The Disappearing Act

By E. Blalock

The morning started out like any other: good weather, a day spent with family and friends. Hours later, one woman must figure out her own survival in a world where she no longer exists and no one even knows she's gone. 

Read the book that one local journalist of The Journal & Sun described as "part dystopian fiction, part survivalist thriller, The Disappearing Act will appeal to readers who enjoy suspense generated by emotion and physical challenges to its characters."

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. Blalock
• Release date: Oct 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201141912

E. Blalock

Writing under the pseudonym E. Blalock, Ellen Penniman is a native of Columbia, South Carolina, where she earned degrees in Experimental Psychology, Mathematics and later studied American Literature.  In 1999, she moved to Connecticut, then to Stoughton in 2005.  She has enjoyed a twenty-year career in Information Technology as a data analyst and software/application developer.  Ms. Penniman became interested in dystopias at a younger age than was probably advisable.  Perhaps her parents should have made alternate suggestions before the seventh-grade book report on Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick. It was an oral report, in front of the whole class, in great detail.  The parent-teacher conference after that was probably very interesting.  Of course, it was too late and in spite of puzzled classmates and discombobulated English teachers, Ms. Penniman was hooked.  In high school, when Emily Bronte and Chaucer were the assigned reading, she was curling up with George Orwell, Rolling Stone, and of course, more Vonnegut.  

Book preview

DEDICATION

For Ben, Annabel and Abagail

Acknowledgements

Every accomplishment is a group effort. While it is up to each of us, and each alone, to make our choices and then act on them, our ability to fly, or fall, often depends on the support around us. My husband deserves a world of thanks. He has always been proud of my work and hopeful of my success. He has never once derided the time I’ve spent writing, or any of my other creative efforts, or the resources needed for editing, cover creation, etc. He’s the first to help purchase and install software for my various projects. I thank him.

My dear friends Robin, Dave and Eileen are so much a part of this. After my own exile to oblivion several years ago, they became my family. Since then, their support has been immeasurable. They read my work, never criticize (perhaps even when they should) and help plot my path to success by actively promoting my work in social media, proofreading, and offering moral support and ideas. I owe them many, many home-cooked meals and afternoon teas.

I need to thank one special person from my past, who I hope is still with us. When I first took on writing seriously, many people didn’t understand my work. Dr. Bernie Dunlap encouraged me. Years later I reached out to him, and he still remembered and praised my work. Were it not for him, I would have given up long ago.

Coming back to the present, I need to thank Rabbi Joseph Meszler and Cantor Becky Khitrik, specifically Cantor Khitrik. When the first draft was over a year old, languishing on my hard drive from neglect, her haftarah spurred me to complete and release Disappearing Act. Rabbi Meszler’s message encourages everyone to find the best, seek the joy and embrace the good and right. He reminds me, along with many others, that there is always a light somewhere in the dark.

October 2021

THIS REVISION, RELEASED in October 2021 contains some minor changes from the initial release. First, I corrected typographical errors, for which I apologize to past readers. Secondly, I added some descriptive passages that had nagged at me. Please attribute this to my growing pains as a self-publishing author. I included more detail about ubiquitous technology in our daily lives. News articles about the use of facial recognition for social scoring in China and the intensity of data capture by social media platforms inspired The Disappearing Act, and I’d felt remiss in not including technology, even if only in passing, in the initial chapters. These changes, however, don’t constitute any substantial difference from the initial release. The plot and characters are unchanged.

I have also included an afterword, with links to my social media sites and information about other works.

A Summer Day

Iam in exile. I have made my home in the ruins and artifacts of other people’s aspirations. In my darkest moments, I know that everything here is nothing but a dying dream, including me. I write this with a paper and pen, small blessings I’ve found when in the city, scrounging, scavenging, scamming, whatever I can do. Sometimes I have to use old paper bags, scraps of notepads from the library that I’ve pilfered away in my pocket. I make do.

Has it been a month? Has it been a week or two more, a few days less? It’s not that I don’t remember, I remember it all too well. It’s just that I’ve stopped that painful reminder that is counting the days. Such is life in oblivion.

I try to forget anything I can about that day, and that just abounds with irony. Because no matter what I try or do or drink or swallow, I can’t forget that old Chevy Bel Aire.

To this day I can see it clear as anything in my mind; I hold on to that image, as if it were a life preserver, when in reality it’s a blade. That day was the first and last of it I ever saw.

The heat spell had finally broken in mid-July, so it was a perfect day for an outing. I’d thought that the tensions had settled between my brother’s wife and myself. It seemed like the four of us: Gina, my brother Jake and my husband Randy, were enjoying the leisurely afternoon, walking around the antique sedans, the souped-up muscle cars and general four-wheeled rarities. Each one had been lovingly washed and polished with the care mothers give their newborn babies. They glistened under the sun like jewels, as they were supposed to. Every so often, a few yards off, you could hear the growl and roar of a muscle car revved up, just to let the enthusiasts feel the rumble and watch the engine vibrate, breathing its exhaust into the air the way the ancient dragons might have breathed fire.

Even with the sun out, the humidity was down, and lovely breezes would sweep through, tossing our hair about, fluttering the skirts of little girls and mussing the tops of tow-haired boys. The smells from the food truck would float by with the offerings of corndogs, hot dogs and chili, burgers on a flat-top grill, funnel cakes and churros. The nose would hint to the eyes to turn and see the smoke coming from its stainless-steel chimney that rose above the crowd, shining in the sun, making us re-think our plan to have lunch when we got home.

Gina excused herself to go find the restrooms. If I’d gone with her – could I have changed things? Maybe, but really, no. Looking back, maybe if one of us had gone looking for Gina when we first worried that she’d been gone too long. The bathrooms were inside the main hall venue on top of a little rise a good ten-minute walk away, so it all added up to about half an hour that she should have been gone. She had been gone for forty-five minutes when we started to question it. At first, we told ourselves there must have been a long line. Women wait eternities for a stall at these things, I said, figure in fifteen minutes to wait and an extra five minutes to extract the toilet paper from the torture device. She’d be back any minute. When time got close to an hour, Jake said she must have run into someone she knew – although this event was far outside her social circle – and lost time chatting. Once the time passed an hour, our thoughts turned darker: had she fallen ill, eaten something tainted, or come down with a stomach virus? Jake started up the hill to look for her just as we saw her walking down the hill.

Even though she seemed a bit off, staggering a little, we all decided she was just a bit tired, and she readily agreed. The sun had gotten to her, that was all. Something to drink, rehydrate, well, that would make her better in no time. We decided to go about our day, making sure she rested a bit. She joined me while my husband Randy went off somewhere with Jake discussing the details of the engine that had been given a home in a 1963 Stingray.

I was the first to see the Bel Aire. It was a two-toned mint green and white, 1953 Generation I. It was exquisite. The interior matched, with a dual-toned leather upholstery. The bucket seats had the most original pattern I’d ever seen. I fell for the feminine curves, the luscious interiors, the chrome accents.

As soon as Gina joined me, I pointed to it, and asked her to walk with me over there. That’s when she started acting odd. She nodded, looked at me strangely and followed. I’d always found her aloof and stifled in the best of times, so I wrote it off. I shouldn’t have. When we got to the car, I walked to the front to check out the hood, then to the passenger side to see the restoration work. Gina wobbled a bit more than I was comfortable with. There were no benches nearby, so I went to the owner. He was sitting only a few feet away in one of those folding camping chairs. She toppled backwards, resting against the side of the car. He stood up, showing his offense at the breach of etiquette.

The heat’s getting to her, I said.

He nodded and mumbled an apology, then we helped her over to his chair, while he stood over her, offering a bottle of water from his cooler. She smiled gratefully and thanked him. I offered my own apologies and explanations to him.

I’m going to get the guys, Gina, I said. She only stared at me blankly with a polite smile that didn’t quite cover up her anxiety.

I came back with Randy and Jake in less than five minutes. I called her name quietly, Gina, Gina, and reached for her shoulder.