"Puppet Girl" by Jamie M. Arenas

            She stumbles on the dance floor, a puppet made of wood. The work of a master, she moves as if built by the master’s apprentice. No flaw in the polished gleam of the wood, in the delicate blue of the eyes, in the soft gold of the hair. The joints are well-oiled. But dancing, she is clumsy. She moves wearily, as if the fragile strings are made of iron, pulling her down and not lifting her up.

            Passively she fights the wishes of the strings, yearning to dance with her, with all the others in the sun-filled room. Hanging limply, she looks away, loving the shadows and dust in her corner. Watching them dance from the corner of her eye. She knows them all, if not by name; knows every quirk of every fluid dancer. Sometimes she closes her eyes, and for a moment, sees herself among them. But even in the dark where no one sees, even in the heart of a dream, she stumbles, and they turn away.

            A voice at the door. Was that door always there, covered in cobwebs, looming at her back and invading the comfort of her corner?

            She knows that voice. She has heard it many times. The toymaker is back again, calling her by name. Never has she seen his face, only heard his voice and his soft knock at the door. Yet she trusts his hands, the hands that knock so softly. So quiet, so gentle, yet so impossible to ignore. If only he would come and work the strings, she knows she could dance with the rest. Staring up into the dim reaches of the unseen ceiling, she strains fruitlessly to see whose insistent hands she fights.

            A sound at the door. Hearing and loving the sound, she still fixes her eyes on the dancers. They are graceful, beautiful, familiar. The pain of not dancing is unbearable. She longs to cast herself into the blinding white outside the stained-glass windows, but lacks the nerve. Feeling the chill breeze sneaking in, she closes her eyes, and this time can see what she wants to see: the blinding light enfolding her sight. This time she can feel what she wants to feel: her wooden body shattering. Freed from this prison called herself, would she dance at last?

            A voice at the door.

            Will that door ever open, and the toymaker come in? Or should she open it herself, and go out? She wants to. But she cannot leave her dancers, cannot abandon the hope that someday she will join them.

            Who is working the strings?

            She is now being pulled towards the door. Back turned to the dancers, she forgets their faces, forgets their flowing movements. All she can see is the door. All she can hear is the voice. All she can feel is the pull of the strings.

            The pull of the strings…

            The hands of the toymaker…

            The creak of the opening door…

            Suddenly she knows what it is to dance. For one brief moment, she mourns the fates of the dancers behind her. They have never danced like this, guided by the hands of a master toymaker.

            Huddled in a corner of the room, dusty limbs limp, painted eyes open and staring, strings fallen softly into coils all around: an empty wooden puppet. Seen not through her dazzled eyes, the dancers with their haughty gazes fight each other without once touching, dancing with violent purpose. The light through the windows covers them, but they do not heed it, clinging instead to their dark, ragged garments, hiding their eyes from the glare. They are splintered and unpolished, their joints shrieking for oil.

            A voice at the door.

            One head turns toward the sound…

            Once dancer begins to move against the crowd…