Strings Attached.

 My mother, wrapped all men—my father included —around her finger. On and off stage, she stole the show. She dazzled audiences with love- sick maidens singing tra-la-la tunes in the tower, knights ready to die for them and bloodthirsty pirates.

Five years.

 “Me me, please, pleeeese Mommy?”

“Ah puppet, you’re clumsy.”

Ten years.

“Won’t you teach me?”

“Ah puppet, this art isn’t for you.”

Fifteen years. 

“Your magic is so rot rubbish, Mother.”

 “Art not magic!” my mother shouted, over the deafening applause of the crowds. Every ending told a story; though my mother was the one pulling the strings.