Scoot's "Pinocchio"

A Flash Fiction Remake

Oct 21, 2023

I don’t know just where inspiration for this came from, but the idea was swimming around my head all morning and I realized I could just write the dang thing. The whole thing was poured out in less than an hour. I haven’t edited it because I’m an impatient cuss, so please ignore all my inconsistent tenses and my erroneous comma’s and, apostrophe’s.

Please enjoy!

The Old Craftsman looked on his workshop and contented himself that it was good. He had all the tools he needed, all the space he needed. Now, he would work on his most important project.

He assembled some wood and began carving it into shapes. He threaded them with strings, he fit the pieces together. When all was said and done, he beheld his creation: a puppet boy.

The Old Craftsman was very pleased with the boy. It was almost like having a son. Almost. He tried moving him around—but it felt, well, wooden, and clumsy. He tried moving his mouth, but no sound came out. The Old Craftsman said “I love you, son.” And he pantomimed with the puppet, as if to say, “I love you, father.” But it didn’t feel right. The Old Craftsman wept—all he wanted was a son. He hugged the lifeless puppet, and wished he could pour life into it, and give himself a real son.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, the Old Craftsman went to bed—it had been a long day, and he would need a fresh mind for tomorrow. He left the puppet boy on his woodshop table.

Overnight—a magical thing happened. The Old Craftsman’s tears which had fallen on the puppet boy transformed him from the roots—and when the Craftsman came out the next morning he was amazed to see a real life human boy sleeping soundly on his woodshop table.

“My boy!” He says, in excitement. “It’s a miracle! Wake up! Wake up!”

The boy yawns and stretches, and finally realizes where he is, and what he is seeing. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I am your father! This is my woodshop! You are my son and you are very good indeed.”

“What is a woodshop?”

“It’s a place where I make things out of wood! This here is called a birdhouse—I made this out of planks. Last night, I made a puppet in the shape of a boy, and I left him on my table where you sleep now. This morning, I see you are transformed into the son I have always wanted!”

The boy was puzzled. “Am I a puppet?”

“No! Not at all, you are a boy!”

“And you’re my father?”

“Yes!”

“I see.” Said the boy.

The Old Craftsman held open his arms and said, “I love you, son.”

There was a moment of confusion. The boy looked at him, unsure what the gesture meant, and what the words meant. “What does that mean?”

The Old Craftsman hesitates himself, then rubs his chin. “It means I care for you, I want to take care of you and keep you safe, give you everything that I have. It means I want what is best for you. It means many things.”

“How can it mean all those things? I’ve only just woken up.”

“I…yes. Yes, you’re right. I will have to show you. I will show you what it means to say ‘I love you’. You will understand better when I have shown you.”

“Ok,” said the boy.

“Alright. Let me show you around my house. Like I said, this is the woodshop.”

The boy picked up one of the tools and started waving it around like a sword.

“Stop!” The Old Craftsman said. “You have to be careful! That is an awl. It can be dangerous if used improperly.”

The boy was puzzled. “I was just having fun.”

“Yes but it’s dangerous to play recklessly in the woodshop. Let’s go to the kitchen.” The boy followed the Old Craftsman into the kitchen. “This is the kitchen! This is where I will prepare food for us to eat.”

“What’s this?” The boy said, picking up a knife.

“Careful! Careful—that is a knife. It’s for chopping and slicing—and it can chop and slice you, too. You have to be very careful with the knife. It is probably best if you leave the knives to me.”

“But I want to use the knife!”

“I will show you how to use it safely!”

The boy grumbled as he returned the knife to it’s chosen spot.

“Let’s go see your bedroom!” The boy followed him to a small room with a bed and a window and a chest of drawers. “This is where you will sleep at night—much more comfortable than that woodshop table, right?”

The boy got on the bed and started jumping on it. “Weee!” he said.

“Careful! Careful, son! You might fall off and hurt yourself. The bed is for sleeping more than playing.”

Reluctantly, the boy stopped bouncing, and sat on the bed.

“You know—you said you love me. You said that you want what is best for me, that you want to give me everything you have. You sure have a lot of rules. Why can’t you love me without rules?”

“My son,” The father said, choosing his words carefully, “It is because I love you that I have rules. A bed is for sleeping, a knife is for chopping, an awl is for making holes in wood. If you use them correctly, they are beautiful and glorious! If you use them incorrectly, they are dangerous and even deadly. I will teach you how to use them properly.”

“But I want to have FUN. Surely what’s best for me includes my happiness, right?”

“Yes, of course I want you to be happy.”

“Well, jumping on the bed makes me happy!”

“Until you fall off and hit your head on the chest of drawers. Then you will be sad, and I will have to heal you.

“I won’t jump off the bed.”

“You might! That’s why we must be safe.”

“No, I’m going to do what makes me happy. If you love me you will let me be happy.” With that, the boy dashed out of the room and went into the kitchen. He grabbed utensils and began waving them around.

“Stop! You are going to hurt yourself!”

“No way! I am having lots and lots of fun!” He threw down the utensils and ran into the woodshop, where he grabbed woodworking tools, and he began waving them around.

“Boy, you must stop at once!” The Old Craftsman shouted.

“No!” The boy responded.

“You must!”

“Says who?”

“I am your father!” and the Old Craftsman stomped his foot.

The boy started when he stomped his foot, and dropped the awl which landed on his foot. “OW!” he shrieked, and began to cry.

“Now, wait just a minute let me get a bandage.” The Old Craftsman left and returned a moment later with a bandage. “Let me fix you up.”

“No!” The boy said, “If you love me, why did you let this happen to me!”

“Now, that’s not fair at all!”

“You have so many RULES and you just want to hold me back. I want to be happy, I want to have fun. I’m leaving.”

The Old Craftsman was shocked. “You’re—what? No, there’s nowhere to go!”

“I’ll find a place to go! I’ll decide for myself what my rules are!”

The boy put on his shoes and marched out the front door. He heard the Old Craftsman’s wailing tears as he left—but couldn’t help but think of all the confusing rules and restrictions. Out here, there were no rules, no restrictions. He could finally be free!

After walking a short way, the boy arrived at a village. People were rushing to and fro, it was hard to make sense of where everyone was going, and what everyone was doing. He needed to find a place to sleep.

A wagon and cart came up behind him and pushed him over—he fell into some mud. “Hey!” he said.

“Watch it!” barked the stranger.

He stood up and wiped the mud off, and looked around. Look, there’s a man chasing a woman down the street. Over there, a merchant selling something. The boy sees something that looks like an inn, so he starts to move towards it. A man grabs him and pulls him into an alley, and holds a knife to his throat.

“Gimme your money!” he says.

“I don’t have any!”

“No money? What’s wrong with you! Are you a robber too?”

“No, I just want to stay at the inn!”

The robber laughs. “Good luck without any money, chump!” He drops the boy in the dirt and leaves the alley. The boys heart is beating fast.

He makes it to the inn and the innkeeper greets him warmly. “Welcome, young master! How can I help you?”

“I’d like a place to sleep for the night, please. And a warm meal.”

“Certainly, certainly. That will be fifty sovereigns, if you please.”

“Fifty sovereigns! I don’t even have one sovereign!”

The innkeeper’s demeanor changes dramatically. “Well what’re you wasting my time for? You can’t stay if you can’t pay—get out! Go!”

The boy found himself back on the street, and the sun was getting low. Off in the far distance, he could see a silhouette of what must have been the Old Craftsman’s house, with the lights on and smoke coming from the chimney. But with all those rules, that wasn’t very fun. Nevertheless, the boy needed to find a place to sleep for the night that would be warm. The first thing he saw was the barn with pigs behind the Inn—the pigs would keep him warm at least. When no one was looking, he climbed over the fence and tried to make himself comfortable next to the sleeping pigs. After a few uncomfortable hours, sleep finally took him.

The next morning, he was woken by shouts.

“Oy! There’s a boy with the pigs!”

“Git outta here, you vagrant! Go on!”

The boy woke with a start, and hurriedly jumped over the fence and ran off away from the farmers and their pitchforks. He was covered in mud and he smelled like dirty pigs. It finally dawned on him that the Old Craftsman was giving him everything he needed, for free, and the rules kept him safe. What a fool he had been to say those horrible things to the Old Craftsman—to his father! “I should go back and apologize.” he resolved.

He wiped the mud off himself again, and began to walk home in the early morning light.

The Old Craftsman was watching for him through a window, and saw him when he was still a long way off. He ran outside, arms wide, and said “My son, you’ve returned!”

“I’m sorry, father.” the boy said. “I realize now that you were trying to help me.”

“I love you, son.” the Old Craftsman said, embracing the boy in a warm hug.

“I love you, father.” The boy replied.

The old craftsman wept and carried his son the rest of the way home, where a warm breakfast was already waiting.

The End.