The Art of the String

He hangs limply from his wires, limbs hanging loosely, head slightly bowed. In the dim light his strings rise upwards: stretching into the gloom and disappearing into the darkest shroud. All is still.

A room full of wooden nondescript puppets. They all look alike. They all move the same. Waiting for the breeze. That flow of air particles, skipping, gliding; weaving through their numbers. It brushes against a head, tilting it left. It dances with an arm, swaying it to life. The movement tugs on a string, thrumming it to the cadence of the newly awakened consciousness of the forest.  The vibrations offer themselves as homage to the darkness, their beginning and end.

Their tribute is accepted. The string tightens. Limbs move, the forest parts, and the body touched by the breeze is moved past his unlucky brethren along the invisible trail left by the guiding breeze.

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