The puppet exploded when it hit the wall, not so much into pieces, like glass breaking, but more like a violent scattering of parts. The old man, breathing heavy, stared at the spot where the puppet had hit. He felt like a drink. He got up, fixed one, finished it, then fixed another and another and another.
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He went to the window of his shop. His feet tripped on themselves. He grabbed the window ledge. The rain came down, right to left, and pelted the leaves of the trees and drowned the grass on his land. The shop was beside his home and all he needed to do to see it was to shift his head to the left. He watched his black and white cat as he sat on the porch railing. He was cleaning his paws. The old man hadnít made a puppet in years. He had only been making small toys to sell in town. He felt alone.
In the past the old man created people to interact with. He would make a group of them, enough to throw a party every week. And for awhile it felt good. He would listen to these people as they talked about their lives which they created in their own imaginations, which he had given them when he gave them life. He would let them live for a time, watching the drama that comes with people. It was a private theatre.
He had never been married. He had created lovers. But it bored him eventually. He made himself a family, a wife and kids, but it didnít feel right.
Eventually he killed them. He started off one by one, judging the reaction and watching how it affected the other lives, until he decided to kill them all off in a mass horde from shear boredom. He would set them on fire, burning up the wood they were made from, evaporating the blue dust that gave them life.
He thought of his son. The first one he made.
The old man finished his drink and put the glass away. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle. He sat on his workbench and stared at the pieces on the floor, then took another gulp from the bottle.
His son had left as sudden as he had arrived. He said the outside world called him. He wanted to see everything it had to offer. The other puppets he made, he made sure they never thought of leaving. He made sure he was always in control.
When people asked where his was, he told them he was traveling, the he would be back. The old man would always say ďheĒ. The old man couldnít say his name.
He looked at the bottle. He traded a blue fairy for a green one. The absinthe numbed the old man. He didnít hallucinate anymore when he drank it, he just didnít feel. He went over to the broken puppet and picked up a leg.
The wood looked like the first block he carved his son from.
The wood glittered blue from the fairy dust.
He saw his son taking his first steps in this shop.
He saw his sonís nose.
The old man hurled the leg against the opposite wall. He crumpled on the ground, the liquor spilling green on his pants and hands, he closed his eyes and forced himself to whisper his sonís name out loud.