Edward Scissorhands Painting Novels & Stories

I frowned again for the nth time and slowly took my eyes off it. Every painting was about the family. It showed how it all evolved and my frown got deeper as I continued until the last artwork. The last one had my head up, it was a huge sculpture. A sculpture of the maiden of the first painting that I saw as I entered this room. She was tied on a stake, obviously screaming in agony and it was as if she was burning. I look at the bottom of the piece.

Small flakes of dried red and blue paint lay on the floorboards like dust. ​My knees gave out, and my hand slammed onto the desk to keep from falling. I took short, ragged breaths as I struggled to breathe. I reached out with shaking fingers, stopping just before touching the ripped edges of the painting. ​"No," I whispered, my voice raw in the quiet room. "No, no, no." ​The slash wasn't random or quick. It was a neat, careful cut made with a sharp razor blade, sliced right along the line of the iron gate shadow I had spent weeks painting.

She has so many paintings, I think she is a lover of art. There is a particular painting in her collection that scares the shit out of me. It is an alien with three heads, the head at the left has an angry face with two protrusions on his head, the head at the center has a clown make up on with a hand dripping blood in its mouth—I think it is feeding on the hand, then the last head which was on the right was crying and the right hand was badly bitten off with blood running out. What a scary painting. "What are you doing standing after I told you to sit and wait for me?"

He started the chainsaw, echoing a loud vibrating sound throughout the room. "Which part will go to the masterpiece first...?" Malcolm pondered. "Oh, the left? No, no, no. What about the right? Tick-tock, time ticks, and so does your death. Now be reborn as a great masterpiece..." Malcolm continued saying before striking the chainsaw, slicing through the man's left hand. "Ahhhh!" the man screamed in pain. Blood splattered around the whole area, staining the white cardboard Malcolm had placed around the man for his painting.

It shows you who you really are when no one’s watching. I walked to the edge of the cliff, barefoot in the wet grass. The waves below were furious, crashing against rocks with the rage of something ancient. I pulled Sophie’s final painting from the trunk of my car. She’d mailed it to me from her holding cell. No letter. Just the canvas. It was a finished version of the bleeding woman. This time, the eyes were dry. The mouth is calm. The colors still smeared—but deliberate now. Less chaos, more control.

"I'm just.... I've never seen anyone create like this, with this level of complete absorption. It's fascinating." "It's survival," Sienna corrected, adding a final detail to one of the reaching hands. "If I couldn't paint, couldn't transform what's happening into something I can see and understand, I'd have broken completely by now; art is the only thing keeping me sane." She set down her brush, stepping back to view the completed work. The drowning figure was unmistakably her, the reaching hands clearly representing different forces in her life, Luca's possessive grasp, Matteo's warning to leave, her own desire for freedom, the unknown sister who might understand.

Same hand as the birch at Carrow Creek. I'd bet the gym on it. The same nested lines that pull your eye in wrong directions, the same too-deep cuts, days old, sap long dried, sitting there patient as a signature on a finished painting. She marks where she takes them. She signs her work. And then my scar goes cold. Cold like a wire of ice pushed in through my eyebrow and drawn down behind my eye, slow and deliberate. My breath starts misbehaving and my knees forget their job. Finn’s hand is on my shoulder, my name coming out of him like a question.

The groom mounting the bride on a throne of corpses. My hand moved faster than my mind. I dipped the brush deeper, harder, tearing at the canvas like I was cutting flesh. I mixed the reds and blacks until they bled together, thick and viscous. The eyes I painted stared back, wide and lifeless. The flowers were rotting. The sky dripped gore. A massacre. And I smiled. They wanted a masterpiece? I’d give them one they’d never forget.

Ethan just nodded, and he understood, at the end of it all we just left it aside and went inside the studio, starting was difficult, seeing all that mess was discouraging and a great challenge, there were many shards of glass and many pieces that needed to be removed before putting it all together from the floor not to mention some heavy pieces that were now with splinters and sharp edges, cutting yourself there was almost inevitable, but so far everything was going well, Ethan had been in charge of the window and the door replacement, while Brendon and Draven took turns helping us collect things and help Ethan with whatever he needed. It had been at least an hour since we had started all th

Victor did the same, and we slowly began moving around the room, our hands intertwined. We stopped at one display after another. There was an oil painting of a serene lake at dawn, its reflection captured so vividly I almost felt like I could step into it. Another piece was a sculpture of a mother holding her child, so detailed that every crease in the mother's hands, every strand of hair, was perfectly carved into the marble. "Look at this one, Victor," I said, pointing to a contemporary painting that was all swirling blues and sharp silvers. "It looks like… I don't know, emotions in motion."