Edward Scissorhands Painting Novels & Stories

“Hey, let’s not let Marco ruin our day. Want to see my paintings?” “You paint?” I asked, genuinely surprised. “Of course I do! I’m not perfect, still learning but it helps.” She bounced off the bed with renewed energy. I followed her to the corner of her room where several canvases leaned against the wall. Her paintings were hauntingly beautiful—dark, emotional pieces that captured the shadows of their life. One showed a rose garden at night, petals dripping like blood under moonlight. Another depicted fractured family silhouettes, hands reaching but never quite touching. There was pain in every brushstroke, but also resilience. A blooming flower wrapped in barbed wire. A lone wolf standing

Professor Mason's heavy sigh was like a massive boulder dropped into a calm pond, instantly drawing the attention of the surrounding students. When they got a clear look at the piece on my easel, sharp gasps echoed throughout the room. Their young faces quickly twisted with sheer disbelief and heavy, undeniable disgust. On my drawing paper, beneath a grotesque, terrifying pair of giant eyes weeping tears of blood, two hideous, skeletal hands tightly gripped a thin black wire, strangling and binding a blurry, shadowy human figure. Hanging from one of those wires was even a mangled, severed limb. I hadn't given the imprisoned figure any eyes; instead, I had viciously gouged out two pitch-black

Henrique stopped in front of a wall further away from the main wing, where a single painting occupied the center, illuminated by spotlights. "This is what I wanted to show you." I approached the canvas to see the details. The painting was immense and full of contrasts. At first glance, the center was eye-catching: a male figure, enveloped in golden light beams, raised a hand toward the void, as if manipulating someone with invisible strings. His face was ambiguous, half shadows, half serene expression.

Tuck it away with the others. That evening, I worked late in the studio. Lost in color and canvas. The painting takes shape under my hands. A woman at a window. Looking out at a city, her face turned away, hair catching light. I don't realize I've cut my hand until I see blood on the canvas, a red streak across the woman's silhouette. "Damn it." I grab a towel. Press it against the gash on my palm. Glass from a broken palette knife I'd been using, careless in my focus.

It must have been done with a knife or… I walked closer, running my hands through the tears. Canvas was almost impossible to tear with bare hands, and even a knife wouldn’t have done the job so perfectly. Each painting had four horizontal tears. This didn’t seem like they were done with knives. In my mind’s eye, I recalled the nails of the blue-haired boy back at the Undercrypt—how they’d grown to become something that looked like claws. I felt a scream rising up to my chest. “Mom!” I yelled frantically. “Where are you? Momma!”

Making Takeshi gaze move towards the hand of the body his reopened wound on his wrist. “Why can’t I just take that pretty tongue hush it will look so beautiful for my new artwork” Ryuu watches the smile fades off from the face of Takeshi. From the coner of the eyes, the boy looks over the sculptures over the coner of the room with the different shapes and sizes. Some of which was the head of the women smoking, the one hand holding the glass of pen, or the fingers in the shape of the house, eyes nose, legs running and etc.

Even he didn’t know what was wrong with him. “I’m sorry Tia, but I’d like to see how this goes, I’ll be fine, Cody is always fine” he told her and walked out of the room. He walked into the living room and smiled at Eileen who was admiring some paintings on the wall. She smiled back at him. “Are these paintings from the art gallery?” She asked when he drew closer, Cody looked at the painting. It was silhouette of two people holding hands standing in the meadows. The wind blowing the woman’s short hair and short flare skirt. Cody smiled.

With shaky hands, I extended my hand to touch the wall and the moment my fingers touched the wall, burning pain rushed to my fingers as if my hands were on fire causing me to retreat my hand back. I stared at my hand and there was no injury. Looking back at the wall, my eyes caught two names written in the corner of the painting. Ezra Hart and...

Dark black paint had been violently smeared across the ruined pieces and thrown aggressively onto the floor. My hands started to shake uncontrollably. "No. No, no, no." Jesse stepped into the room behind me and froze in his tracks. "Holy shit." I walked slowly toward the easel, feeling like all the air had been sucked out of the room. My midterm was ruined. Weeks of sleepless nights, stained fingers, and hard work were completely gone. I reached out, my trembling fingers hovering just inches over the slashed canvas. It wasn't an accident. Someone had taken a sharp blade to it with absolute, vicious intent.