All my puppets could move without strings, and all could speak, but none of them could lie.

The lie itself was trivial—he wasn’t the one who stole Antonio’s caramels. But when the words escaped Pinocchio’s painted lips—when he discovered he’d released an utterance that did not match consensus reality—it excited him.

Sexually, I mean. 

Let’s say his ‘nose’ grew.

This manifestation of his delight embarrassed him so much I feared he’d never dare stray from the truth again, and all my hopes would be dashed.

So I taught him the secret of language that none of my other puppets had ever been able to grasp.

I taught him ‘might’.

He was a quick student, and I was quick to test him. ‘Did you take Antonio’s caramels?’ I asked.

A hesitation. The smooth pine globes of his eyes glanced tentatively from dropped balsa eyelids. ‘I might have,’ he said.

My heart leapt precipitously. I forced myself not to celebrate too soon. ‘Or else…’ I prompted.

‘Or else…’ The mandible lowered to form the shape of a wooden grin. ‘Or else… someone else might have taken it,’ he ventured.

My own widening smile encouraged him.

‘Or it might have been whisked away by a mischievous crow. A talking crow! He might have eaten the caramels! His beak might’ve been stuck together, like glue…’

Ever since that morning of reckless fiction, Pinocchio has been my favourite, my darling, the liar, the storyteller, creator of worlds.

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Would you like to know more about this story? I discuss it in Episode 76 of Structured Visions.