Prompt: 1. Prompt #1 Describe the world you come from - for example, your family, community or school - and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations.
I'm not finished with the ending yet.... but this is it so far. Please feel free to criticize and help me edit... thanks :D
The Art of Puppeteering
The curtains are drawn. The lights shining, rotates around the theatre matching the speed and intensity of the gaze of the man from behind the stage. The sounds of clapping and whistling embodies the forefront, it is show time the man says. He slowly let's down a disjointed and incongruent figure to the center of the stage and intertwines his fingers around each string, careful to spread out the parts of the form. He closes his eyes feeling his pulse emanate throughout until he could almost sense the warmth of the wooden puppet through his fingertips. Dance, he says. With each pull and tug of the string, the puppet jerks and jumps to the beat of the pulse of his master; real music wasn't necessary. The puppet is tired, the puppet is scared, and the puppet hates it. The puppet; Susan, Angel, or Alice, whomever, and whatever names its Master dictated it to be called was chosen to match the circumstance or the theme of the dance, of the performance, or of the theatre. The puppet forgot; it has been 17 years since the puppet was forced to dance like this. 17 years has erased all its memories of freedom and of choice. Each year ticked on by like the seconds of a clock, but the puppet was determined. This is the last dance, the puppet will ever do, and it will do it well.
Over the years, the puppet has been tangled, sometimes finding itself in awkward and immovable conditions. Even though it doesn't like to admit it, even though the puppet hates it, the puppet has to face the truth; it is reliant on the puppeteer, its master. Each stage that the puppet has performed on is different. The puppet is famous, it has danced on the stage of four different countries, and 14 different theatres, never staying long enough to call one home, or mingle with other puppets. But the puppet has no choice, it is bound, it cannot choose its master, nor can it complain, for it is obscure for a puppet to speak, and it is unheard of for a puppet to be out of step.
I am that puppet. I was carved out of the finest cherry wood and polished till perfection. I was always given the best treatment that a master could give and I was adored the most. I grew up mimicking the movements of my master; my flaws and blemishes as an inanimate object was concealed so that I would appear imbued with life. My movements are flawless, my joints are smooth, and I have been disjointed and tugged to so many places that for me, I can dance my dance anywhere; my performance is perfect. But one can only polish and mend a broken piece so many times before the true appearance, and weathering is shown. I have danced my dance for 17 years. I have strutted and I have been pulled at. But now, now I am grown, I am free to choose. I choose to dance to my own beat. I choose to take my experience at each theatre, each criticism that my master has protected me from, and I will use it to make me stronger. Although I cannot upgrade to steel, I will pull my own strings. I will dance not to the beat of my master, but I will develop that of my own. I have searched far and have heard of this place called California, a place where dreams do come true. My dream is to be myself, void of the control of others, existing and flourishing and practicing and living for myself. Although it will be the first step that I take on my own, free of strings, wires, or rods to protect me from failure and to keep me in check, I will gladly take that step in this direction. For I am free to choose, and I choose you.
I'm not finished with the ending yet.... but this is it so far. Please feel free to criticize and help me edit... thanks :D
The Art of Puppeteering
The curtains are drawn. The lights shining, rotates around the theatre matching the speed and intensity of the gaze of the man from behind the stage. The sounds of clapping and whistling embodies the forefront, it is show time the man says. He slowly let's down a disjointed and incongruent figure to the center of the stage and intertwines his fingers around each string, careful to spread out the parts of the form. He closes his eyes feeling his pulse emanate throughout until he could almost sense the warmth of the wooden puppet through his fingertips. Dance, he says. With each pull and tug of the string, the puppet jerks and jumps to the beat of the pulse of his master; real music wasn't necessary. The puppet is tired, the puppet is scared, and the puppet hates it. The puppet; Susan, Angel, or Alice, whomever, and whatever names its Master dictated it to be called was chosen to match the circumstance or the theme of the dance, of the performance, or of the theatre. The puppet forgot; it has been 17 years since the puppet was forced to dance like this. 17 years has erased all its memories of freedom and of choice. Each year ticked on by like the seconds of a clock, but the puppet was determined. This is the last dance, the puppet will ever do, and it will do it well.
Over the years, the puppet has been tangled, sometimes finding itself in awkward and immovable conditions. Even though it doesn't like to admit it, even though the puppet hates it, the puppet has to face the truth; it is reliant on the puppeteer, its master. Each stage that the puppet has performed on is different. The puppet is famous, it has danced on the stage of four different countries, and 14 different theatres, never staying long enough to call one home, or mingle with other puppets. But the puppet has no choice, it is bound, it cannot choose its master, nor can it complain, for it is obscure for a puppet to speak, and it is unheard of for a puppet to be out of step.
I am that puppet. I was carved out of the finest cherry wood and polished till perfection. I was always given the best treatment that a master could give and I was adored the most. I grew up mimicking the movements of my master; my flaws and blemishes as an inanimate object was concealed so that I would appear imbued with life. My movements are flawless, my joints are smooth, and I have been disjointed and tugged to so many places that for me, I can dance my dance anywhere; my performance is perfect. But one can only polish and mend a broken piece so many times before the true appearance, and weathering is shown. I have danced my dance for 17 years. I have strutted and I have been pulled at. But now, now I am grown, I am free to choose. I choose to dance to my own beat. I choose to take my experience at each theatre, each criticism that my master has protected me from, and I will use it to make me stronger. Although I cannot upgrade to steel, I will pull my own strings. I will dance not to the beat of my master, but I will develop that of my own. I have searched far and have heard of this place called California, a place where dreams do come true. My dream is to be myself, void of the control of others, existing and flourishing and practicing and living for myself. Although it will be the first step that I take on my own, free of strings, wires, or rods to protect me from failure and to keep me in check, I will gladly take that step in this direction. For I am free to choose, and I choose you.