A Fable by Guest Blogger Charles Schnell

At the top of a grassy hill almost untouched by humankind, his house stood basking almost too closely to the sun. He was the proud owner of the house on the hill. He was the one who made the dolls. And, he was a puppet.

Everyday, the puppet had to wake up, find himself at the desk in his study with his strings still attached, and get to work again. His life consisted of being hunched over his wooden desk, delicately weaving and stitching dolls together. Eighty dolls a day, to be exact. Six days a week–this would be the puppet’s routine: wake up; make eighty dolls; go to sleep.

Then, on the seventh day, the puppet would have to make his way to the village and deliver the dolls to the market. The strings attached to the hands of the heavens led the puppet’s way.

Walking back to his workshop on the hill, the puppet would have to hear the same comments from the villagers.

“Yeah, the dolls are nice. But what else do you do?”

“Wow, how do you come up with so many new designs? Every week you have something new!”

“Where do you see yourself in four years?”

In the beginning, the puppet tried answering these questions, but he always found himself at a loss for words, and the strings of the heavens do not stop for their puppets. So, he gave up and returned to his house on the hill in silence.

This all continued long enough for millions of dolls to have come spilling out of the puppet’s soul. Until one day, the doll stopped. He dropped his roll of yarn and did not pick it up again. The heavens tugged and pulled on the strings, but the puppet did not concede. In fact, that day, the puppet took his yarn cutting scissors, raised them up while resisting the tugging of the heavens, and cut his strings.

Freed, he could no longer sense the heavens. All contact was cut. And for once, he left his house on a day that was not the seventh day.

At first, he liked the town. He liked being able to roam without the strings. And, for the first time, the villagers saw a smile on the puppet’s face.

Freedom did not come without its drawbacks, however. His newly found freedom caused newly found anxiety. Without his strings, the puppet had nowhere to go.

No, he had too many places to go, too many choices. That led to the puppet’s insecurity and anxiety. Pretty soon, the smile disappeared from his face.

The puppet continued on for a long time like this: anxious and insecure. But, one day he faced what he knew he had to do.

He returned to his old house on the hill, his desk, his workshop, his yarn, his scissors he cut himself free with.

He took a deep breath. He realized what he was about to do was for the best. He took the remnants of his strings to the heavens. He proceed with great care as he slowly and reluctantly stitched and spliced the strings together again. The heavens, seeing they had control once more, worked their magic, and the puppet fell asleep.

The next morning, the puppet awoke to his familiar life. The hill was untouched; the house was close to the sun; and the puppet made eighty more dolls.

Editor: Luke Langlois