Once upon a time
a man was created
assembled in his prime
undying yet ill-fated
his master’s unfinished plans,
his life’s work abandoned
the substitute proved permanent
left with only scissors for hands.

Lonely in my castle
hours bathed in silence
still I find it facile
whiling in innocence
to take joy in simple things
a burst of movement, a careful snip
what elation, what fervor it brings
Till suddenly I am finished,
with many a scar on my lip.

One day, I left my house on the hill
and moved into the town below.
I wanted people to like me,
and found ways to help out
I even fell in love once
but that didn’t work out too well.

“I must go,” thought he,
“Away from here, I’ll run,
Stay I won’t, and return I’ll not
for clearly I’m not welcome.”
So back he went to his mansion
and was alone for years to come.

---- Prince Mallory

Melora woke in the afternoon, the light filtering through the cracked roof. Sitting up on the couch, she stretched her aching muscles and looked around. The room was much larger than she had thought; and was filled with curious machinery. Still, the place wasn’t much lived in, she could tell...

“What’s first?” Melora began. “I’d say, breakfast was first. But what is there to eat here? Nothing, I’ll bet. I’ve no money to spend on food, not when I still have a few apples in my pocket. I should be wiser with my spending, from now on.” Melora sighed and reached into her pinafore, taking out the bright red apple that she’d plucked from an orchard. Gazing at it for a moment, she wondered how long it would be before she could start eating anything besides apples, pears and peaches.

Opening one of her suitcases, she pulled out a spiral bound notebook. She’d purchased it for school, and so it was blank. Melora would put it to better use now. Taking out a pen and biting into her apple, she began to make a list:

What is to be done?

Firstly, unpack your things in what’s going to be your room.

Secondly, find some water and bathe yourself some. You look awful.

Thirdly, go into town, and inquire, among other things, if there is a position to be filled for a job. If you need to, eat at the cheapest place possible, but don’t depend on that for too long. Start saving for some vegetable seeds, and an indoor soil tray.

Fourthly, come back up to the house and examine it for anything like running water and a stove. I can’t imagine there would be such a thing here, but who knows?

And Fifthly, when everything else is done, the least you can do is find a broom to sweep, or maybe arrange things a bit. No sense living in filth if you can avoid it.

Now go on, you’ve got lots to do.

Melora snapped the notebook shut and tugged on her boots, having consumed all parts of her apple. Was there a bedroom in this house? Hmm...Melora stood up, looking about the room. She saw, behind what looked like a series of tables with conveyor belts on them, a door. She made her way across the room and opened it, hoping she wouldn’t find anything scary like a dead body or really old food. Instead she found a very dark room, and what did she see in that room but a bed!

Melora held her enthusiasm in check, however. She was wary of sleeping in strange beds, and had a bad feeling about this one. The covers were thrown back, a robe tossed over the bannister, slippers lying haphazardly on the floor—no, this would not do at all. She would never get any sleep in a bed that–despite being moth-eaten, yellowed with age, and covered in dust and cobwebs—looked as if it’s owner were going to return to it at the end of the day. She did not know what happened to the owners of this house, but whoever they were they must have fled in a great hurry, to forget their slippers.

Shutting the door quietly behind her, she opted to simply use the couch until she could save up for a mattress. Melora was prepared to live in poverty, even if it meant years of it.

“Then what?” Melora said, simply to frighten away the silence. This house was awfully quiet and lonely...

“You’re to wash yourself. That’s what comes next. But water? I know! A restroom. In town. That’s where I shall go anyways, to find a job. And I can take some clean clothes with me as well.” Finding her best dress and socks from her suitcase, and tucking a brush into her pocket, she pushed the door open and made her way down the long path back into town.

It was nearing nine o’clock in the evening when Melora emerged from the pizzeria and began to walk dejectedly back home. The day had gone terribly. She had earned several stares as she made her way, on foot, to the center of town where all the stores were. That had taken much of the day, so that she was twice as filthy when she finally found a public restroom to wash her face, neck and hands in the sink, brush her hair and finally change clothes. Melora came out feeling quite refreshed, if still very hungry. She’d found a place selling videos sporting a “help wanted” sign, and said that she wanted to help—but the form they handed her had questions on it that she could not answer; such as her address and social security number (after all, she doubted even her family back home knew it). Not knowing what to do, she left. Most of the businesses were not looking for help, so Melora decided to at least eat some hot food, finally. The pizza filled her stomach wonderfully, it was the highlight of her day, but she felt the whole time as if being scrutinized by everyone else in the restaurant.

After walking a mile towards the mansion, Melora sat down for a bit to rest her feet. She was sitting in front of one of those ugly little pastel houses, and wondered if the people inside were staring at her too. It wasn’t long, however, before a car pulled into the driveway. Melora got up to leave, but a voice called out to her.

“Wait!” Melora turned around. A woman was climbing out of the car. She was wearing a baby blue work ensemble, with a little cap resting on her head. “My name is Betsy Ashton. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but, are you the newcomer in town?”

Melora answered honestly, “Yes, I must be.” She wasn’t that surprised how fast news traveled here; she did stick out.

“Where are you living now?”

“In the mansion on the hill.”

Mrs. Ashton faltered. “I...I don’t understand. That place was never for sale...”

Melora felt antsy. “It’s abandoned though, isn’t it?” She asked hopefully.

“Oh, yes, yes, no doubt about that, quite empty.” Mrs. Ashton brightened a bit. Then she looked closer at Melora. “How old are you, dear?”

“Sixteen and a half.”

“Oh. Where are your parents?”

“...I don’t have any. I’m alone here.”

Instantly Mrs. Ashton’s face fell, her expression a mixture of shock and pity. “Well...well, where did you live before you came here? If you don’t mind...”

“I lived...away from here.” Melora gave her the name of a town, but Mrs. Ashton did not recognize it.

“Do you have any relatives in town? At all?”

“No.”

“Do you have a job, sweetie?”

“No...”

“...Does that place up there have stuff like power and running water?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am.”

Mrs. Ashton frowned and thought for a long moment. “Ah, well, you know, I live right here, and it would be a shame for you to live all by yourself up there in that old place, why don’t you just...come with me, and I can help you figure out what to do, ok?” She smiled and nodded her head briskly.

Melora looked back to the mansion, now just a dark silhouette against the indigo sky. Looking at Mrs. Ashton’s maternal smile, Melora almost wish she could be back home again with her parents, but knew it was too late for that. She supposed that her things would be alright as long as they stayed dry in the mansion...

“Alright.”

When all had been perfectly silent for several hours, Edward got up from his spot in the darkest corner of the attic and haltingly walked to the door. He pushed it open with one long blade and quietly made his way down the stairs. Looking timidly about, he saw that the living room was devoid of the stranger. The room was dark in the evening, the pale light of the moon filtering through smashed windows to glint dangerously off of his ‘hands’, a mess of long, dismembered, iron and steel scissor blades that were as much a part of him as the skin of his face. Snipping them nervously, Edward walked stiffly towards the couch, where she had slept the night. At the foot of the couch were two suitcases; one of them had been left open. Curiosity getting the better of himself, Edward extended a blade and examined the contents of the case.

On the very top was a photograph. Edward suddenly remembered the last photographs he’d seen, over seventy years ago. Their memory still strong, especially that of a certain strawberry blonde beauty, Edward paused for a moment, soaking up the rare vivid flash of that encounter. Then he examined the photograph before him.

In it, a girl stood next to a boy. The girl was dressed in pale colors, and he recognized her as the stranger. The boy was much taller than her, and wore a red shirt and plaid vest. There was nothing remarkable about the photo, except that the boy looked cheerful. Edward thought for a moment. There was nothing as far as physical resemblances went, but the boy reminded him of...of someone who hated him, a long time ago. A man who Edward had not hated; hatred was a hard emotion for him; but a man whom he had grown very tired of in the end. Edward closed his eyes against the memory. So many painful memories...

Looking at the girl once more, Edward contemplated her. He was aware of a feeling, deep within his clockwork mind, that he often had when he viewed a bush that was begging to be ‘pruned’, or a block of ice. It was that feeling of seeing art, the potential for it, that spark of creativity that demanded to be recognized. Yet in this girl it was not so much that the art was hidden within her; rather, he could see it waiting just beneath the surface; as if she were a finished piece, resplendent in her beauty, but was being covered up by the noisy thoughts and words and colors of her surroundings. The inhabitants of Suburbia never understood, even if Edward had tried to explain to them, they would have simply thought up ways to use him for it. Now Edward did not need to explain his feelings to himself; he simply felt them, as feelings were meant to be.

Pushing aside the photograph, Edward lightly traced his blades over the surface of a piece of paper; it was covered in colorful paint and strange designs. Here and there Edward recognized an eye or an ear, but the lines were so dense and the subject so completely unfamiliar to him that he could not begin to guess what was going on there. Yet here it was again, that feeling of art, hidden under a thin layer of other people’s expectations and judgements. It was as if he could feel her past situation clouding over his own. Carefully lifting a few more sheets of paper, he saw it was more of her artwork; every one of them different and yet they all seemed to contain something the same; an element of repression and melancholy.

Too afraid to explore further without damage to the contents of the suitcase, Edward withdrew his scissor hand and stood up straight. Would she be coming back? In truth, a part of him hoped desperately that she would return. Seventy years of loneliness, even for someone who isn’t that accustomed to public speaking (or speaking at all, really), can wear down on a person’s soul. Even if all she ever did was watch him prune the bushes outside, he’d still prefer that to doing it alone. Loneliness and he were very well acquainted, but he felt that seeing new people might be nice for a change.

Of course, that was only a small part of him. There was a very big part of him who was terrified of the prospect of her return. What if she brought other people with her? What if they didn’t like him? It didn’t matter, actually, whether they liked him or not. He would never be one of the people of the place below, and they would never learn to accept him fully as he was. All any interaction with them would bring was pain and suffering. Even if she only came by herself, he didn’t know if he could bear to grow attached to someone again and then have them tell him that they couldn’t possibly stay.

With that thought, Edward withdrew into the darkness of the mansion, away from the moonlight, climbing the staircase slowly and carefully until he reached his room at the top. There he stood before the great splintered hole in the ceiling, snipping quietly to himself, and watching the small cul-de-sac below for any signs of her.

The Ostrich and the Egret
Had a very fine flat to let.
Figurine hutch, no the place wasn't much, but they
Got a Peacock.

He would say what he's gonna do.
He would say what he wanted to.
Ostrich and Egret were filled with regret, but the
Rent's well worth him.

He felt things that they'd never felt.
Like the slap of a feather belt.
So still they sit by a fireplace silent.
A chill ran through them.

Ostrich and Egret and Peacock had very small dreams.
Thinking of them just reminds me of calendar scenes.
Nobody's laughing when everyone's weeping, it seems.

So that's How We Quit the Forest.
The scene wasn't what it used to be.
The scene is never what it used to be.
So, that's How We Quit the Forest.

----Rasputina, “How We Quit the Forest”

It had seemed like Melora had been trudging through the forest for days. Thankfully the last of her food had not run out, but she was weary and her feet hurt badly.Traveling on foot was harder than she’d thought; her suitcases contained only food and clothing, but now they seemed to weigh a ton on each arm. The forest was immense, she could no longer place where she was, and roots constantly tried to make her lose her footing. Though she knew it must have been more than twenty four hours since she entered the forest, night had never come. In that quiet cathedral of nature, the shadows remained long, the sun refusing to rise to it’s zenith or to set fully, whichever it was, dawn or dusk, she could not tell. She tried to remember what the day had looked like when she first set foot in this forest, desperate to escape her problems, but it seemed so long ago that she could not place any details.It doesn’t matter though, thought Melora, as long as it’s away, I don’t care what direction I’m headed towards. Nothing could have proved more fatal to my well being than staying in that place.

Here was a lot different than where she started out. When she had fled her old life, the woods of her home were red and gold, at the onset of Autumn. As she walked, the forest seemed to get darker and darker, the trees ashen and grey, their branches steadily growing barer and barer. Dead leaves crunched under her feet, and a bluish-white mist covered the ground. The woods were silent, devoid of bird song or the scampering of animals. Melora’s white hair and white dress soaked up the dim light and reflected it strongly, causing her to practically glow in the darkness. She walked as if in a trance, her body too tired to do anything but plod on, but her fear of never finding the end of the woods urged her onwards, as did the cold. At times the heavy silence weighed on her heart, here she was truly alone, the sole inhabitant of those woods. At other times, even though she could not hear anyone or see anything moving, she often swore that she could feel a presence with her. She had slept, briefly, her back against a thin tree, her legs splayed before her and her head turned to the side. The sleep was light, in the half-darkness, and it was then that she could hear an almost subliminal music, haunting the woods with the quiet sound of thunder. She did not sleep often though; for every time she did she felt as if the ground was telling her to simply sink down into the cold earth, to never get up again. And every time she woke up, Melora’s restless spirit felt the uneasiness of time wasted in dangerous places.

Finally, Melora came to a clearing in the forest. Before her were gray skies, and what looked to be a blackened, dismal little village. It didn’t even warrant the name of a town, so small it was, and so antiquated. It only had one road, and she walked through it, peering in dark windows only to see dusty rooms that contained no furniture. The whole town was silent, abandoned, and falling to ruin.

Where am I? Wondered Melora. This looked like nothing she was used to back at home; how far had she walked?

She was so tired, every nerve in her body screaming to stop, to lie down for just a few hours, perhaps stay the night in one of the abandoned houses. Melora paused, seriously considering it, but, looking at the woods behind her, decided that the place felt very strange and it would not be wise to stop. She was charged with a mysterious drive to keep moving, as if she were a restless spirit looking for a body to haunt. Nothing felt real to her any more, time seemed to stand still even as she traversed miles of uninhabited country side. Eventually her food ran out, but she was always able to find more----she came across abandoned orchards and filled her bags with apples and pears, stuffing her pockets with peaches. As Melora walked down the dirt road that meandered aimlessly through unfamiliar ashen land, she sometimes came across fields with crops to eat there, though she saw no farms.
At the beginning of her journey, Melora often had a solid stream of consciousness running through her mind, she had been full of thoughts and fears and excitement. Now, however, Melora felt empty, her legs mechanically placing one foot in front of the other. She did not question that the land she walked through experienced no night, no day, only a dim twilight that lasted forever. She did not question the fact that she never slept, she never stopped walking, and she never saw anyone else on the lonely road.
Sometimes Melora did seem to sense that other people were there. Maybe she was simply going insane, but she could swear that from time to time she could hear other people’s voices, or feel them next to her like shadows passing over water. She never saw anyone though.

At the end of her journey, however, night finally did come. The sudden change in light startled Melora into alertness, and she stared at where the road had taken her. She was standing on the outskirts of a small little town, oddly out of place with the rest of her surroundings. Continuing her walk, she saw that the town was inhabited----the lights in the funny, squat little houses were on, and she could see silhouettes of people moving about within. All the houses were more or less the same, sitting on a square patch of lawn, with large diamonds painted on the garage doors.

Is there a place for me here? Melora thought, looking about as she walked, noticing the pain in her arms now more than ever. This place...looked very much like where she had run away from in the first place. Where had her feet taken her? Had she managed to simply walk in a circle?

No, she decided after walking for a time. This was not the same place. It simply looked remarkably similar.

Melora was seriously considering knocking on a door, when she saw something that immediately put to rest any ideas of staying in that little town. Before her, rising in the distance, was a mountain, and on top of that mountain...

Melora’s eyes widened. She could stay no other place than there. She would plead and beg the owner until they let her in. When one sees the dream they have dreamt all their lives, one can do nothing to resist it.

Walking quickly, the suburban houses ended at a little cul-de-sac bordered by dense flora. Melora’s heart skipped a beat. It was night time, and she was reluctant to enter again such foreboding woods, but she steeled herself, reminding her that this was the last leg of her journey, that she would reach the top of that mountain no matter what.
It would be half an hour of trudging over a very over grown path, unsticking her torn dress from the brambles, and more than once removing a sharp stone from her boots, before she finally stood before the most beautiful house she’d ever seen. It was immense, darkened with age, and was more of a castle than anything else. She frowned a bit. It was also falling a part in places. Did no one live here?

But that wasn’t possible; the house might have been going to ruins, but the garden looked like it was tended to every day! Walking cautiously, Melora made her way through the immense lawn, gasping in awe at the carved horticulture. About her grew giant dragons, ballerinas, and—in the very center–an enormous hand, reaching up to cradle the sky; all pruned from green bushes. Who could have done this?

She knocked on the door, hearing the sound echo within, but no one answered. Too tired to care for the consequences, Melora pushed open the door. Within the mansion all was dark and covered in a layer of dust. Perhaps it was ominous, but compared to the places Melora had traveled through, the air was quiet and devoid of ghost’s whispers, and she felt as if she could finally rest her weary feet. Wandering about on the first floor, she found a large couch and lay down on it, quickly falling asleep.

Disclaimer: Edward doesn’t belong to me; I think he’s Tim Burton’s. Don’t sue me. Melora is MINE.