Sock Puppets

After Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen rose to candidacy for the Spanish throne, the potential of a Prussian-Spanish alliance was of major concern. Diplomatic maneuvers of Otto von Bismarck (origami black hat) sought to prohibit Prince Leopold’s rise onto the world stage (cardboard tri-fold). However, the ever-so plotting Bismarck sent the Ems Telegram (Valentine’s day heart-sticker) to the French government, provoking them to war. Inevitably, German Gen. Helmuth von Moltke (pipe cleaner mustache) sided with Prussia. Superior in numbers and organization, the militarily creative general scored successive victories until the end of the war. (On stage) One of which was Napoleon III’s (red electric tape sash) surrender at the Battle of Sedan, where the French resistance formed a new government after the last monarch of France was brutally and cannibalistically devoured by the ferocious Helmuth as he gouged Napoleon’s (googly) eyes out and pulled the skin off of his finger-like spine with a gaping mouth—

The father chokes on his Americano for a second. Inaccurate again, he thinks. The puppeteer unpinches (de-mouths) each war figure and drops them into the cemeterial drawer full of every other character.


A census of which would consist most notably of:


The stage—in lieu of an accurate Arc de Triomphe—is a far too angular tri-fold poster board from Staples®, which the puppeteer’s brother used in a science fair project months back, flipped on its side. The father’s choice. Old blemishes, where rolled-over electric tape used to be, dot the intrados of the arc. The puppeteer doesn’t know what the intrados is. He points and says “roof,” and smiles.

The father is often the director of the puppet show.

“Pinch it harder this time, bud.” “Helmuth is not the same as Leopold I; we did Belgian Revolution last week.” “A paperclip could work as a sword I suppose.” “No, those two are enemies—the worst kind of enemies.” The puppeteer is scolded for his egregious friendship between Napoleon and Bismarck. He doesn’t understand that war is menacing, unforgiving, and fixed. “History is history,” the father says. It must be portrayed as so.

The mother designs the costumes for the show.

“Do you think this can be a Romeo?” she says as she pins a bowtie to one of the puppets. “And maybe this one can be Juliet?” She uses a hot glue gun for the hair transplant. The puppeteer twirls the pipe cleaner locks. “Ooh, Juliet would look great in braids,” says the costume designer. The puppeteer doesn’t know what braids are and continues twirling. The costume designer wraps this sock puppet with a zebra scrunchie—a beautiful dress. The father thinks otherwise: the royal gown of Napoleon III’s wife, Empress Emilia.

The next scene of the war is to take place. At the director’s orders, the puppeteer makes trenches in the shag carpet (indents), lines them with barricades (Lego 2 x 4’s) and makeshift cannons (the older brother’s Gundam collection). The cannons, oddly shaped and much larger than the barricades, appear half the height of the Arc de Triomphe.

“They should be the Montague and Capulet buildings, honey”, says the costume designer. “Or better yet, that yellow stocky one could be Juliet’s statue, raised in her tragic honor.”

“No, the cannon must be portrayed,” says the director, having the final word. The costume designer ignores him and stares at the stage. The blemishes turn the Arc de Triomphe to a starry night sky above the magnificent Verona—the multicolored Legos are mini townhouses and the Gundams stand tall as the sculptured peace between the two families.

Tomorrow is the extended family reunion, with a puppet theatre showing! Because it is a special occasion, the director is amassing quite the choreography for him and the puppeteer to rehearse. The practice session takes a toll on the puppeteer. Maybe it’s the difficult UPSTAGE and DOWNSTAGE directions (the little stage space often yields traffic jams between the director’s and the puppeteer’s hands)? Or perhaps the difficulty in the names he pronounces as “helmet,” “ah-toe van,” and “nap-olé”?

Disaster strikes! The costume designer’s “puppy-teer” (the puppeteer’s brother named her Snowball) comes from nowhere onto the stage, flattening the immortal Arc de Triomphe into ash and rubble, creating shooting stars and arrays of cannon parts and building bricks. Unplanned shrapnel strikes the puppeteer in his left eye; the costume designer holds him close to her. The director is in turmoil. Unable to continue with the Franco-Prussian production, the director scrambles for other points in history—the Crimean War? French Revolution? “No, no, no!” Bearing the weight of unrecapturable time, the director is at mercy to its singular, relentless march. “Time,” he says, “must move forward; as Helmuth commanded his troops with unmistakable tenacity; as I direct this production with unwavering veracity.” He remembers a quote from Helmuth he never knew he knew:


“If the chain of command is lost, it is everyone’s duty to restore it.”


The director sees the dreaded mutt chewing Empress Emily’s royal gown—it snaps at one end and greys with slobber. The director, manic, decides the last-minute production will be on World War I (the Franco-Sino war is a no-go: the war must have a victor!) with Emily’s torn gown as a makeshift winter coat for either Archduke Franz Ferdinand or French Gen. Marshal Joseph Joffre. The costume designer and the puppeteer scramble to construct the new stage and costumes (Ferdinand and Joffre confusingly both wear white pipe cleaner mustaches).

An icepack on his left eye, the puppeteer stumbles toward his bedroom. Down the hallway, he walks, passing paintings and portraits of the very people he puppeteers with (or as?). They stare at him. He shrinks under the icepack. He looks lower. Intermittent shelves of books and photographs line the wall, rearing dust bunnies and sun-washed paper. His vision halved, he sees the right side in its entirety. Unadorned, white walls. The icepack feels lighter.

Once in his room, the puppeteer plays with the puppets. To be alone with them, without the supervision of the other two stage workers, is the most pleasurable of all. Tidied into his drawer, he always piles them up inside out, leaving the costume as a surprise. Closing his fist, sticking it inside the fabric, and pinching his hands, his limb extends and becomes another’s body. The hand becomes the character, and the motions of a few fingers become the story. But what surprises the puppeteer the most is also what is most disconcerting. At the instance of the re-veiling of the puppet, its turning inside out, the hand comes out flush—holding nothing. It is this phenomenon—the sameness between puppet and hand, the puppeteer and his extensions, the clothing and the clothed—that frightens him.

He puts the puppets away, looks around and notices the memorabilia—“Greater Science Fair 1st Place,” “Junior Science Olympics Participation Ribbon,” plaques, plaques, and more ribbons. Just above the empty top bunk. The documents predate the theatre’s inception. They remind the puppeteer of his brother’s resignation from the theatre company for something more “… moving.” He reads what his brother scribbled on the hardwood floor: arabesque and en l’air. The (sharpie) lines loop, twist, and twirl—it looks like something. But he can’t remember the name for it: ballot or ballet? The puppeteer touches the floor, swearing he could feel indents. Practice is starting again soon. He leaves the icepack in the room.

It is the day of the extended family extravaganza and the opening night of World War I: A Puppet Re-enactment of Significant Events. The puppeteer can’t remember the movements correctly. The director (and narrator of the show) is panicking on triple-checking the historical validity of his script. The costume designer has just finished gluing on Winston Churchill’s origami bowler hat (she forgoes the toothpick as a cigar in the case of a younger audience).

The audience arrives. Blank faces with lanky bodies. Some young, some old.


A census of which would consist most notably of:


The puppeteer can’t recognize most of them. They say “Hi ____. Oh how you’ve grown!” to which the puppeteer nods. They ask why the puppeteer’s brother is at college pursuing a different stage. The puppeteer shrugs and the situation renews with the next audience member. They line up in front of the handmade stage, towering over it as light from the outside shines through them—black lines and white lines. Encircled by the (for the most part) taller audience members, the puppeteer sees only a flat, half-illuminated canvas. Splotches of light form impressions of depth on this two-dimensional surface. The puppeteer, pinching his sides, can’t follow the pattern. They undulate. They twirl. They remind the puppeteer of the light dancing on theatre curtains before the show begins.

The show begins.

After an introduction from the narrator (director) of the brewing tensions between the Balkan states and European alliances predating the start of the war, the puppeteer begins his movements. He tries to follow the note of stage directions he taped, hanging onto the back of the posterboard (was the Arc de Triomphe; now the outline of Sarajevo’s mountainside and later the German countryside). His left eye injured, the puppeteer has difficulty reading the directions. He inaccurately places Ferdinand (white pipe cleaner mustache) outside of his 1910 Graf & Stift (Hot Wheels) when the Serbian assassin holding the handgun (Lego stormtrooper blaster) kills him. The director sighs.

Reading the script as “Capulet” instead of “capitulate,” the costume designer hands the puppeteer the wrong puppets, ensuring the show (and history) runs adrift. Without the stilted air of rectitude in his every motion, the one-eyed puppeteer must continue the show somehow. So, he chooses to dance.

As news of Ferdinand’s assassination spreads throughout the western front, Germany’s Kaiser Wilhelm II (yellow string as his aiguillettes) pledges his support to Austria-Hungary against Russia and Serbia by sending them the carte blanche (Valentine’s day heart-sticker).

The director seethes as the costume designer marches over to the apron pit (carpeted floor) in front of the stage, overtaking him as the new narrator.

Secretly, however, Juliet (pipe cleaner braids) finds her way into the location of Austria-Hungary’s Dual Monarchy, where in an emphatic (muted mouth motions) speech she convinces the messenger (unadorned) of the carte blanche to surrender it to her. By way of this incredible act of espionage and bravery, Juliet prevents World War I (paper curtains close).

Applause breaks out! The puppet show is an absolute hit. The audience members praise the puppeteer, shaking his hand warmly and separately. Bottling her excitement, the costume designer shrugs away all the compliments on her designs. She thumbs Romeo behind her back. The director is in flames. His historical recreation is in shambles once again. Disgruntled, he puts on a pair of socks, laces up tennis shoes, and goes for a run. The puppeteer watches as the director walks out the door—a stray googly eye hugging his left sock.

Divider between texts Sock Puppets was published on 2021-12-26. This story was commissioned on 2021-08-10.