In a quiet corner of Fantasyland, in a narrow brick house with a gas streetlamp, there lived a Puppet Master who believed in two things above all else: beauty and control. His home was filled with sawdust and music, and every wooden figure he carved seemed to breathe beneath his careful hands. Coal smoke drifted through the air from the stove.
His newest creations were inspired by Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Looking out his frosted window with lace curtains and iron railings, the Puppet Master was certain he had created something perfect. His hand tools—chisels, awls, hand drills, leather glue—had been put to good use. He smiled as clockwork music boxes ticked in the background.
At the end of March, he would present The Magic Flute at the Enchanted Opera Hall with an orchestra. He liked to hold rehearsals every week, practicing for upcoming events. His small blue and yellow puppet stage with a red curtain stood at the front of his workshop. Painted chairs sat in front of the stage for his two young children, Elizabeth, aged six, and Timothy, eight.
Similar to every previous performance, like Hansel and Gretel and Pinocchio, the Puppet Master planned perfection for this show. He carved the faces of the main characters out of oak and linden with great detail and painted them with care. Then, he attached the strings to their hands, legs, and body with just enough glue.
“Come to my workshop this afternoon for a practice show,” he said to his children. He pulled up his waistcoat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then, he checked his pocket watch.
“Yes, Father,” Elizabeth and Timothy said, giddy with excitement for The Magic Flute. Timothy had a stiff collar and buttoned boots. Elizabeth wore a dress, and her hair was neatly parted and tied with a ribbon.
They loved their father’s puppets more than almost anything. In fact, he had made them each a puppet on the day they were born. He made a ballerina for Elizabeth, and she liked hers so much that she hardly played with it. It only hung on her bedpost. However, Timothy played with his nutcracker so much that the strings needed to be replaced.
When the afternoon’s show began, the Puppet Master had the main characters in each hand. He pulled their strings, moving them left and then right again, adjusting their heads. Behind the puppet stage, the Puppet Master provided voices for the characters.
As the story went on, the children squinted their eyes when they noticed that the puppets were not following their father’s directions. At first, the Puppet Master thought that the strings were attached wrong or that he wasn’t manipulating the puppets correctly. He wondered for a minute if they were actually misbehaving through magic. He would pull their hands in one direction, and they would move their feet in another. Even lesser characters like the three child-spirits, which were almost angels, did not obey.
“Father! What’s wrong? It seems the puppets have minds of their own,” Elizabeth said, standing up abruptly.
“Yes, father, I think they are purposely not doing what you want. I know you never make mistakes,” Timothy said with a huff.
The Puppet Master stopped the show and looked closely at his unruly creations.
“Well then, we will practice another day,” he said, ushering his children to their mother. She wore a high-necked dress and apron and had been working hard in the kitchen all day preparing dinner.
The Puppet Master placed his wooden characters on his workbench with their strings tangled in a mess. Maybe this was the reason they were misbehaving. Tired, he fell asleep sitting on his work stool. When he woke up, he found himself tied with strings to his workbench. Afraid of what might happen next, he broke the bonds and sat up.
“Elizabeth! Timothy! Come quickly!” he called. The children ran into their father’s workshop. Their faces looked stunned at the web made by the puppets. The wooden puppets sat lifelessly on the workbench as though they had never moved an inch.
“How did this happen, Father?” Elizabeth said, snipping the cords with scissors. Timothy also cut the string between the Puppet Master’s feet, so his father could stand up.
“Father, what shall we do now?” Timothy asked, scratching his head. “We really don’t want them to do this again.”
“I was attacked by my creations,” the Puppet Master said, stretching out his arms and legs. “Even if I tried to explain it to anyone, no one would believe me. I can’t risk them hurting the audience at a show. What if they rebel and refuse to go on stage? They are no longer what I made them to be! They have turned against their maker.”
So, the Puppet Master locked these puppets in a trunk. He decided he must start over. He could not imagine how his creations would act so ruthlessly. He wondered if that was the true difference between humans and puppets. Perhaps love was the one thing that could neither be carved from wood nor governed by strings.
Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters
LOGLINE
In a gas-lit Victorian fantasy world, a perfection-driven puppet master discovers that his exquisite marionettes, created for The Magic Flute, have wills of their own—and must confront the painful truth that love cannot be controlled by strings.
PITCH
Set in a Victorian-inspired Fantasyland, a gifted craftsman who prides himself on beauty, discipline, and control prepares a puppet production of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. When his finely carved marionettes begin to disobey him during rehearsal—moving without his command and even binding him with their strings—his carefully ordered world unravels. Fearing what his creations might do if unleashed before an audience, the Puppet Master locks them away and resolves to begin again. In the quiet aftermath, he reflects on the difference between humans and the things they create, realizing that love is the one force that cannot be carved from wood nor governed by strings.
