Pinocchio's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Pinocchio pressed the hoodie against his wooden chest and felt nothing. The fabric was soft. Everyone said so. The picture of Tupac on the front had faded from years of washing. But wood cannot feel soft. Wood cannot feel warmth. He wanted, more than anything, to be a real boy so the hoodie would finally mean something. The old man who carved him lay slumped in his chair by the fire. Geppetto had worked for three days without sleep. He had sanded Pinocchio's joints, painted his eyes, and pulled the sweatpants over his stiff legs. Then he set down his tools and closed his eyes. Now his chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths. He would not wake soon. Pinocchio stood alone in the snug timber hut. Rain tapped the thatched roof. The fire burned low. He did not know how to be alive, but he knew the old man had made him and then fallen asleep. That left him with a choice. He could sit and wait. Or he could take care of the one who made him. He took the first step. His knee buckled and he fell against the table. A bowl slid off and cracked on the floor. Geppetto did not stir. Pinocchio pulled himself up and tried again. Step. Wobble. Step. Each one held. He found a wool blanket folded on the bed. He carried it to the chair and draped it over the sleeping man's shoulders. Geppetto sighed and settled deeper. Pinocchio watched his face. Something moved inside his hollow chest, something he had no word for yet. The fire needed wood. Pinocchio remembered that much from watching. He fed a split log into the hearth. Sparks jumped. He flinched back, because fire eats wood, and he was made of wood. But the warmth reached his painted face, and he leaned toward it. On the table sat a small cluster of acorns coated in honey. They glistened amber in the firelight. Geppetto must have set them out for his new son's first meal. Pinocchio lifted one. He opened his carved mouth and bit down. The acorn cracked. Honey smeared his lips. He tasted nothing at all. He set the acorn down slowly. This was the whole problem, laid bare. He could carry a blanket. He could feed a fire. He could care for the old man like a real son. But he could not taste, could not feel the blanket, could not feel the hoodie he loved. Pinocchio looked at the sleeping face and made his decision. He would be a good son while he waited. And he would find a way to become real, whatever it cost. He pulled the hoodie tighter over his wooden shoulders and sat down to keep watch. Outside, the rain kept falling, and somewhere in the dark, something with wide wings drifted past the window.