Disclaimer: Edward Scissorhands does not belong to me.
Metal and Ice
It was a bright night. A lovely night, when the moonlight streamed in through the rafters, dying the woodwork pale blue, glittering off of ice, shining off of metal. The metal, who would even notice it, when the light was right, and the glinting knives moved fast enough.
They were moving fast now. Artist's hands. Butchers knives. Craftman's tools. Scissors.
Don't run with scissors. Edward had almost laughed when he read that one. But he hadn't run since.
But he didn't think such thoughts tonight. Tonight, there was only the ice, the metal, and the moonlight.
He'd long used up all the ideas on the bits of paper, the magazine and newspaper clippings. So he'd started to make his own ideas, combining pictures into new designs. A cat, with wings. A man, with a whale's tail instead of legs. A tree, all laden with birds as fruit. Though they glittered and gleamed in the moonlight, they were never Edward's favorites. His favorite wasn't done yet.
The ice seemed to dance under his hands. Ice flew in a shimmering curtain, so fast were his hands. Snip. Snip snipsnipsnipsnip. He saw nothing, heard nothing but the ice. His whole world was the ice. And his hands.
Quick upwards movements, and the ice sharpened into razor edges. More leisurely strokes, and living, clear flesh took form. Quick, jittery, dancing movements, like hands on a piano, and there was texture. The ice took shape, became alive.
A scoop of the thumb, and there were eyes. A flicker, a twitch, and there was a face, soft cheeks, lips, a nose. Edward smiled.
He stood back from his creation, a surprisingly warm feeling in his chest, despite the icy air. In front of him, arms raised to the sky, was a woman, young, radiant, with hands raised to the sky. Hands with blades. Scissors.
Metal.