The Technicals, Part 4: Conclusion

The Technicals were done returning all the absorbed beings to the Gathering.

“Give back. Give back.”

Their chant went on as they began to pull random components from their bodies. Gadgets and their associated odds and ends grew in two piles.

To everyone’s astonishment, one pile—consisting of plastic, glass, metal, and wood—turned to streams of mist. The streams went in several directions. One vaporous trail went no further than the edge of the meadow. While the other mist streams disappeared over the horizons, this one flowed toward a grove of trees.

At first, there was nothing to see. Gradually, the grove thickened into a small forest. Trees shot into the sky—evergreen, old growth hardwoods, even a spattering of new growth. Murmurs passed through the Gathered beings. Silence—heavy, yet buoyant—fell across the meadow.

The Technicals shrank as they shed phones, DVD players, stereos, and more.

The second pile released green and violet streams that collected into clear barrels. These were the hazardous materials used to make many of the devices work. In the barrels, the poisons swirled faster and faster until they lost their color. A layer of water pooled beneath a mist that now resembled the same mist that returned resources from the recycling pile. Water and Air confirmed the remains truly were purified elements.

Mist soon filled the area, obscuring the Technicals. The Gathering held still, much to Wisdom’s amusement. Many of the beings were not given to stillness on the most solemn of occasions.

At long last, the Technicals went as quiet as their audience. A soft breeze not of Air’s making ruffled, then separated the mist. Everyone leaned closer to see.

The mechanical monstrosities were gone. In their place stood a pair of children. Wearing simple white shifts, their bodies had skin that glowed black as a computer monitor. Zeroes and ones scrolled in vertical lines, some going up, some down. The boy child held the girl-child’s hand. His hair was a rowdy, alabaster mess. Hers, of a matching shade, was long and pulled back into a low ponytail.

The boy approached the Gathering with his little sister in tow. She hid behind him until he pulled her to his side.

“We’re sorry for what we did,” he said. His voice was warm and more natural than before, although he retained an electronic hum that was not unpleasant. “I’m Mech, and she’s Tech.”

Tech darted behind her brother again. Now that beings had begun to relax, some chuckled at Tech’s shyness.

Mouse whispered into Wisdom’s ear. The Conceptual nodded. She walked up to the children before Elephant could make a move.

“You have gone a long way toward making amends,” she said. Somewhere behind her, Elephant made a noise and was promptly hushed. “I was but a child at my first Gathering. This is true of everyone here.”

Mech smiled an infectious grin.

“Tech an’ me are gonna be good from now on!” he boasted.

“Don’t be too good,” Trickster grumbled.

The remaining tension evaporated and was followed by laughter and welcoming hugs.

Satisfied, Wisdom slipped away from the crowd. The spotlight belonged to other, more extroverted individuals.

“They’ll be fine,” Mouse said. “I remember the turmoil you Conceptuals caused, and these children were no worse.”

“Ah, but there are only two of them. You do recall our numbers, do you not?”

Mouse giggled. “Point, my friend, point.”

Something pulled on Wisdom’s robe, startling her. She looked down to find little Tech holding tight, thumb in her mouth.

“Tell me story?” she asked around her hand. “Techie like Gramma Wizzum an’ Auntie Mousie.”

“Why, I’ll be,” Mouse breathed.

Hope—the emotion, not the Conceptual—swelled in Wisdom’s chest. Few opportunities arose for Wisdom to influence anyone, let alone youth.

“I’d love to tell you a story,” she told Tech. She scooped the girl into her arms and snuggled her close. “I’ll tell you as many stories as you want.”

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

The Girl Who Could Fly, Part 4: The Conclusion

☼

Even after years spent working for Harold, Sugar had very few personal items at the office, and fewer friends. One less friend than she thought.

When they were little, she and Harold were two peas in a pod, as her grandmother used to say. It was easy to assume their friendship stayed the same. Over the past few days, Sugar had seen that they were no more than business partners, with her talent carrying the agency.

These flashes of realization were infrequent, but they served her well. This one happened on the heels of the epiphany brought on by her comic drawings. Ad art was no longer her home.

She found a plastic shopping bag and headed for her desk. She stopped by the oversized window. Her next window had to show her the Red Building. The structure soothed and excited her. A friend once offered to take her on a tour of the floors where he worked, but she’d turned him down. She wasn’t going to enter from any point other than the rooftop.

Sugar heard a knock. She turned and found a delivery girl at her door holding a small box.

“Sugar Wilson?”

She nodded. Words caught in her throat. Instinct told her what lay in the package. She signed for it in silence.

The pens were unmolested, and the case had no new scratches. She ran her fingers across the detailing. A sliver of paper stuck out on the side. She placed the case on her desk next to the new set. She pulled out the note and scanned it.

“This was found on the roof of our high rise…”

It was signed by the head of security from the Red Building.

Sugar turned the pen case over in her hands. She thought she’d be ecstatic to get the pens back. Now that she held the beloved tools, she felt… nothing. Ideas for ad art suddenly filled her mind, but there was no passion behind them, no desire to ink them out. Her focus had shifted.

“I think I’ve dumped you,” she muttered.

She looked out to the darkening skyline, where the Red Building glowed in dusk’s hues. “How did you get up there?”

She thought back to the day they went missing. She had noticed the set’s disappearance when she got to work on morning. Her office hadn’t been locked, so she assumed someone had walked in and taken it.

Sugar stared at the case, turned it over in her hands. Why had she expected to find it at work? She only left it in her office if she was going somewhere that she couldn’t take it after work. That wasn’t the situation then night before it went missing.

“Why didn’t I think of that until now?” Sugar set the case on her desk.

Then she remembered the dream. It was the same one she’d had hundreds of times, only she had her pens. The dream always began with her opening the French doors to her condo’s balcony. She’d be clothed in black with a small Mardi Gras mask on her face.

In this dream, she had no doubts whatsoever of her ability to soar. She always stepped off her rail and dove toward the traffic below. Three stories above street level, she would pull out of the dive and up into the night. Sugar would traipse through the orange-hued sky. When done, she always landed atop the Red Building.

In the dream from the night before she lost her pens, she took them to her spot on that roof. And left them there.

“I stole you,” she said.

“You stole what?” Harold was at her door. “Are those your pens?”

She took a good look at him. He was not the same guy who grew up with her. This man looked… exhausted, empty.

Suddenly, she knew what to do.

“I don’t need these anymore.” She walked over to Harold and held out the case. “You do. Try them out. Find yourself.”

Harold’s mouth moved without sound.

Sugar left.

☼

An e-mail from Harold’s secretary a year later told Sugar he’d started drawing again. His style was nothing like Sugar’s, but it was good. Maybe award-winning. The clients were thrilled. And yes, he was using pen and ink to create the original art.

Sugar smiled. Although they’d grown apart, she bore him no ill will. His promising revival of skill was good news.

In turned, she sent signed copies of her debut graphic novel to the agency.

On he night she heard about Harold’s success, she found a forgotten treasure in the back of her closet. It was a black Mardi Gras mask with ebony feathers and crimson sequins. It had been tucked between black leather pants and a fitted leather jacket.

Sugar dressed the getup.

“Wow.”

Her reflection in the full-length mirror was a dead ringer for the heroine in her graphic novel. Her pulse raced. There hadn’t been any flying dreams for months, but she had vague recollections of super strength, prowess, and heightened senses in other dreams.

“Time to jet,” she told her reflection.

Sugar went to her balcony. She stood on the rail and dove.

THE END

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

The Girl Who Could Fly, Part 3

☼

“A blog?”

Sugar didn’t know what to say. The interview was time wasted. She suspected Harold had intended it to help. If she were a more forthright person, she’d ask. But he was already mad at her lack of art production. Why make it worse?

“It’s a popular blog,” he told her. “She also freelances for the Trib and the Herald.”

“The Herald, Harold?” Sugar couldn’t resist the word play. It usually cheered her friends, but Harold wasn’t biting.

“I need your work, Sugar.” He kneeled in front of where she sat. “I don’t want to beg, but I have clients demanding new art.”

Sugar’s stomach felt pinched. The two chocolate chip M&M cookies from lunch sat like rocky debris as she envisioned no fewer than five worrisome scenarios.

They all began with Harold firing her in favor of someone who would earn their salary. Talent abounded in Chicago. She was expendable, even if she and Harold were friends since childhood.

He was the only person who knew all her secrets. All but one. Not even Harold knew that one day—sooner, or later than sooner—Sugar would fly. Even he would think she’d lost it.

“Sugar?”

“Sorry. Distracted myself.”

At home, she would have bitten her finger for a painful reminder to pay better attention. Respect began with connection.

“Can you work at all?”

Sugar’s throat squeezed and forward sinuses ached.

“It’s like cheating on a lover,” she said. She looked at the fading ink stains on her hands. The skin hadn’t been clear of pigments since fifth grade. “You can try. It might be good. But the emotional schlock is worse than you imagine.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff? Never mind. Just tell me, is the ‘schlock’ something you can live with?”

Sugar sighed. She knew pens were just things, but using anything not her own felt wrong. It was a feeling she’d never been able to explain. It was easy to indulge that particular notion. Of all the battles she waged against her obsessions, it was the second least problematic.

“I’ll try,” she said. “I know new pens are okay, but it’s hard.”

Harold nodded. “Thank you.”

He sank into his office chair. Not so many months earlier, he would’ve patted her shoulder or given a platonic hug. Now he just zoned out at his desk. Whatever happened to her best friend?

“See ya,” she said.

Harold nodded one more time. He never looked up.

☼

The pen was stiff in Sugar’s hand. It took months for the originals to mold to her grip. She expected no less of the new set.

Uninspired hash marks covered the page on her tilted drawing table. Some of the scratches resembled Sugar’s vague ideas of what she’d wear as a superhero.

An hour into the lackluster drawing session, Sugar tucked the pens into their case. She propped her chin across the backs of her hands.

The view of Chicago from her workspace was impressive. Whenever she lacked creative focus, she found inspiration in the skyline. She had the peaks and valleys memorized. On the day she could finally take to the sky, she knew where she’d go.

The Red Building was a bastion among the neutral colors of the city. No matter what direction she’d eventually fly, she’d know where to land. The Red Building would be her beacon.

Sugar daydreamed about the fabulous cityscape and how it would appear once she convinced her stubborn body to fly, as it was meant to do.

☼

It wasn’t Sugar’s best work, but Harold thought he had a place for it. Not many clients requested a comic-book feel to their ads. The skateboarders, however, could dig it.

Throughout the next week, all she turned in was comic art. Heroes and heroines flew across the pages, many of them over that red monstrosity from downtown.

On Friday, he called her into his office.

“Last I checked, you weren’t into graphic novels. What’s the deal?”

His star designer smiled. Harold was far from comforted. There was a different air about her. He didn’t like it.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” Her toothy grin belted his stomach. Sugar rarely smiled right at anyone.

“I don’t deny you got talent, but we still need to make the clients happy.”

He dug his fingernails into his armrests. He had a couple contingency plans in case he ever lost Sugar’s genius, but he feared the turmoil of transition.

“These pens don’t do commercial art,” Sugar said. She shrugged. “If your clients don’t like my style, maybe I should leave.”

He’d expected the words, but her pronouncement still iced his guts. Everything he’d built was in danger of collapse if she left.

“Can’t you draw comics in your free time? Advertising is what’s paying your bills. Mine, too. Sugar, I’m depending on you.”

She looked him in the eye. Sugar, absolute introvert, looked Harold in the eye.

“Then I’ve been here too long. Goodbye, Harold.”

Sugar walked out of the office.

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

The Girl Who Could Fly, Part 2

“I have to get it back.”

Harold might have been annoyed, compassionate, or scornful. Sugar didn’t care to know. She fixed her gaze on the detailed pencil drawing of the Sears Tower that had been framed and given to Harold at the last holiday party.

It leaned against the front of his gunmetal gray desk. He was like that, she mused—lost somewhere between the loss of her treasured pens and inks and a place of observation. Her mind did that. It jumped from topic to bit to mote. Fortunately, she’d learned to steer it back on course.

Harold had the tendency to honor gifts by putting them on ad hoc display. The Sears Tower held court on the visitors’ side of the desk. An autographed Bobby Hull hockey stick peeked out of a monogrammed golf bag. A bottled ship never voyaged past the edge of a vintage drafting table. A flat box containing a hand-carved pen set was a book end atop and overfilled, three-shelf put-it-together-your-own-damn-self bookcase.

Sugar probably stared at the set too long. It had been her idea, of course, so she felt all the more betrayed by its disuse.

“Take it,” Harold said. He nodded at the unopened set. “I don’t need it.” He dropped his voice a bit and leaned toward Sugar. “I know you want your old set back, but you need to face that it’s gone. Take the one you gave me. It’s the closest you can get.”

Sugar shook her head. She felt no temptation. The virgin drawing devices didn’t have the soul of her set. Hours upon years of use had created a bond that ought not to be broken, not even beyond the artist’s passing.

“It’s not the same,” she murmured.

Harold stood. He made a few noises about Sugar’s stubbornness. About unlocked offices. About temperamental artists—never mind that the label fit him as well as anyone. He stopped ranting.

“The same man created the sets,” he said. Sugar thought he sounded desperate. “If your pens really are gone for good, these will be one of a kind. Priceless.”

“Not the same.” She shook her head again, felt tears sting her eyes. Did no one understand what the pens meant? The special case and all-important edges? “It’s not the same. Not at all.”

Sugar closed her eyes. She saw the memory of Mr. Koide handing her the treasured box. A renowned sword maker, he was. It was Sugar’s friendship with his daughter that inspired the gift.

“Look, you know it’s collecting dust.” Harold sat on the sofa. The cushion gave under his light frame, orange weave over exhausted springs. “I love that you went to the trouble to commission it for me. It’s the most amazing gift I ever got from the staff.”

Sugar thought of ten other keepsakes that populated his office. He’d told her coworkers how “amazing” their holiday gifts were each year. Sometimes Sugar considered billing the man for each time he said “amazing” or “phenomenal.” One dollar an instance might garner her enough in one month to invest in a college saving program even before she married and had kids. Or purchase Mr. Koide’s skill from beyond.

“These tools were not made for me,” she told Harold. “I can’t use them in good conscience.”

The balding man blew out a pent up breath.

“Find some tools. I don’t care where from, just do it. If you want to save yourself some effort, you’ll use the electronic drawing pad. Your stuff gets scanned into the computer anyway.”

She stood with fists clenched. “I can’t work that way,” she said while staring at the bookcase. Harold clearly didn’t understand. True heart smelled of ink and fresh paper. A person couldn’t be an artist without smudging pigments and graphite on their fingers.

Behind her, Harold made a rude noise. It probably covered a rude word.

Sugar gritted her teeth hard enough to make her jaw ache. She took five rigid steps to the bookcase. The pen set stood on end, the heavy box holding up dog-eared volumes of anatomical and form references for commercial artists.

Disgraceful. Those books were far less significant than the orphaned set.

She pulled the engraved box from the shelf. Thick-spined books spilled sideways as she studied Mr. Koide’s work.

“I will take this,” she told Harold. “You don’t deserve these tools. It was a mistake to give them to you.”

She ran her fingers over the finely carved flowers and cranes that crested the cover.

“It’s not the same,” she said. She looked over to Harold.

He wore beat up Converse All-Stars in traditional black. Unimaginative, Sugar thought, but classic. Still, her friend and editor wasn’t the artist he used to be, and she was tired of his limited vision. She was more tired of the way he chased new ways without honoring the old.

“You use the computer. I’ll do the real drawing,” she said. She forced her eyes to meet his. The connection was supremely uncomfortable, but it was necessary.

“I want my pens back. I hope whoever took them goes to hell.”

Sugar allowed her gaze to skitter away, past the five-handed clock, Harold’s collection of kinetic toys, and to the door. She wondered if he was going to close the miniblinds so she couldn’t peek in after leaving his office. It didn’t matter, she reminded herself.

As she left, she paused at the door. Something else needed to be said. But she felt she had already overstepped her position. Later, then. Let her have a few nights of flight dreams first.

Just before the door snicked shut, she heard Harold grumble another rude word.

Oh well, she thought, he needs me. He’ll get over it.

☼

“Shit.”

Harold fell back into the old couch. The hand-me-down frat sofa had another story to tell, a tale he’d rather not explore.

Sugar was the cornerstone of his agency. The idea that came out of that woman’s head were phenomenal. If he ever found out who stole Sugar’s tools, he’d skin them alive. On sic a pack of pitbulls on ‘em.

He needed Sugar’s genius. She needed that damn pen set to work. Her art was the only thing that kept his ad agency going.

Harold grabbed a throw pillow and squeezed until his knuckles ached. When he couldn’t hold on any longer, he hurled the thing at the wall. It hit with a soft, unsatisfying thud then dropped to the floor. Inert, pointless, the ten-inch square seemed to mock him.

You know what they say about eggs in baskets? it hooted. That girl is the basket, and your eggs are a crackin’!

Harold got up and stalked around the office. He ran his hands through his recently crew-cut hair. Pace. Scratch at scalp. Pace some more.

A quarter hour later, Harold dug out a dusty Rolodex. Most of the cards’ information could be found in a spreadsheet or on his PDA. One number, however, never made that transition. It was a number he hadn’t planned to dial ever again.

Desperation could make a guy do funny things.

☼

The reporter tapped her notepad in a repeating rhythm. Sugar doubted the woman knew she was doing it.

Tap, tap-tap, tap, tap. Tap. Tap.

Shave and a haircut. Two bits.

“Ms. Wilson?”

Sugar blinked. On the inside, she kicked herself for zoning out. Again. Little things like the incessant tapping distracted her. Interesting constellations hiding among ceiling panel spots could rob her focus, too. Complex wallpaper prints were particularly arresting.

“Ms. Wilson?” The reporter’s voice pitched upward. Exasperation, Sugar thought.

“Sorry. I got distracted.” An imaginary boot swung and did an imaginary job of kicking Sugar in the brain. “Can you repeat the question?”

The journalist sighed.

“What happened the day your drawing set was taken?”

“Taken”? Was that the latest euphemism for “stolen”?

“I went home. When I came in the next morning, the set was gone. I looked everywhere. No answers here or there.”

“Why is it so important for you to get the pens back? Sentimentality, or the fact that it could sell for a pretty penny?”

“Why are you here?” Sugar asked. She hadn’t been subjected to such a poor bit of interviewing since she was featured in her middle school newspaper. She didn’t get why people made such a big deal over her. There were people with far worse challenges than what Sugar worked through.

The reporter tapped her pen even faster.

“It’s human interest,” the woman said. “You’re one of the best commercial artists in the region, if not the country. Most of your peers rely on computers, but you’re known for being a genius with paper and ink. People will want to learn how you will overcome a huge setback. I mean, word’s already got around that you haven’t been able to work since your pens disappeared.”

It made sense, Sugar had to admit, but why other people cared baffled her. She was just another person with a daily routine to follow.

Sugar sighed. She sat back to look at the ceiling. The square panel above her desk was her favorite. A few months earlier, she’d moved it from her old cubicle. It wasn’t the same off-white shade as its new neighbors, but it had a familiar pattern of spots, the same “constellations.”

“Everyone knows I haven’t worked,” she asked, “or thinks I haven’t?”

No sense in giving over the advantage. The reporter couldn’t know either way. Only Sugar did.

“Have you been able to work without the tools you’ve used every day since high school?”

It was the longest question the woman had uttered since arriving. Seventeen words, unless “you have” was the contracted form, which would make the count sixteen.

“Why is the answer so important to you?” Sugar was sure she knew, but the other woman didn’t have the guts to ask. Where had Harold found her? Professionals should be more composed, their questions prepared.

“A lot of people, well, they get stuck if their routines get upset. I’ve heard you’re very insistent about your routines.”

Sugar hated social games. They wasted more time than reality television.

“Do you mean,” she began. She paused for equilibrium, then continued. “Are you asking whether the theft is worse because I’m autistic?”

There. Sugar smiled at her own bravery. Then she remembered to act annoyed.

“I didn’t say that.”

Sugar rolled her eyes. Then she did what the girl probably didn’t expect: Sugar looked her in the eye.

Look long enough to see what color her eyes are.

She couldn’t remember who said it, but it was one of the most useful social tips she knew. Noting eye color was distraction enough to ease the urge to look away. Usually.

The reporter’s eyes were gray—the same shade as Sugar’s. Sugar wondered if her visitor dreamt of flying as often as she did. She wanted to ask, yearned to know. Forget it.

“It’s okay. You’re here because I’m different, and that difference will get people’s attention. Autism is such a fad that the public forgets it’s more than kids who don’t talk or use the toilet. I’m a real person with a real life. Something bad happened. Our readers will want to know how the autistic artist will cope with a change in her routine.”

The girl’s fish mouth was worth the effort Sugar made to connect. Nobody said it couldn’t be done. Just that it was hard.

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.