BLACK AND WHITE
Notes on this story ::
I do not own Edward Scissorhands, as much as I'd like one of my own. Heh. Tim Burton has full custody of the character.
Summery :: Amy is a photographer. An outcast. A girl who can only see the world through the lens of a camera. Her curiosity grows about the mansion on the hill, and she meets someone she can relate to. Someone she can understand.
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
Amy Gibson. There's not much to say about this young girl. But, then again, there's plenty according to the neighbors who have phones glued to their ears. The cul-de-sac isn't large. It's rather small and humble from the outside. Green grass, neatly trimmed bushes, clean, small houses (mostly white) with pale but brightly colored shutters for all their small square windows. The kind of neighborhood that should have trinkling, upbeat background music all the time. In fact, that's the only thing that's missing to complete it as perfect.
Kids on summer days always out jumping and leaping in sprinklers, the husbands mowing their lawns or trimming, cleaning, painting something. The smells of freshly cut grass hovering over the smell of hamburgers and hot dogs from the Malone's backyard.
But we're here to talk about Amy, right? Right.
Amy was a main chat on phone lines between noon and dusk. Being mysterious and rather quiet, there was so much to talk about. Perhaps 90% of it was gossip and nothing close to who she really was, but it was gossip. So therefore, it was interesting, reasonable, and close enough to the truth for them. Amy wasn't one to join barbecues, or the local teen's pool parties, or get to know the neighbors. Her Father, Marc Gibson, was a well known and a respectable lawyer. As for her mother, Sarah Gibson, passed away when she was younger. About twelve. This was another thing that got conversations started. Of course, everyone attended the funeral and said their "sorrys" and gave the Gibson's their blessings. But all the neighbors and relatives noticed that Amy didn't shed one tear. Of course, her dad told the people, "She's just in shock, that's all." But even to her own father it drew suspicions, and made him worry about his own daughter.
That day she had found her mother's camera. It was an old one, but still in good condition. The young girl didn't want to face the truth. It didn't need to occur to her that right before her 13th birthday (two weeks before, to be precise) that she wouldn't have her mother in her life with her. Seeing the world through a lens, sounded safer. Sounded more reasonable. Then she'd only see what she wanted to. What made her happy and that she could protect herself from seeing more tragedies.
All right, okay. Enough about the past. Let's get to today.
It was a Friday, in June. All the kids were outside riding on bikes or swimming in pools. Amy's dad was at work, and would be till dusk. This gave Amy time to wonder around the neighborhood and take some pictures. Most kids didn't mind being in her pictures, and neither did some of the older women. Usually, however, she took her pictures when they were at their best. When they didn't know she was taking them. Like a mother holding her baby or a kid leaping across a sprinkler. Normal things. Normal days. Not posed or performed with a script.
Amy stepped outside with her camera strap positioned around her neck, the camera bumping into her flat stomach as she closed the door behind her with a click of the lock. Turning back around, she came face to face with it. So many times her father had warned her and strictly told her.
"Don't go to that mansion on the hill."
He had probably told her this since she was old enough to go outside. There had been so many stories about that mansion. An old man use to live there, they would say. And he had created a man, but died before finishing him. They say that he was once brought to this neighbor hood by a lady who sold Avon here years and years ago. Before my grandmother was born. But sadly, the man was killed by police. In a sense, Amy wanted to know more about him. And perhaps, up on that hill...
"Amy? Amy!"
Shit.
Amy turned, and saw Andrew "Big Mouth" Peterson walking up her front lawn, on her lawn. This would have bothered her mom, she knew it. "There is a walk way, Peterson." Amy stated, and in no mood to talk to Andrew. He ignored her, and walked through the grass until he reached her.
Andrew was about a year older than Amy, but about five years younger in her mind. He has black hair and grey eyes that remind me of the ocean after a storm. The boy watches her for a moment, then opens his mouth to speak.
Amy sighs, waiting for what he has to say.
"You have raccoon eyes, what time did you go to bed?"
"I don't know. I didn't look at the clock." Amy gripped the strap with both hands and walked past him, out towards the road. It was none of his business as to what time she may have gone to bed, and they both knew it. But seeing that the boy was so curious in her and secretly in love with the girl, he'd try everything to start a conversation with her. But like I said, it was none of his business. Amy has her own life, not revolving around Andrew "Curious Cat" Peterson. The skinny boy followed her down the driveway, rather irritated now.
Amy looked back up at the mansion, zoning away from Andrew's rambling. After hearing, "No sleep," and "Pills" often in his one-sided conversation, Amy turned back to him. There wasn't much hostility in her half the time, but today there was enough to blow this creep off.
"Andrew, I don't need to be lectured today. Okay?"
He didn't say anything, but just stormed down the sidewalk. Amy sighed, glancing back up at the house. Releasing the strap with one hand, she twisted her wrist to see what time it was. 12:08 P.M. Her dad wouldn't be home for another 6 or so hours, at the earliest. Her hand fell to her side, and she put her left foot in front of the other, and started to shuffle down the sidewalk towards the mansion.
The path to the mansion's gates was dark, and the grass was ingulfed in overgrowing weeds. Amy took the time to raise the camera to her eye and focused the lens, snapping a picture of the path whirling up to the iron steel gate reaching for the sky. She took a mental note to herself to grab some black and white film tomorrow. It would look great darker than it all ready appeared.
The path, uphill, stressed Amy's legs, making them ache. Reaching the gate, it was clear to her that they were locked tightly together for no entrance. She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly.
"Damn." She complained to herself, reaching out to grip a bar and shake it a bit. To make sure it was really locked. Not just a figment of her imagination. But all the gate did was make a rusty screech, and wriggle just enough to prove that it was locked securely. The sun didn't seem to shine as much in the area she was in. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, that dark clouds seemed to always hover over this mansion. As in a sign of mourning for the old man who died there or a God's Hollywood prop to scare off wonderers, like herself. But she wasn't scared this time. No, merely worried was one thing. She was rather, curious and excited to be able to find someway into the mansion were rumors and myths were born from. Where a man supposably lived. A man with no hands. A man who was created instead of born.
That man was called, Edward. Edward Scissorhands, to the people below living behind plastered walls and hid behind their telephone lines. Amy lifted a hand over her eyes to guard them from sunshine as she studied what she could see from the gates. A feeling deep in her gut told her to leave. Her hands tingled as they clutched the black camera. It was all too exciting. All she needed was a way to get through the gate and into the mansion.
Anxiousness arose in her petite body when she thought, or knew, that it would probably be till tomorrow before she could find a way to get into the mansion. And even if she did, her father would be off. Off for the whole weekend. All she wanted was pictures, it wasn't too much to ask. And anyway, the man was dead. The man with no hands was dead. And had been for quite a long time. So her father's worries shouldn't lie right in the middle of rumors. Hell, thought Amy, if he would worry about something reasonable, he'd worry about snakes. Or her falling through rotted wood if she walked into the mansion. But he kept with the gossip just as well as the housewives gathered inside the small cul-de-sac. Amy sighed, letting go of the gate and began walking back down the path.
She wished her mom was still here. Mother would let her go, for sure. As long as she was back before the streetlights came on. Or perhaps, mother wouldn't let her go exactly to the mansion at her own will, but she wouldn't stress it as much as her father did. His reputation had to look good. For business. For reputation. For friends and family.
Amy really wished her Mother was still around.
Wishing, she thought, never did anyone any good.
Or so she thought.
Notes on this story ::
I do not own Edward Scissorhands, as much as I'd like one of my own. Heh. Tim Burton has full custody of the character.
Summery :: Amy is a photographer. An outcast. A girl who can only see the world through the lens of a camera. Her curiosity grows about the mansion on the hill, and she meets someone she can relate to. Someone she can understand.
~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
Amy Gibson. There's not much to say about this young girl. But, then again, there's plenty according to the neighbors who have phones glued to their ears. The cul-de-sac isn't large. It's rather small and humble from the outside. Green grass, neatly trimmed bushes, clean, small houses (mostly white) with pale but brightly colored shutters for all their small square windows. The kind of neighborhood that should have trinkling, upbeat background music all the time. In fact, that's the only thing that's missing to complete it as perfect.
Kids on summer days always out jumping and leaping in sprinklers, the husbands mowing their lawns or trimming, cleaning, painting something. The smells of freshly cut grass hovering over the smell of hamburgers and hot dogs from the Malone's backyard.
But we're here to talk about Amy, right? Right.
Amy was a main chat on phone lines between noon and dusk. Being mysterious and rather quiet, there was so much to talk about. Perhaps 90% of it was gossip and nothing close to who she really was, but it was gossip. So therefore, it was interesting, reasonable, and close enough to the truth for them. Amy wasn't one to join barbecues, or the local teen's pool parties, or get to know the neighbors. Her Father, Marc Gibson, was a well known and a respectable lawyer. As for her mother, Sarah Gibson, passed away when she was younger. About twelve. This was another thing that got conversations started. Of course, everyone attended the funeral and said their "sorrys" and gave the Gibson's their blessings. But all the neighbors and relatives noticed that Amy didn't shed one tear. Of course, her dad told the people, "She's just in shock, that's all." But even to her own father it drew suspicions, and made him worry about his own daughter.
That day she had found her mother's camera. It was an old one, but still in good condition. The young girl didn't want to face the truth. It didn't need to occur to her that right before her 13th birthday (two weeks before, to be precise) that she wouldn't have her mother in her life with her. Seeing the world through a lens, sounded safer. Sounded more reasonable. Then she'd only see what she wanted to. What made her happy and that she could protect herself from seeing more tragedies.
All right, okay. Enough about the past. Let's get to today.
It was a Friday, in June. All the kids were outside riding on bikes or swimming in pools. Amy's dad was at work, and would be till dusk. This gave Amy time to wonder around the neighborhood and take some pictures. Most kids didn't mind being in her pictures, and neither did some of the older women. Usually, however, she took her pictures when they were at their best. When they didn't know she was taking them. Like a mother holding her baby or a kid leaping across a sprinkler. Normal things. Normal days. Not posed or performed with a script.
Amy stepped outside with her camera strap positioned around her neck, the camera bumping into her flat stomach as she closed the door behind her with a click of the lock. Turning back around, she came face to face with it. So many times her father had warned her and strictly told her.
"Don't go to that mansion on the hill."
He had probably told her this since she was old enough to go outside. There had been so many stories about that mansion. An old man use to live there, they would say. And he had created a man, but died before finishing him. They say that he was once brought to this neighbor hood by a lady who sold Avon here years and years ago. Before my grandmother was born. But sadly, the man was killed by police. In a sense, Amy wanted to know more about him. And perhaps, up on that hill...
"Amy? Amy!"
Shit.
Amy turned, and saw Andrew "Big Mouth" Peterson walking up her front lawn, on her lawn. This would have bothered her mom, she knew it. "There is a walk way, Peterson." Amy stated, and in no mood to talk to Andrew. He ignored her, and walked through the grass until he reached her.
Andrew was about a year older than Amy, but about five years younger in her mind. He has black hair and grey eyes that remind me of the ocean after a storm. The boy watches her for a moment, then opens his mouth to speak.
Amy sighs, waiting for what he has to say.
"You have raccoon eyes, what time did you go to bed?"
"I don't know. I didn't look at the clock." Amy gripped the strap with both hands and walked past him, out towards the road. It was none of his business as to what time she may have gone to bed, and they both knew it. But seeing that the boy was so curious in her and secretly in love with the girl, he'd try everything to start a conversation with her. But like I said, it was none of his business. Amy has her own life, not revolving around Andrew "Curious Cat" Peterson. The skinny boy followed her down the driveway, rather irritated now.
Amy looked back up at the mansion, zoning away from Andrew's rambling. After hearing, "No sleep," and "Pills" often in his one-sided conversation, Amy turned back to him. There wasn't much hostility in her half the time, but today there was enough to blow this creep off.
"Andrew, I don't need to be lectured today. Okay?"
He didn't say anything, but just stormed down the sidewalk. Amy sighed, glancing back up at the house. Releasing the strap with one hand, she twisted her wrist to see what time it was. 12:08 P.M. Her dad wouldn't be home for another 6 or so hours, at the earliest. Her hand fell to her side, and she put her left foot in front of the other, and started to shuffle down the sidewalk towards the mansion.
The path to the mansion's gates was dark, and the grass was ingulfed in overgrowing weeds. Amy took the time to raise the camera to her eye and focused the lens, snapping a picture of the path whirling up to the iron steel gate reaching for the sky. She took a mental note to herself to grab some black and white film tomorrow. It would look great darker than it all ready appeared.
The path, uphill, stressed Amy's legs, making them ache. Reaching the gate, it was clear to her that they were locked tightly together for no entrance. She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly.
"Damn." She complained to herself, reaching out to grip a bar and shake it a bit. To make sure it was really locked. Not just a figment of her imagination. But all the gate did was make a rusty screech, and wriggle just enough to prove that it was locked securely. The sun didn't seem to shine as much in the area she was in. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, that dark clouds seemed to always hover over this mansion. As in a sign of mourning for the old man who died there or a God's Hollywood prop to scare off wonderers, like herself. But she wasn't scared this time. No, merely worried was one thing. She was rather, curious and excited to be able to find someway into the mansion were rumors and myths were born from. Where a man supposably lived. A man with no hands. A man who was created instead of born.
That man was called, Edward. Edward Scissorhands, to the people below living behind plastered walls and hid behind their telephone lines. Amy lifted a hand over her eyes to guard them from sunshine as she studied what she could see from the gates. A feeling deep in her gut told her to leave. Her hands tingled as they clutched the black camera. It was all too exciting. All she needed was a way to get through the gate and into the mansion.
Anxiousness arose in her petite body when she thought, or knew, that it would probably be till tomorrow before she could find a way to get into the mansion. And even if she did, her father would be off. Off for the whole weekend. All she wanted was pictures, it wasn't too much to ask. And anyway, the man was dead. The man with no hands was dead. And had been for quite a long time. So her father's worries shouldn't lie right in the middle of rumors. Hell, thought Amy, if he would worry about something reasonable, he'd worry about snakes. Or her falling through rotted wood if she walked into the mansion. But he kept with the gossip just as well as the housewives gathered inside the small cul-de-sac. Amy sighed, letting go of the gate and began walking back down the path.
She wished her mom was still here. Mother would let her go, for sure. As long as she was back before the streetlights came on. Or perhaps, mother wouldn't let her go exactly to the mansion at her own will, but she wouldn't stress it as much as her father did. His reputation had to look good. For business. For reputation. For friends and family.
Amy really wished her Mother was still around.
Wishing, she thought, never did anyone any good.
Or so she thought.