Chapter 9 - All the truth's unwinding, scraping away at my mind.
Song - Citizen Eraised by Muse.
I never though I'd ever find myself listening to Muse, but I am, and enjoying it a lot!
**********
"So, thank you Danny, for this interpretation of 'naked woman running away from big ape-thing.'" Sighed the teacher, "C-, and be glad I didn't expel you from my class for such a heinously badly drawn piece of art. Now, if we want a piece of art, we need not look much further than....."
"Sir, it's actually Tor Johnson she's running from." Danny added Helpfully.
"Well, he was basically an ape any way, as I was saying, Mary Corbett's wonderful 'Headless Horseman' on the other hand, is drawn almost completely from her own imagination, with, may I note, the sense of both urgency and decadence, which gives you an A, I think.....Wait, where on earth is Jane Parson? I wanted to see the tripe she served up to us under the name of interpretive art."
It was at this point, a sound like a tree being dragged painfully loudly along the corridor outside was heard. "Hmm, right on time, for her." He quipped as he heard a dull thud outside the door, and a doorknob squeak open. The class laughed at her slightly ragged appearance as she wheezed, "I'm sorry I'm Late My Dyson, I had to carry my work on the bus."
"I'm sure many of the other pupils' here had to do the same, but they're all here, except, it seems for you and your sense of timing."
Jane blushed, and said quietly, "sorry Sir, " and attempted to lug in the six and a half foot canvas covered by a dustsheet.
The class laughed hysterically as she failed miserably. Mr Dyson, motioning to his favourites to help her said, "Please, Miss Parson's, will you explain why your art piece is the size of a small cow?" The laughed burst out into more laughter, "Were you late because you were, in fact, stealing a bill board? Will I see tonight on the news the report that bill boards around town have been disappearing mysteriously since I told you about your coursework?" At this point the class would have laughed if he had told them the time as they revelled in Jane's humiliation.
She wanted to run away, or scream at them, but she couldn't. She just bit her tongue and replied; "You said to go into our subconscious, to imagine a story that hit you hard, what it did to you...."
"Obviously your story hit you hard enough to flatten it to six feet long."
There were fewer laughs, but more appreciated.
"Well, can I at least explain what it is!" She rasped, her usually timid voice gaining a frightening edge of anger.
"Go ahead. It can't be much worse than the final product." Sneered Mr Dyson, lying back on his chair.
"Well, it was a local ledged I heard. I heard that one a boy with scissor hands lived around here that he lived on that castle on the hill. On day someone found him, and took him down here to be looked after. I heard that he was an evil monster who destroyed things, and in the end the people just had to chase him out of town to keep them safe. Back to the hill, and a boy who fought him was killed in cold blood, but the roof fell in on him, and he died.
"But I also heard a different version of the story. I heard that the boy never hurt anyone. I heard that the Boy just fell in love with a girl. I heard that he just wanted to be loved, shown human compassion, but the people who lived here couldn't do that. I heard that he was chased out of town on the flimsiest excuse, and that the boy he killed had been pushing him around for ages before hand, and it wasn't as if it wasn't coming to him. I also heard that unlike the stories, that he had a name. His name was Edward."
"Emotional Tripe." Sneered Mr Dyson, "I know the legend, and I guess you've done a picture of him. Well, show me!"
Jane, her eyes turned away from the crowd, pulled reluctantly at the dustsheet. Mr Dyson's face was twisted in preparation, to a perpetual sneer, but it was as the dustsheet floated to the floor his face sagged like a stretched tee shirt. He had expected, well, he hadn't, but what he had expected wasn't this. It was essentially, very simple, just a boy, with scissor hands, standing in a garden full of weird and wonderful topiaries on a starlit night sky. Just a simple picture, he might have said, if it hadn't actually *seen* the picture.
The detailing on the blades was, well detailed. They looked so lifelike that he thought they might actually cut through the page. The suit he wore was mostly black to a casual observer, but ignoring the class he lent closer, and saw the various blues, greens and he swore once or twice, whites, used to make up the blackness, the folds and cuts executed brilliantly. He looked up at the boys' hair, wild, untamed, but again, black, black like the universe is black, and up into the night sky. He might have said it looked black again, but as he looked closer he saw purples and oranges of far away galaxies and bleeding red stars, as if they were crying in the pure sadness of the picture. That was the thing. This picture wasn't sad, but it made you feel as if someone had ripped your heart out of your chest and stamped on it. It was heart wrenching. But nothing, nothing he had seen so far in his whole life could prepare him for meeting the eyes.
He looked into those brown eyes, full of expression and heart ache, and pain that he knew that no one else in the world could ever know, but as he looked into those painted eyes, he felt his own begin to tear up. This picture, it was, brilliant. Not just the detailing, which, obviously, was brilliant, the colours. The picture was dark, but as he looked at it, he could see colours shimmer on the paper like a mirage to a thirsty desert rat. The picture, he gasped out loud, but he just wanted to weep in pity with the boy, weep for his life, weep for his suffering, weep like he had never wept before.
It was a full five seconds before he could answer. His sneering tone was lost as he gasped, "Jane, this is.....beautiful.," he gasped for breath again, "Is this all your own work, the background, the colouring, the setting, the boy?"
"I painted it all myself if that's what you're asking, and I drew It." She answered curtly, "I really did. "
"But did you do this anatomy from your mind, or did you have some reference...."
"I did have a model...." Indulged Jane. Then, she slammed her mouth shut. She had said too much.
"Model?" he asked, his voice half questioning, half musing.
"No one important, " she stammered, "No one, it was, was just...."
"I want top meet this model Miss Parson's." he said very quickly.
"Sorry sir, I was lying, I just....I just took some stuff from an anatomy book, studied posters n'stuff......"
"Miss Parson's we will discus this after the lesson!" he snapped, "um, as I was say, " he said, trying to compose himself again, "Terry Gryill, your picture....your picture of a ....of a wood nymph is...." But even this beautiful piece of work lacked the haunting quality of Jane's. As he tried to continue the class, his eyes kept drifting back to that piece. Each time he looked he found the words, "brilliant" and "macabre" interchange in his head. It was as if the picture was an unspoken metaphor for something he'd rather not think about. Other pieces seemed quiet pale and opaque in comparison. It wasn't as if the detailing on other pieces wasn't better, in some it was even superior, but it was as if it shone in a way he couldn't explain to anyone who hadn't seen this picture. It was like stood out from the rest in some way that couldn't be identified by him.
By the end of the lesson the picture had made him jitter. The class had noticed the distinct lack of posture and bullying menace that he usual exuded. They left the lesson quickly, except Jane. She sat their in the empty room, and waited until the teacher, unknowing that he was still trying to drag his eyes off her painting, turned around to her.
"Now, Miss Parson's, I think you'll agree that this picture is...is....of a much higher standard than your usual work, and I am tempted to give you an A+."
Jane smiled at him.
"But, " he continued, "There is one condition. I must meet this model of yours." He said, his voice hiding his own fright very effectively.
"Sir?"
"Miss Parsons, you can either do that, or I can fail you."
"But Mr Dyson, you said that....."
"Yes I did, but I don't mean just art. No, I can arrange it that you fail all your classes, every single one."
"No you can't!"
"Don't contradict me!" snapped Mr Dyson, "I can, and I'm not going to pussy foot around the subject. You can either bring me your friend, or you can fail classes. "
"All of them?"
"I can have you put back in Kindergarten if you rub me up the wrong way. I have contacts. I have friends in places so high that you can't see the top." Then, turning back to the painting, his eyes welling up with tears he shouted, "get out! Get out of my sight! I want to see your friend by Tomorrow, or I'll see you back in first grade!"
Jane ran out of the classroom, slamming the door behind her in panic.
**********
".....And you see, Edward, that's why I'm asking you to come down again, just meet Mr Dyson and leave." Said Jane.
Edward didn't reply. He just looked at her, not uncomprehendingly as he had before, but pensively, as if he knew too well.
"Please Edward, he said he'd put me down a grade for the rest of my life." She pleaded.
Edward looked her in here eyes, just for a moment, and suddenly shook his head.
"Edward, just for me? Just for one day? I promise that nothing will happen to you. I promise that it'll just be one day, and I'll take you straight back up here afterwards."
Edward looked down, his blades clicking thoughtfully. He was frightened, he didn't want to go back down, even though Jane was pleading him to go, but his very body turned to the ice he liked to touch at the though of returning. But as his mind went back to the town below, he saw a pair of brown eyes in his mind, brown eyes and blonde hair.....
"....Hold me....." he mused under his breath, "But I can't."
Jane sat patiently waiting for him to come back to her world.
Edward looked up and said, "I'll go back, but only if we find Kim."
"Kim?" replied Jane. Then she remembered, "Oh, yes, Kim. I'll do my best to find her, but I can't find her up here. I'll come back tomorrow for you, I'll just show you to Mr Dyson, and then I'll look for her, bring her up here. Deal?"
Edward smiled and nodded.
***********
Mr Dyson had stayed after work just to see the picture again. He had been doing this all day. All day he kept up the pretence that all was okay, that everything was the same as usual, but between lessons he had sneaked looks at the picture, even during lessons he had tried to look at it, finding seemingly legitimate reasons to do so, but as he knelt their, before the painting as if it were the sacred Icon in a church, he felt the tears come to his eyes, the madness descend upon his mind. He felt crazed, like a moth that had seen a light and kept flying into it, burning slowly, but not caring because the light was so wonderful, eternal and mysterious.
Tears leaked from his eyes, hitting the ground. He knew the picture wasn't sacred, or even as half as beautiful as he made it out to be, but the way the colours sizzled like fire, the way the eyes bore into his soul, the way....the way it looked. He couldn't stop himself. He let out a sob, but as he did he felt a cold hand of comfort sit on his shoulder.
"So, Mr Dyson, I see you've done your work." Said a Harsh, feminine voice, "I have the money. You can spend it on what you wish. It could be Sex as usual, or maybe on alcohol. I know that there is some exotic porn on the Internet with your name on it."
"Stop it!" hissed Mr Dyson, still looking at the picture.
"I'm sorry Mr Dyson, but I'm only trying to cheer you up. You see, I know what you like. You are, in my opinion a very sad man. You spend your day making fun of others, and then go home, all alone to your empty flat and read your 'magazines', or, when you save up enough, buy a woman for the night. I might feel sorry for you, if you weren't so deeply, deeply pathetic."
"Please, no more." He begged, his eyes unable to leave the picture, "please?"
"The picture, it is rather remarkable, that's true." Said the voice behind him, "I don't see why you find it so special though. Or maybe you don't. Maybe its finally your guilt getting to you." The woman laughed unamusedly, "maybe it's your own self hatred finally realising that you're not the man you though you were. Why did you pick on Jane Parson's anyway? " Asked the woman, "I never understood it. She is quiet a talented artist. I'm not saying that she's brilliant, but she's good high school fodder, even if her style couldn't crack the outside world. Or maybe because she was a girl who was too much like you? Y'know, unable to fit in with people, ugly, no one could possibly be attracted to her, unusual taste, like you."
Mr Dyson just sobbed.
"But I could always be wrong. At least she has some sort of chance. At least she can counter her superficial appearance with an inner beauty, if you don't mind me being so soppy, unlike you who are as ugly on the inside as you are on the outside." The woman smiled. "Almost enough to make you want to kill yourself, isn't it?"
Mr Dyson turned around. "Jes!" he called out, his voice almost incomprehendable.
"Yes, I know, you want your money." She said softly. Mr Dyson left his eye turn back to the picture, barely noticing the sound of a pile of banknotes, neatly tied up with long piece of black ribbon, hit the ground next to him. "Goodbye Mr Dyson,you'll get the other half tomorrow, after you get the proof here ."
He heard a click of metal, a swish of coat, and no more. He sobbed out once again, grabbing the money, his heart crying out. He ripped off the ribbon, and dropped the money on the floor. He swallowed, and then, on all fours like a dog he let out a cry of pain, his tears making the green ink run.
*********
Notes -
1/I tried to reference some other Tim Burton movies. You'll note that I mention Ed Wood briefly under Tor Johnson (and Monster of the Bride by Edward D. Wood Junior, but never mind) and Sleepy Hollow.
2/ yep, I steal a lot of the scene from Never trust a rabbit, but I blame that on my unimaginative brain.
3/ I have looked up a lot of pictures of Edward for this project, and the picture I describe isn't actually one of them, but I can tell you that www.deviantart.com has the biggest collection of Edward Scissorhand pictures of the art websites I visited (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.)
4/ Well, I'm glad that most people got that Mrs Peterson is Kim Boggs. I'll try to explain the change of name, because I was going to do it later, but I'll do it here for the sake of argument. Although Kim was distraught about Edward, she married another man called Jeremiah Peterson, who has died recently. More on that later.
5/The teacher can threaten her, because the Metaphysic's really do have influence everywhere. Bloody hell.
6/ Jane is not perfect! She stupid for convincing Edward to go! Proof that she is not a particularly noble Mary Sue.
7/ The last bit, well, it's kinda Freaky, but deals with the darker side of the man, and is also another heads up to both Edward D. Wood junior and the character who I based the teacher on in Never Trust a Rabbit. Trust me on this. I promise to keep this to a minimum if it is disliked.
8/ Jéscika, my Muse also told me to tell you that she isn't usually like this, but she was forced into by my horribly twisted brain, rather than the other way around.
Sorry for the notes being almost as long as the story! Thank you for reading,
Xandra the Blue.
Song - Citizen Eraised by Muse.
I never though I'd ever find myself listening to Muse, but I am, and enjoying it a lot!
**********
"So, thank you Danny, for this interpretation of 'naked woman running away from big ape-thing.'" Sighed the teacher, "C-, and be glad I didn't expel you from my class for such a heinously badly drawn piece of art. Now, if we want a piece of art, we need not look much further than....."
"Sir, it's actually Tor Johnson she's running from." Danny added Helpfully.
"Well, he was basically an ape any way, as I was saying, Mary Corbett's wonderful 'Headless Horseman' on the other hand, is drawn almost completely from her own imagination, with, may I note, the sense of both urgency and decadence, which gives you an A, I think.....Wait, where on earth is Jane Parson? I wanted to see the tripe she served up to us under the name of interpretive art."
It was at this point, a sound like a tree being dragged painfully loudly along the corridor outside was heard. "Hmm, right on time, for her." He quipped as he heard a dull thud outside the door, and a doorknob squeak open. The class laughed at her slightly ragged appearance as she wheezed, "I'm sorry I'm Late My Dyson, I had to carry my work on the bus."
"I'm sure many of the other pupils' here had to do the same, but they're all here, except, it seems for you and your sense of timing."
Jane blushed, and said quietly, "sorry Sir, " and attempted to lug in the six and a half foot canvas covered by a dustsheet.
The class laughed hysterically as she failed miserably. Mr Dyson, motioning to his favourites to help her said, "Please, Miss Parson's, will you explain why your art piece is the size of a small cow?" The laughed burst out into more laughter, "Were you late because you were, in fact, stealing a bill board? Will I see tonight on the news the report that bill boards around town have been disappearing mysteriously since I told you about your coursework?" At this point the class would have laughed if he had told them the time as they revelled in Jane's humiliation.
She wanted to run away, or scream at them, but she couldn't. She just bit her tongue and replied; "You said to go into our subconscious, to imagine a story that hit you hard, what it did to you...."
"Obviously your story hit you hard enough to flatten it to six feet long."
There were fewer laughs, but more appreciated.
"Well, can I at least explain what it is!" She rasped, her usually timid voice gaining a frightening edge of anger.
"Go ahead. It can't be much worse than the final product." Sneered Mr Dyson, lying back on his chair.
"Well, it was a local ledged I heard. I heard that one a boy with scissor hands lived around here that he lived on that castle on the hill. On day someone found him, and took him down here to be looked after. I heard that he was an evil monster who destroyed things, and in the end the people just had to chase him out of town to keep them safe. Back to the hill, and a boy who fought him was killed in cold blood, but the roof fell in on him, and he died.
"But I also heard a different version of the story. I heard that the boy never hurt anyone. I heard that the Boy just fell in love with a girl. I heard that he just wanted to be loved, shown human compassion, but the people who lived here couldn't do that. I heard that he was chased out of town on the flimsiest excuse, and that the boy he killed had been pushing him around for ages before hand, and it wasn't as if it wasn't coming to him. I also heard that unlike the stories, that he had a name. His name was Edward."
"Emotional Tripe." Sneered Mr Dyson, "I know the legend, and I guess you've done a picture of him. Well, show me!"
Jane, her eyes turned away from the crowd, pulled reluctantly at the dustsheet. Mr Dyson's face was twisted in preparation, to a perpetual sneer, but it was as the dustsheet floated to the floor his face sagged like a stretched tee shirt. He had expected, well, he hadn't, but what he had expected wasn't this. It was essentially, very simple, just a boy, with scissor hands, standing in a garden full of weird and wonderful topiaries on a starlit night sky. Just a simple picture, he might have said, if it hadn't actually *seen* the picture.
The detailing on the blades was, well detailed. They looked so lifelike that he thought they might actually cut through the page. The suit he wore was mostly black to a casual observer, but ignoring the class he lent closer, and saw the various blues, greens and he swore once or twice, whites, used to make up the blackness, the folds and cuts executed brilliantly. He looked up at the boys' hair, wild, untamed, but again, black, black like the universe is black, and up into the night sky. He might have said it looked black again, but as he looked closer he saw purples and oranges of far away galaxies and bleeding red stars, as if they were crying in the pure sadness of the picture. That was the thing. This picture wasn't sad, but it made you feel as if someone had ripped your heart out of your chest and stamped on it. It was heart wrenching. But nothing, nothing he had seen so far in his whole life could prepare him for meeting the eyes.
He looked into those brown eyes, full of expression and heart ache, and pain that he knew that no one else in the world could ever know, but as he looked into those painted eyes, he felt his own begin to tear up. This picture, it was, brilliant. Not just the detailing, which, obviously, was brilliant, the colours. The picture was dark, but as he looked at it, he could see colours shimmer on the paper like a mirage to a thirsty desert rat. The picture, he gasped out loud, but he just wanted to weep in pity with the boy, weep for his life, weep for his suffering, weep like he had never wept before.
It was a full five seconds before he could answer. His sneering tone was lost as he gasped, "Jane, this is.....beautiful.," he gasped for breath again, "Is this all your own work, the background, the colouring, the setting, the boy?"
"I painted it all myself if that's what you're asking, and I drew It." She answered curtly, "I really did. "
"But did you do this anatomy from your mind, or did you have some reference...."
"I did have a model...." Indulged Jane. Then, she slammed her mouth shut. She had said too much.
"Model?" he asked, his voice half questioning, half musing.
"No one important, " she stammered, "No one, it was, was just...."
"I want top meet this model Miss Parson's." he said very quickly.
"Sorry sir, I was lying, I just....I just took some stuff from an anatomy book, studied posters n'stuff......"
"Miss Parson's we will discus this after the lesson!" he snapped, "um, as I was say, " he said, trying to compose himself again, "Terry Gryill, your picture....your picture of a ....of a wood nymph is...." But even this beautiful piece of work lacked the haunting quality of Jane's. As he tried to continue the class, his eyes kept drifting back to that piece. Each time he looked he found the words, "brilliant" and "macabre" interchange in his head. It was as if the picture was an unspoken metaphor for something he'd rather not think about. Other pieces seemed quiet pale and opaque in comparison. It wasn't as if the detailing on other pieces wasn't better, in some it was even superior, but it was as if it shone in a way he couldn't explain to anyone who hadn't seen this picture. It was like stood out from the rest in some way that couldn't be identified by him.
By the end of the lesson the picture had made him jitter. The class had noticed the distinct lack of posture and bullying menace that he usual exuded. They left the lesson quickly, except Jane. She sat their in the empty room, and waited until the teacher, unknowing that he was still trying to drag his eyes off her painting, turned around to her.
"Now, Miss Parson's, I think you'll agree that this picture is...is....of a much higher standard than your usual work, and I am tempted to give you an A+."
Jane smiled at him.
"But, " he continued, "There is one condition. I must meet this model of yours." He said, his voice hiding his own fright very effectively.
"Sir?"
"Miss Parsons, you can either do that, or I can fail you."
"But Mr Dyson, you said that....."
"Yes I did, but I don't mean just art. No, I can arrange it that you fail all your classes, every single one."
"No you can't!"
"Don't contradict me!" snapped Mr Dyson, "I can, and I'm not going to pussy foot around the subject. You can either bring me your friend, or you can fail classes. "
"All of them?"
"I can have you put back in Kindergarten if you rub me up the wrong way. I have contacts. I have friends in places so high that you can't see the top." Then, turning back to the painting, his eyes welling up with tears he shouted, "get out! Get out of my sight! I want to see your friend by Tomorrow, or I'll see you back in first grade!"
Jane ran out of the classroom, slamming the door behind her in panic.
**********
".....And you see, Edward, that's why I'm asking you to come down again, just meet Mr Dyson and leave." Said Jane.
Edward didn't reply. He just looked at her, not uncomprehendingly as he had before, but pensively, as if he knew too well.
"Please Edward, he said he'd put me down a grade for the rest of my life." She pleaded.
Edward looked her in here eyes, just for a moment, and suddenly shook his head.
"Edward, just for me? Just for one day? I promise that nothing will happen to you. I promise that it'll just be one day, and I'll take you straight back up here afterwards."
Edward looked down, his blades clicking thoughtfully. He was frightened, he didn't want to go back down, even though Jane was pleading him to go, but his very body turned to the ice he liked to touch at the though of returning. But as his mind went back to the town below, he saw a pair of brown eyes in his mind, brown eyes and blonde hair.....
"....Hold me....." he mused under his breath, "But I can't."
Jane sat patiently waiting for him to come back to her world.
Edward looked up and said, "I'll go back, but only if we find Kim."
"Kim?" replied Jane. Then she remembered, "Oh, yes, Kim. I'll do my best to find her, but I can't find her up here. I'll come back tomorrow for you, I'll just show you to Mr Dyson, and then I'll look for her, bring her up here. Deal?"
Edward smiled and nodded.
***********
Mr Dyson had stayed after work just to see the picture again. He had been doing this all day. All day he kept up the pretence that all was okay, that everything was the same as usual, but between lessons he had sneaked looks at the picture, even during lessons he had tried to look at it, finding seemingly legitimate reasons to do so, but as he knelt their, before the painting as if it were the sacred Icon in a church, he felt the tears come to his eyes, the madness descend upon his mind. He felt crazed, like a moth that had seen a light and kept flying into it, burning slowly, but not caring because the light was so wonderful, eternal and mysterious.
Tears leaked from his eyes, hitting the ground. He knew the picture wasn't sacred, or even as half as beautiful as he made it out to be, but the way the colours sizzled like fire, the way the eyes bore into his soul, the way....the way it looked. He couldn't stop himself. He let out a sob, but as he did he felt a cold hand of comfort sit on his shoulder.
"So, Mr Dyson, I see you've done your work." Said a Harsh, feminine voice, "I have the money. You can spend it on what you wish. It could be Sex as usual, or maybe on alcohol. I know that there is some exotic porn on the Internet with your name on it."
"Stop it!" hissed Mr Dyson, still looking at the picture.
"I'm sorry Mr Dyson, but I'm only trying to cheer you up. You see, I know what you like. You are, in my opinion a very sad man. You spend your day making fun of others, and then go home, all alone to your empty flat and read your 'magazines', or, when you save up enough, buy a woman for the night. I might feel sorry for you, if you weren't so deeply, deeply pathetic."
"Please, no more." He begged, his eyes unable to leave the picture, "please?"
"The picture, it is rather remarkable, that's true." Said the voice behind him, "I don't see why you find it so special though. Or maybe you don't. Maybe its finally your guilt getting to you." The woman laughed unamusedly, "maybe it's your own self hatred finally realising that you're not the man you though you were. Why did you pick on Jane Parson's anyway? " Asked the woman, "I never understood it. She is quiet a talented artist. I'm not saying that she's brilliant, but she's good high school fodder, even if her style couldn't crack the outside world. Or maybe because she was a girl who was too much like you? Y'know, unable to fit in with people, ugly, no one could possibly be attracted to her, unusual taste, like you."
Mr Dyson just sobbed.
"But I could always be wrong. At least she has some sort of chance. At least she can counter her superficial appearance with an inner beauty, if you don't mind me being so soppy, unlike you who are as ugly on the inside as you are on the outside." The woman smiled. "Almost enough to make you want to kill yourself, isn't it?"
Mr Dyson turned around. "Jes!" he called out, his voice almost incomprehendable.
"Yes, I know, you want your money." She said softly. Mr Dyson left his eye turn back to the picture, barely noticing the sound of a pile of banknotes, neatly tied up with long piece of black ribbon, hit the ground next to him. "Goodbye Mr Dyson,you'll get the other half tomorrow, after you get the proof here ."
He heard a click of metal, a swish of coat, and no more. He sobbed out once again, grabbing the money, his heart crying out. He ripped off the ribbon, and dropped the money on the floor. He swallowed, and then, on all fours like a dog he let out a cry of pain, his tears making the green ink run.
*********
Notes -
1/I tried to reference some other Tim Burton movies. You'll note that I mention Ed Wood briefly under Tor Johnson (and Monster of the Bride by Edward D. Wood Junior, but never mind) and Sleepy Hollow.
2/ yep, I steal a lot of the scene from Never trust a rabbit, but I blame that on my unimaginative brain.
3/ I have looked up a lot of pictures of Edward for this project, and the picture I describe isn't actually one of them, but I can tell you that www.deviantart.com has the biggest collection of Edward Scissorhand pictures of the art websites I visited (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.)
4/ Well, I'm glad that most people got that Mrs Peterson is Kim Boggs. I'll try to explain the change of name, because I was going to do it later, but I'll do it here for the sake of argument. Although Kim was distraught about Edward, she married another man called Jeremiah Peterson, who has died recently. More on that later.
5/The teacher can threaten her, because the Metaphysic's really do have influence everywhere. Bloody hell.
6/ Jane is not perfect! She stupid for convincing Edward to go! Proof that she is not a particularly noble Mary Sue.
7/ The last bit, well, it's kinda Freaky, but deals with the darker side of the man, and is also another heads up to both Edward D. Wood junior and the character who I based the teacher on in Never Trust a Rabbit. Trust me on this. I promise to keep this to a minimum if it is disliked.
8/ Jéscika, my Muse also told me to tell you that she isn't usually like this, but she was forced into by my horribly twisted brain, rather than the other way around.
Sorry for the notes being almost as long as the story! Thank you for reading,
Xandra the Blue.