The curly white mohair that was sewn into his scalp glistened in the morning sun along with the crimson blood on his pale wooden frame. He walked the cobbled street wedged between a row of colorfully painted houses loomed over him. The tiles on the roofs blushed with the orange sunlight. Gaining control over the wooden body was still a strange experience to Pinocchio which mostly ended up in his tumbling down the stone stairs. After a while he finally got used to it and ran so fast that his pearly hair swam in the air. He ran and ran and ran so fast and so far that he made his way to the town square, where most of the roads led to. There, he took in his first breath, encouraging the clockwork inside of him to vigorously move in order to take it more of the surroundings. A flood of sensations enveloped him there, from the scent of fresh fruits and spices to the laughter of jovial folk that meandered through the square. The joy that warmed him quickly turned into shrieks and yelps as they actually laid eyes upon him. 




From a pleasant flow to a crashing wave, people scrambled and screamed as they all ran in different directions. The pandemonium of panic frightened the doll, who’s cogs were too frozen to move him. He stood there and watched the mayhem unfold around him as he absorbed their hysteria. Pinocchio began to move strangely once again, trying to control the clashing of emotions in him from such a short space of time. He tried to whisper, speak, shout, roar, anything. But nothing came out, only the haphazard ticking of his internal machinations gently echoed from his wooden mouth. Suddenly, a powerful force propels him into the air, leaving him to helplessly flail his arms and legs around. A gruff voice pierces the roaring panic that they’re drowned in which echoed the twisting of rusty cogs in its throat. Every tiny cog was heard right next to Pinocchio’s ear, creating a deep sense of fright in the doll. The hand wrapped around Pinocchio’s head twisted to show the doll that he’s not alone, but that he’s lonelier than ever. 


A part of the automaton’s face was an amalgam of molten metals while the other side still covered his face with a pristine porcelain mask. Mixed feelings of fear and intrigue melted into amazement and awe as he saw the head twitch with the popping of his inner workings. Only one absurdly blue eye stared at the doll from the pearly mask, for there was no eye to be seen on the other, disturbing side of its face. “I’ve never seen you before.” it suddenly spoke with that 

distinct grating tone.


“You poor, poor creature. You seem so new, yet you’re already sullied. What a pity… If only you weren't at the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe then you’d still be worthy enough to bask in life’s glory. I’ll tell you one thing, from one puppet to another: Broken dolls are treated without mercy.” 


His tattered sleeve veiled a brass arm with a collection of studded cylinders and keyholes that he stuck a key winder into from his fingertip. After a single twist, the guardsman pulls his index finger away and then manually twists it until completion before removing it and clicking the key winder back into his hand. Gentle melodies slow down the cogs that roll around from anxiety in Pinocchio’s body, going from a relentless whirl that rattled his whole wooden frame to movements so quiet that not even silence can hear them. The large cage that was on the guardsman’s back rattled as it hit the floor. The doll looked so beautifully made, with such love and detail, that the guardsman almost didn’t seem to have the heart to recklessly toss him in there. Yet that’s exactly what he did, for his rusty heart was lacquered in life’s cruel wisdom.




This was the first time Pinocchio fell into darkness after awakening. This was also the first time that his mind was able to form dreams. The music box’s song of innocence screeched its melody in a mocking manner, dying the dreams in a foreign but primal fear. The cogs in his head repeated the shrieks of the folks and the unrepressed disgust directed towards him. 


But amidst the dismay, an ethereal figure stood out amongst the turbulent stream of people. A fairy with turquoise hair looked at the wooden boy with the turquoise eyes and smiled, like a mother smiling at the accomplishments of their son, knowing she has done a good job. That foreign feeling of motherly love left him as quickly as it came and escaped him like the single tear that rolled down his smooth wooden face when he woke up. 


Silver moonlight peaked through the small bars from on the wall and colored the damp prison with a pale hue. Pinocchio thought that the cell was another dream, but a strange voice quickly cut off that trail of thought. Another puppet, one with a large body and four arms sat at the other side of the humid cell and spoke as its strange head twitched left and right. 


“That must’ve been quite an awful nightmare, huh? I’ve never heard a doll moan with such dread in their music box. You must have quite the heart; I can see and hear it. But be wary now: with a great heart comes great sorrow. That’s just the way of the world, my wooden friend.”


“Where am I?” were the first words to play from Pinocchio’s vocal box, which held the innocence of the music that permeated through his ghost. 

“Ah, you poor thing. You’ve just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens to the best of us. Oh! Let me introduce myself. I am Celso, the wandering cricket. I travel the world to let my voice be heard by those who need it the most, but none of them want to hear it. Such a tragic conundrum… That, too, is just the way of the world I guess. People who need a conscience abandon it to protect themselves from themselves. You, wooden child, you don’t  need to fear what’s inside of you, for it is brimming with light. But when the time comes that the darkness in hearts seeps into yours, you must listen to your conscience and let it guide you the right way. Come, I’ve had my fun trying to achieve that pipedream. Let me do something that will actually bear fruit this time.”


The cricket fumbled around the wires and cogs in its shell of a puppet and hopped inside of Pinnochio’s internal workings via his mouth. 


“You’d have to excuse me for that terrible discomfort, but it was the only way. Let me help you grease these pristine wheels of yours.”


With a few twists and turns, Pinocchio’s body jerked around until he finally got a hold of his senses again. 


“Have no fear, I won’t touch your freedom in any way. I’ll be right here in your head to keep your heart aligned with the laws of light. You are the only doll I’ve come across that is perfect for this role; it’s like a dream come true! I can even tell you all about my stories of my time in distant lands!-”


The loud clashing of metal on metal ceased the crickets’ excitement. 


“It’s almost time for blood, Celso! Get your wooden ass up!” The guardsman barked as he shook the loose metal bars that grated on the sandy stone to create an awful rattling noise. A moment of deafening silence emerged as the wooden boy and the guardsman both intently stared at the strange puppet of Celso that lay completely still. A shock stabbed Pinocchio’s senses as he saw the doll of Celso move on its own this time. 


“I’m ready. And for the last time, my name isn’t Celso. It’s Martino.” 


“Ah, perfect! Just the guy we needed.”


The doll was so tall when it stood up that it had to bend a bit in order to get out of the prison door. A rusty hand grabbed the smooth surface of the wooden boys’ arm and tugged it, reeling him out of the cell.


“No! A child shouldn’t see such vile things! Keep him here for his own good.”


“No, he’ll feel right at home. Isn’t that right, bloodstained boy?”


Pinocchio’s eyes darted to analyze every corner of his body to see that the blood was all gone. Icy thorns pierced his fear, cementing the fact that everything that transpired was real. Half of the open mask of the guardsman fluttered with the hinges from the excitement as he giddily guided them through dimly lit halls. 


“I can feel your confusion, so let me explain.” The cricket chirped in a tone that abandons the physical plain of existence, only to be heard by Pinocchio’s heartstrings. 


“The reason why I’m able to communicate to you like this is also the reason why I can let that seemingly masterless marionette move around. I have a very powerful ghost that I can wield well to give life to inanimate objects. Those inanimate objects get attracted by other ghosts that swim in the ether and decide to possess the object I imbued with my ghost. That’s why that doll sometimes has a will of its own; the will of a man called “Martino”. He’s quite different from me, so don’t base any of his actions on my character. You will see the kind of… vehicle he is.”