For the Writer’s Island, this weeks prompt being ENVISION.
Elvira’s hand was on the door knob, but it froze just on the point of twisting it as a great scream ripped through the air. She didn’t turn at once; she felt not a little embarrassed by the scream, which was obviously a male one. Beside her Bartholomew, the young wizard, muttered something in her ear that was barely audible.
“What’s up with the famous film director now? These temperamental artists… I don’t know.”
Standing centre stage by the cameras, Tim Burton clenched his hands together dramatically and held them there posed in front of him, aware of the whiteness of his flesh outlined against his black shirt. He was a perfect picture, the black and the white. His face was contorted, harsh lines pulling down the corners of his mouth and causing his eyelids to twitch incessantly. Beside him the young actress Tabatha stared at him blankly – she had obviously not come across such emotion as displayed by Mr Burton before. She stared at him entranced. It was some moments before he was actually able to string some words together in a coherent order and raise them above the guttural noises that twisted in his throat.
“I can’t believe this is happening to me! I had the vision so clearly in my head – everything I wanted to see in The Looking Glass House… it was all there, all so real. But why has it all gone now? Where’s it all gone now?” The director shook his head frantically, his whole body beginning to shake uncontrollably. One of the cameramen nearby tried to give him a cup of tea, but he was pushed away as Mr Burton continued to play a central role in the drama. “For so long I’ve had this vision in my head – I’ve worked so hard to make it real. Got the actress all ready and had the Looking Glass house built, had it all laid out before my very eyes, I suppose. I can’t believe this is happening… that’s never going to materialise!” The directors voice trailed away as he began to choke back his tears, which forced their way out even though he was trying desperately to hold them back… he was, after all, Tim Burton the famous director. “The house - the dream - the vision is all shattered, it’s all gone… what am I to do now? Tell me what I’m supposed to do without my vision, without my dream? I was trying to touch it, it was within reach, but now… where’s it gone? Where’s it gone? Help me… please…”
Everyone around stared at the directors contorted face and shaking shoulders, open mouthed and silent. Nobody dared to move or say anything. As Mr. Burton’s tears began to rush from his eyes another member of the film crew moved towards him, touching him reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Here here, take it easy Tim… sit over here,” the cameraman said gently, his American accent causing the words to sound like a lullaby. He pulled up a green canvas directors chair and pushed Tim towards it, making the crying director sit down with a jolt. As he did so, a large portion of his shoulder collapsed beneath the cameraman’s friendly grip and it slid to the ground with a rather sickening thud. All around eyes were fastened on his tear stained face… which seemed to waver and decompose slowly even as they watched. Elvira and Bartholomew exchanged uncomfortable glances.
“Look at me! Look at me, I’m crumbling… I’m falling apart!” cried out Mr. Burton, a slight edge of panic creeping into his voice at this point. Fragments of his nose fell off into his black lap, while the whole of his right lower leg beneath the knee came away and collapsed onto the floor. His cries became almost unrecognisable as his body continued to fall apart. “Somebody’s got to help me, right now! Please help me… please!”