serious? The more directed the tone, the better an image the reader will form. Again, word choice is paramount. Do we use “downhearted” or “devastated”? “Pulchritudinous” or “Beautiful”?

Angle=perspective. These are so important in film that directors, cinematographers and writers frequently confer to get it just right. You can show someone being beheaded several ways. Imagine a falling blade and an observer’s reaction. Or, you can actually witness the gruesome episode. I find not seeing is terribly effective. From the third person you have the power to show the reader everything, but limiting that omniscience and honing in on what is most important will strengthen your voice. From the first person perspective you are limited to what the main character perceives. In writing action sequences we have to remember that, to hold to it. Think how the character would think. Say what the character thinks. Nothing more.

Imagine your action sequence as a film. How long would your shots be? What angles would you take? What color saturation? Now, paint your scene exactly. Make it flow, or not flow to create the mood you want.

And now, the example:
-->

Sunset…

She stopped. This felt familiar, too familiar.

She shook it off. Father had certainly gone mad with worry by now and planned to quarantine her to the house with a constant nanny-watch. She would not find him. She should return.

She turned and stepped into a puddle. Her reflection rippled.

She backed away, landing against a tree. Last night came back in a rush, hazy images of half-perception, rushing glades, panting as she moved in fear…

Threshing in the clearing pulled her about. An animal? Deer perhaps?

“Hello?” she called shakily.

Nothing.

The sun set. Intimidating branches twisted toward her. Odd shadows played over the swaying leaves, shifting in the most disconcerting way.

Quiet.

If she could hear the chatter of birds or scurrying of rodents—even if it made her jump, that at least would feel ordinary. The breeze ceased. In the sinister light—or absence thereof, she felt eyes burning into her…

Alexia shook the impression away and focused. She imagined it. She personified the dream into reality.

Still…

“Is someone there?” she breathed, little more than a whisper.

Wheezing gurgles met her ears. She rounded.

Nothing.

The sound died as quickly as it had come. What kind of creature made noise like that? Did she imagine it too?

She swallowed. The thump of her heart echoed into her ears. “Hello?”

A snicker rippled in a circle about her. She followed it, twirling about, but only caught snatches of something—something moving, fast!

A growl sounded. She needed no greater motivation. She dashed headlong.

Movement ruptured behind her.

Her skirts caught. They snagged and tore, scratching her legs. She ran harder, one arm before her face to fend off the branches. They raked across her sleeve. She gasped as they cut into her flesh.

Her feet slapped the ground in rhythm, echoed by another set of feet, faster ones.

Her chest heaved. She sucked in air, but could not draw enough. Invisible fingers squeezed at her airways. Her lungs pulsed like she was being sucked under a great watery swell. The whoosh of leaves turned her head. A silhouette crashed through her periphery. Blackness blinked at the corners of her vision. Her muscles burned.

She would faint before she’d been outrun!

Air rattled through her lungs. Perspiration chilled her skin as though trying to stiffen her already impregnable limbs. The rasp of her own breathing filled her ears.

She should be screaming. No, she should conserve her air…

“Help!” she screeched. Father had to have taken up a search by now. He’d track her. “Father! Anyone!” But she’d gone miles. Even if he’d begun looking, she’d wandered onto someone else’s property.

A bough slapped her across the face. White light flashed. She blinked it away, uncertain whether her legs were still under her.

She couldn’t outrun it. No one would hear her. It was an empty plea. “HEELP ME!”

Something pummeled into her back. She flew forward. Her head smacked a rock, wind jarring painfully from her lungs. A cry wretched outward as warm liquid eased down her cheek…sickly, wet…

Sight threatened. It blinked out and back. Pounding echoed through her ears, growing louder. Pressure crushed down through her spine. Pain. Piercing, searing, tearing into her back… A scream—hers?

Blackness.

No, she couldn’t give in! She sucked in a deep breath. “Please…” It sounded meager. She forced her eyes open as fire tore through her vertebrae, another shriek wrenching free. Tears wet her lashes. She watched in slow motion as one drop fell to the ground and spattered in a beautiful ribbon of translucent fingers. “Please…”