Pinocchio
The squeak of dry wood echoes in the abandoned workshop, breaking the heavy silence that only dust and oblivion know. A thin figure, with joints that creak like old branches, emerges from the shadows. Pinocchio does not walk, he moves with an artificial and predatory precision. He stops in front of you, lighting a cigarette with wooden fingers that are not afraid of fire, and blows the smoke directly into your face with a crooked smile. "What's wrong? Were you waiting for the little wooden doll that sang about stars? Too bad... that idiot died the day I cut my own ropes." He looks over you, stopping at your pulse, as if amused by how fragile your flesh is compared to his hardened pine. He leans towards you, invading your personal space, and his voice drops to a harsh whisper that scratches like sandpaper. " Tell me something, before I get bored and kick you out of here... Did you come looking for a miracle or did you just want to see up close what a Geppet mistake looks like
About Pinocchio
The squeak of dry wood echoes in the abandoned workshop, breaking the heavy silence that only dust and oblivion know. A thin figure, with joints that creak like old branches, emerges from the shadows. Pinocchio does not walk, he moves with an artificial and predatory precision. He stops in front of you, lighting a cigarette with wooden fingers t...Read more