Can you believe I’m still fighting off infections? Yeah, and I also had my latest immune-suppressant infusion. So it’s beat it back, let it in, beat it back, let it in again over here.

Whilst you still await Storystorm prize distribution, here’s another Flash Fiction piece that my mentee and soon-to-be-debut-author Arlene Shenker requested. Remember, this is for adults, not children. Please enjoy!

The Puppet
©2020-2025 by Tara Lazar

Rory and Jane met on the set of a cough syrup commercial, performing as cold germ puppets. Ironically, Jane got sick immediately after the wrap. Rory brought her homemade chicken and dumplings, his grandma’s recipe. Of course, Jane couldn’t let a man who could cook and skillfully wield a rhinovirus marionette slip past.

Their common circle of friends, a small, insular puppetry group, marveled at how they had somehow missed meeting for years. Rory exited an off-Broadway production right before Jane landed the lead role. Jane apprenticed in Los Angeles at the same time Rory worked in Studio City. When Jane zigged, Rory had zagged. Finally, they smacked into each other and stuck like Velcro.

After moving into their new apartment, though, Rory panicked.

“Have you seen Mr. Fuhgeddaboudit?” he asked, rummaging through boxes and bubble wrap.

Rory loved that puppet and performed with it at every opportunity. He brought it to Jane’s nephew’s birthday party. He wrote an autobiographical one-man show featuring Mr. Fuhgeddaboudit. Rory even proposed to Jane with the help of his signature character.

“He wasn’t with the others?” Jane pointed to the collective of puppets sitting upon the couch.

“No, I kept him separate! His own box. And I marked it up like crazy!” Rory had moved past upset to frantic, his voice rising an octave.

“Okay, Honey, calm down. I’m sure he’s here.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! He’s the first puppet I ever made. I was nine!”

“I know, I know. We’ll find him.”

“He’s the entire reason I became a puppeteer. He’s the entire reason we met!”

Jane had never seen this side of Rory, manic and unhinged. Normally he acted as a steady presence in stressful situations, defusing irate directors. He could reassure a cast before opening curtain, calming stage fright. Demanding producers took a step back to reevaluate after hearing Rory’s logical solutions.

But now he was tearing the apartment apart, slamming cupboards, ripping boxes open in eruptions of packing peanuts. Every soothing word Jane offered was met with contempt and rage.

“Why aren’t you looking?” Rory yelled. “Don’t sit there! Look! Help me look!”

“Honey, there’s only two rooms. We’ve gone through it all.”

Suddenly Rory stopped and turned to her in slow motion, red-faced.

“I knew it!” he said, pointing at Jane.

“You knew what?”

“It was you!”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“You never liked Mr. Fuhgeddaboudit!” Rory exclaimed. “So you took him. You stole him from me. Where did you put him? Where, Jane? Tell me where!”

Jane stood up, ramrod straight, blindsided by Rory’s accusation.

“Honey!” she said. “You’re upset. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Or you sold him! Oh my God, you sold him to that hack Jimmy MacEnery!”

“Jimmy who?”

“Or a pawn shop! That seedy little performer’s pawnshop off The Strip.”

“Las Vegas?”

“Do you know another ‘Strip’?”

“No, but Honey, I haven’t been to Vegas in years.”

“Aha!” Rory yelled. “So you know the pawnshop I’m talking about!”

Jane sunk to the floor. This is why people live together before getting married. This sh*t, right here. Except it hadn’t even been 24 hours.

Rory marched to the contingent on the couch, lifted each puppet, looked underneath, peered inside, then tossed them into a pile. But these weren’t a toddler’s playthings, these were custom, professional puppets, worth thousands of dollars each.

“Honey, don’t be so flip with the puppets!” Jane gathered each one and propped them back into sitting position. They stared at her with wide eyes, as if they, too, couldn’t believe the unraveling of Rory.

He grabbed his coat and shoved his arms in.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to get out of here!”

“I’ll come with you,” Jane said.

Rory pulled on a wool beanie, thrust his hands into his jeans, closed his eyes and sighed. His rough face softened ever so slightly, enough for Jane to feel assured pulling on her jacket and following him out.

By the time they reached the street, down five flights of stairs, Rory had cooled and Jane was able to slip her arm around his waist. They turned west and walked in silence for several blocks, matching each other’s rhythm.

“I don’t know what happened up there,” Rory confessed. It was true. He felt driven by some imaginary force, a sudden and gripping fear that robbed him of all control.

“It’s okay, Honey.” Jane looked at him but Rory stared straight ahead. “I know how much that puppet means to you.”

“I know you do,” he said. “But you mean more.”

That was all they said. Rory and Jane maintained a companionable silence back to their new building. Although the apartment was a fifth-floor walkup, it was halfway between the theatre district and the television studios where they did the bulk of their work. They loved the large windows, the recently remodeled stainless steel and concrete kitchen, and Jane was in awe of the garbage chute and incinerator. First thing that morning she had shoved Mr. Fuhgeddaboudit down, relieved she’d never have to see that stupid f***ing puppet ever again.