Off Panel

by

Children clashed with swords in my backyard. I left the sliding door to my studio open and took a seat on the porch steps, cradling a jug of sun tea. I considered calling out to the children, then thought better of it.

I had nothing to pour my tea into. As this realization struck me, I observed a woman in auburn spandex striding across my gravel driveway. She was wearing heels and a domino mask. Of course, I knew this was Ella, whom I hadn't seen in over a year. She was something to see, hard lines and bold colors in everyday motion. She stopped to regard the battling youths for a moment, hands on her hips, before reaching the porch.

“Any for me?” she asked, plopping down on the same porch step. She smelled of ink and sweat.

“Yeah, sure.” The kids raised their swords and clashed again. I thought of some silly mother dragging her attorneys to my door, and found I didn't care much.

“Today's Thursday ,” Ella said. She lifted the jug to her lips and drank. Some of the tea spilled onto her ludicrous outfit. “Funny books come out to play in the wilderness.”

“How did you get here?”

Ella placed the jug between us. “I was so pissed off I punched a hole in the Intraverse.”

“Oh boy.” I shifted a little.

“What? Think I came all this way to blast you with optical rays?”

“I'm not even sure you can do that here.”

“Wanna find out?” She cracked her knuckles, no easy feat for someone wearing such thick gloves.

“What about your adventures in Krankor? I haven't been keeping up.”

“Spent some time inside an underground cavern," Ella said. "Ran away from aliens with moldy tentacles.” She did sound exhausted.

“You see? That's richer with drama than missed deadlines and the unreliability of FedEx. My problems would bore both of us.”

Ella's mouth twitched underneath glossy lipstick. “They got Frantz doing art and words on my comic?”

“You sound disgusted.”

“Well, do they?”

“Look," I said. "Desada re-assigned me over the phone about two months ago. Frantz is a good replacement in some respects. He's never missed a deadline.”

“He isn't treating our world with respect.”

“What are you Ella, a professional comic book critic? I'm sure it's hard to judge the narrative flow of each issue when you're busy battling through them.”

Ella stood up suddenly. “Need to get out of this stuff ,” she said. Sweat trickled across her small mask. “You have anything?”

“Laurie probably left something of hers under the bed,” I said. I watched as Ella clomped her way up the porch steps and went into the studio.

I turned my attention to the kids, who had thrown the swords aside and were rolling on top of each other. Had the sword battle downgraded into a nasty brawl?

When I was ten feet or so away, I could see that the two were actually short teenagers. The girl's face was dirty, and the boy—who was staring at me with terror in his eyes—had an air of prissiness. I knew which one came up with the plan to abuse the swords I never used.

“Oh crap oh crap,” Prissy blurted out. Dirty sat still, her legs akimbo. Her sneakers were in worse shape than her face.

“Hope you don't mind us goofing,” she said. “We were told we could play here.”

“And who gave you permission?” I was avoiding the tone of a cranky grump, hard as that was.

“Your wife. Hey," Dirty said to Prissy, "he's not gonna freak out on us.” Prissy then sat beside Dirty, his eyes lowered.

“She's not my wife.” I crouched in the grass, keeping my distance so as not creep out Prissy any further. “Laurie babysits you two?”

“She's more like a house sitter. My mom goes to a lot of Reiki conferences,” Prissy explained.

“My dad runs a temple up in Coast City ,” said Dirty.

I never knew how Laurie maintained friendships with so many faith healers and wild-eyed mystics.

I picked up the swords and examined them. “Even though they're for display, Laurie and I would use these for our anger management issues. What drew you to them?”

Dirty shrugged. “We were just bored.”

“Well kids, enjoy yourselves and don't get hurt.” I stood up, taking pride in my calm and friendly departure, and nearly walked into Ella. She was gripping a handful of recent Force Girl issues, looking good in my ex-wife's smooth hemp dress. For some reason she'd kept the mask on.

“These pages are crap ! Look at what Frantz is doing to me!” She stamped her bare feet and shoved the comics in my face.

“We should probably take this inside.” I made to explain to the teens, but they'd vanished.

Ella had found food and was stretched out on one of Laurie's furry leather couches. It was odd to have someone else in my studio, especially an alien-grappling super heroine. I've seen the workspaces of other artists, both comic professionals and those from more respectable fields. Their workspaces were almost always messy; brushes and pens were stored in dozens of empty, paint-blotted cottage cheese containers, their desks covered with reference photos, with everything slathered in ink and eraser shavings. My studio, even with the groovy water glass sliding door (Laurie's idea) and prints of vintage mug shots (mine), was sanitary enough to double as a dentists' office.

Ella's arm was lodged inside a box of stale Kirby Crackles.

“How does Frantz get away with being such a hack ?” she asked, talking through a mouthful of cereal.

“Because he's never late and vigorously spell-checks," I said. "When B.C. Comics needs a crossover event to boost circulation, he's first in line with cookie-cutter plotlines. It's that simple—editors like talent who follow orders.” I paused. “Especially when said talent is willing to ‘punch up' a low-demand title like Force Girl . ”

Ella stopped chewing. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You've been a stranger, that's why; you haven't popped by in nearly a year. And I do have a life outside Force Girl , you know.”

“Watching kids in your backyard is a full-time job ?”

“Desada threw me off Force Girl because of sales, but he let me create my own title. And Frantz, despite having the artistic instincts of a claims adjuster, has a knack for keeping books afloat.”

Ella scooped out another handful of cereal. “Comics should be about more than sales.”

“What do you want from me? Should I call up Desada and demand Force Girl back? My contract gives me no such right.”

I opened two long boxes beside my immaculate drawing table. “Eight hours a day, five days a week, for years. I've missed doctor appointments, cut my honeymoon short, and arrived late at my father's funeral so that Force Girl would hit the press on time. I've shared my life with you.”

Ella was weeping into her cereal; the tears loosening her mask. “I'm sorry,” she blubbered.

I nudged Ella's legs away and sat next to her on the couch. “I've been living in your world for a creative eternity. How many times can I stage an intergalactic mixed-martial arts battle? In how many different ways can I reveal that your cousin is trying to blow up the solar system?”

“That last attempt was a surprise,” Ella said, wiping her cheeks.

“I'm finally happy,” I said, looking out the water glass door and seeing nothing through it. “I want to explore other genres. Other people.”

“Is that a crime comic?” She was eyeing the work on my desk.

"Grit City #3," I said . " A black-and-white noir series set on the Mafia shipyards of yesteryear. It's rewarding, no matter how little B.C. promotes the book.”

“Cops and robbers,” she muttered.

“Is it such a bad thing to want respect beyond the tights-and-flight crowd?”

“I don't know anything about that, Hand. They never gave me the comics. All I know is that all the sudden I was talking like a ditz and fighting the same monsters over and over. I like it better when you lead the way.” She pulled herself off the couch and walked to the kitchen, her dress fluttering out behind her.

“Maybe no one needs to lead you,” I called out.

She whipped her head back in a manner that looked painful. “Hmm?”

I rummaged through my desk drawers and found a pencil. “Just stand by the doorway,” I said. “Don't move.”

The only usable sheets were roughs from my next issue of Grit City . I flipped it over and began drawing.

Under the mask, her eyes went wide.

“We've never tried this,” she said.

“No, we haven't.”

“You mess up my face, and I'm blinking with my nostrils .”

“That's nonsense. That won't happen.”

At the time of Ella's creation, Laurie and I had just begun dating. Laurie more than once pointed out that most comic books I read featured big-chested broads with wrist-sized waists.

“And what should a proper super-heroine look like?” I had asked. We'd just come back from eating soggy fries at a burger joint. Laurie, sitting on my bed, launched an elastic band at my cheek.

“Like me,” she'd said, wearing a blouse I'd spent too much money on. The story of my life. So I'd put pen to paper.

Five years later in the same room I finished this second, more important drawing.

“Make me say something,” she said, her voice not much above a whisper. My hands were sweating and I rubbed them on the table.

“Like what?”

“I'm not the writer,” Ella said, then: “Say that you won't let me leave .”

My pencil hovered over the page.

“That's not what I had in mind, Ella”

I heard footsteps on the porch. The water glass door opened. It was Laurie, her hair braided with chopsticks. Dirty and Prissy stood sheepishly behind her.

“I'm sure I'm interrupting something important,” Laurie said, “but I need to talk to you.”

“Hope she can't see me,” Ella whispered. Then: “Write that you've wanted me here ever since I first escaped.”

“Is it true that you let Sammie Saldon's kids play with these?” Laurie nudged the kids, who reluctantly held up my swords. “I thought you kept these in the garage.”

Ella moved, blocking my ex-wife from view. “You made every meteor and space station so elegant. Full of real beauty. I'd like that back.”

My palms were sweating worse now. I moved my hands so that I wouldn't ruin the page.

“I must've left the swords outside by accident,” I said over Ella's head.

“That's bad. Even for you.” Laurie was scowling, I'm sure.

I spoke to Ella. “You can bring one of those swords with you, I think. Have you done that before—taken a physical item through the Intraverse?”

“No.” Below a whisper.

“That sword won't belong to Frantz or Desada. Or me, even.”

Ella covered her face. “I hated being in a void. An uncaring void .”

“I care," I said, "but I don't have to. You've taken on a life of your own.”

“Prove it,” Ella said.

“You're a nutcase.” Laurie stomped out with the kids. Car doors slammed outside.

On the drawing, I gave Ella a word balloon. “Here we go…”

I wrote six words inside that balloon, then waited through an awkward silence. Ella began to drum her thighs and I observed the day through the open door. Gray clouds, rolling in from the west, framed my super heroine elegantly.

“What did you put down?” she finally asked.

Instead of replying, I held up the sheet of paper. She leaned forward to read. Inside the word balloon I had written “I am taking off my mask.”

She pulled the domino mask from her face. It made a sound similar to a Band-Aid leaving skin.

“I want to stand in the grass before I go,” Ella said. When I looked up I saw a charming version of Laurie that had never really existed, my wishful thinking turned into an escapist superhero, created back when I took the subway to art school. In some ways, Ella was the goofy, endearing Laurie I later proposed to at Comic-Con in front of fans and Wookies.

I folded the paper, tucked it in my pocket and went outside with her. Ella twirled to the middle of the field, singing loudly. I'm sure the lyrics were from a Rolling Stones song I'd given to her in Force Girl's Amazing Annual #7 but with a peculiar, uneven melody. Ella had been left to make her own music.

“How will you know?” I asked her as we walked.

“It's a small pain that builds. Like a headache.” She'd been carrying her domino mask, and now re-attached it to her face. “If Frantz leaves my comic, will you return?”

“I hope you'll never need a writer again. If this works, Force Girl should write itself.”

I handed her my paper, my pencil and one of the swords. Laurie must've taken the other one; she was no mother, but knew an attorney or two.

Ella flopped onto the grass, rolling around a bit, staining the dress. She wrote on my paper, furiously and with horrible penmanship. How many times have you seen a superhero scribble?

“Hey, that could work….I've been thinking about this off-panel for eons …”

As she wrote, dark blotches appeared on her forehead, then ran down the length of her nose and across her neck. She was writing over her own image. I reached down and tried to wipe off the markings on her vein-less left hand, but they clung to her shining flesh like tattoos.

“Don't worry,” she said, her head down, “you can erase all this—“

Then I saw Ella as her readers did, as I did when I'd been up for hours looking at the same half-finished page. She was flat, a cardboard cut-out. Her eyes were too white with lids that were unable to blink. Her lips were brighter but not fuller. Her skin was the light peach shade most B.C. colorists use for Caucasian characters. Then nothing.

I was in the grass, behind an empty house, with an ex-wife to whom I'd have to apologize and maybe pay off with a Pilates membership. Back in the studio I wondered how Ella knew to form words at all, considering her origin on the printed page.

But those kinds of thoughts are way over my head.

About

Zachary Cole's fiction has previously appeared in the2ndhand, Spork Press and the Harbor Journal. He lives in Maine .
Email him at zachary.cole@maine.edu

twitter.com/zcolewriter

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