| General Fiction posted June 13, 2022 |
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The plane truth
A Real Little Boy
by giraffmang
The clock striking two in the morning made Geppetto jump. The file in his hand slipped and gouged a furrow across the back of his right hand. Blood bubbled up. “Darn it!” he muttered, searching on his workbench for a rag to stem the flow. Several drops fell onto the freshly smoothed wood he’d been working on, seeping into the grain.
Geppetto pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled a well-earned yawn. He found an almost-clean rag on a side-bench and wrapped it over his injured hand. “Enough for tonight, my boy,” he murmured, giving the wood a little pat, before ambling from his workshop, securing the door tight behind him with the bolt and padlock as always.
At six am, Geppetto was up with the cockerel. He pulled on his work clothes over his long-johns and shuffled down to the kitchen where he brewed a thick, black cup of coffee. The heat was a welcome friend. Cupping the coffee in both hands, he left the small ramshackle house and meandered down the twisting garden path to his workshop by the rear of the property which backed onto the local church.
His coffee cup shattered into myriad pieces, on the stone slabbed path, when it fell from his grasp. The door to his workshop lay askew, hanging by a solitary hinge. The padlock still in place. Geppetto fumbled for the key and, after the fourth attempt, inserted it into the lock. The door swung down, and the hinge gave way.
The workshop inside was a mess. Tools lay scattered on the earthen floor, small scuff marks visible between them in the soil. Nothing was in its place. And worse, Geppetto’s pride and joy – his creation – was gone.
Geppetto sank to his knees and sobbed. “Pinocchio, my boy. I’ve lost you again.”
~
The workshop at the bottom of the garden remained as untouched three weeks later as it had that fateful day. Geppetto had not the will nor the inclination to venture to that end of his property. He knew it was silly to fret so much over what was essentially a doll; a simple child’s thing, but to him, it was so much more.
When he was a much younger man, Geppetto had a wife and son. His wife died first; cholera, followed soon after by the boy, Pinocchio. His heart broke and never fully recovered. To begin with, the townsfolk were understanding of his loss, but, as with all things, that waned, and he became the creepy old man who couldn’t move on.
He wondered what they’d say if they knew what he’d been doing; what he’d been creating. For decades, Geppetto spent his days and a lot of his nights, toiling away in the workshop, perfecting his trade. All the while, knowing that one day, Pinocchio would return to him. And he was almost finished. Just the paint to apply, then varnish, and the boy would have been done.
~
Geppetto sat bleary-eyed, in clothes he’d not changed for a week, sipping from a tepid cup of coffee from his non-favourite mug – something else now gone.
A knock at the door startled the old man, causing him to spill his drink down his front. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief as he made his way down the small, dusty hallway to the front door.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Mister Geppetto?” a stern voice rang out in response.
Geppetto paused before opening the door to tuck in his shirt.
The door exploded inwards, showering Geppetto in splinters, puncturing his skin in several place. He fell to the floor, trembling.
“Mister Geppetto. We’re arresting you for murder.” The burly policeman towered over the cowering figure of Geppetto. He motioned to the three men behind him, “Take him away, lads.”
~
The thin mattress beneath Geppetto’s weak frame did little to alleviate the discomfort of sleeping in the cell. Not that he’d slept much anyway. The journey to the police station had been a blur for Geppetto. Everything had happened at such a quick rate, and he’d found himself in a cell without having uttered a word. One word rang in his ears, though.
MURDER.
He knew it had to be a case of mistaken identity. There was no way he’d killed anyone; he’d not left the house in at least two weeks. He didn’t really know anyone either. Who would he have killed? It must have been the early hours of the morning before he’d succumbed to exhaustion.
Geppetto stumbled from his sleep a fraction at a time. As he lay face-down on the bunk, he thought he heard a small voice, as if from underwater.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Father…”
Geppetto bent over and peered beneath the bunk. Nothing but dirt dust and drain. He sat upright, rubbing his temples as his head began to pound.
“Father…”
Easing himself off the bunk, Geppetto squeezed beneath it, putting his ear to the small drain. “Pinocchio?”
There was no reply.
“What are you doing on the floor, old man?”
The policeman’s voice startled Geppetto and he jerked his head upwards, banging it on the underneath of the bunk. He slid from the awkward space, rearranged his glasses, and got to his feet. “N…no… nothing, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Right you are.” The policeman unlocked the cell door and beckoned Geppetto forward. “Come with me. The detectives want a word with you.”
Geppetto ambled from the cell, shoes scuffing on the harsh, cold tiles. A short journey through the police station ended in a small square room populated with a single table and three chairs. Two on one side. The policeman indicated the single chair on the far side of the table. “Have a seat, Mister Geppetto. Detectives Hill and Gray will be with you shortly.”
The old man nodded and slumped into the chair.
The policeman left and was replaced with two middle-aged men in suits. Both wore their hair longer than regulation length and one had a massive beard. The other carried a manilla folder. Beard spoke first. “I’m Detective Gray. This-” He arced a thumb at his partner. “- is Detective Hill.”
Geppetto nodded his head and attempted a smile.
Detective Hill ran through the preliminaries, establishing Geppetto’s details, whereabouts, and situation.
Geppetto cleared his throat, and, in a weak voice, said, “This must be some terrible mistake. I’m just an old man. I keep myself to myself. I barely leave the house, except to use my workshop at the bottom of my garden, and I’ve hardly done that sin--”
“Ah, yes, the workshop.” Hill cut Geppetto off, removing something from the manilla folder. “Glad you brought that up.”
Confusion clouded Geppetto’s eyes. “My workshop?”
“Uh-huh.” Hill nodded, slow and deliberate, then remained silent.
“I had a break-in, a few weeks ago. It got messed up pretty bad. Vandalism, really--”
“Report it?” Gray asked.
Geppetto shook his head, looking at a spot on the table before him. “Didn’t see the point. The only thing missing was a wooden doll.”
Hill slid a photograph across the table. “This doll?”
Geppetto scrunched up his eyes and stared at the photo, letting out a small gasp. There on the glossy paper was Pinocchio. Not the real one, of course, his son, but the intricately carved replica he’d been working on. The colour-balance seemed a little off, the wood too dark, but it was definitely his. “You… you found him.”
Gray smiled but his eyes remained fixed. “So, that is your doll, Mister Geppetto?”
“Yes.” Tears threatened to flow as Geppetto stared at the image. “Can I see him… I mean, it?”
Hill and Gray cast each other a furtive glance. Gray held out a hand, palm up. “Show him some more, Hill.”
Detective Hill selected several more photos from the folder and spun them across the table in the direction of Geppetto.
The old man grasped each eagerly and formed them into a neat pile to peruse them. The tears fell as he shuffled through the pictures, each one holding a more disturbing sight than the last. Geppetto’s lips moved but no sound came out. The pictures fell from his tremoring hands.
“You see, Mister Geppetto-” Gray plucked a particularly gruesome image from the table, “ – these were all taken in your workshop. You’ve identified that the doll is, in fact, yours. Every one of the tools was caked in blood and God knows what else. The hair on the doll’s head is from two young lads who went missing a few weeks ago. They’d last been seen playing in the grounds of the local church - the church which backs directly onto your property. There were bone fragments scattered over the earthen floor of your workspace and a patchwork of crudely stitched skin draped over section of that monstrosity.” Gray tapped a finger on Pinocchio’s image.
“B… But… I didn’t do this. Pinocchio was stolen… the break-in--”
“Which was never reported. If you didn’t do this, who did? The bloody doll!” Hill gathered the photographs back together and slid them back into the folder. “You’re one sick old man.” He nodded to Gray and both men left the room.
Geppetto sat in bewilderment, muttering to himself. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”
Before too long, the big policeman returned to escort Geppetto back to his cell. As he turned to leave the cell, the policeman cocked his head for a moment. “Weird. Thought I heard something.”
After he’d gone, Geppetto lay face-down on the thin mattress covering his bunk. A strange tune running through his head and from somewhere in the distance, as if through water, the words echoed in his ears.
“I’m a boy, I’m a boy. A real, little boy.”
Story of the Month contest entry
The clock striking two in the morning made Geppetto jump. The file in his hand slipped and gouged a furrow across the back of his right hand. Blood bubbled up. “Darn it!” he muttered, searching on his workbench for a rag to stem the flow. Several drops fell onto the freshly smoothed wood he’d been working on, seeping into the grain.
Geppetto pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled a well-earned yawn. He found an almost-clean rag on a side-bench and wrapped it over his injured hand. “Enough for tonight, my boy,” he murmured, giving the wood a little pat, before ambling from his workshop, securing the door tight behind him with the bolt and padlock as always.
At six am, Geppetto was up with the cockerel. He pulled on his work clothes over his long-johns and shuffled down to the kitchen where he brewed a thick, black cup of coffee. The heat was a welcome friend. Cupping the coffee in both hands, he left the small ramshackle house and meandered down the twisting garden path to his workshop by the rear of the property which backed onto the local church.
His coffee cup shattered into myriad pieces, on the stone slabbed path, when it fell from his grasp. The door to his workshop lay askew, hanging by a solitary hinge. The padlock still in place. Geppetto fumbled for the key and, after the fourth attempt, inserted it into the lock. The door swung down, and the hinge gave way.
The workshop inside was a mess. Tools lay scattered on the earthen floor, small scuff marks visible between them in the soil. Nothing was in its place. And worse, Geppetto’s pride and joy – his creation – was gone.
Geppetto sank to his knees and sobbed. “Pinocchio, my boy. I’ve lost you again.”
~
When he was a much younger man, Geppetto had a wife and son. His wife died first; cholera, followed soon after by the boy, Pinocchio. His heart broke and never fully recovered. To begin with, the townsfolk were understanding of his loss, but, as with all things, that waned, and he became the creepy old man who couldn’t move on.
He wondered what they’d say if they knew what he’d been doing; what he’d been creating. For decades, Geppetto spent his days and a lot of his nights, toiling away in the workshop, perfecting his trade. All the while, knowing that one day, Pinocchio would return to him. And he was almost finished. Just the paint to apply, then varnish, and the boy would have been done.
~
A knock at the door startled the old man, causing him to spill his drink down his front. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief as he made his way down the small, dusty hallway to the front door.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Mister Geppetto?” a stern voice rang out in response.
Geppetto paused before opening the door to tuck in his shirt.
The door exploded inwards, showering Geppetto in splinters, puncturing his skin in several place. He fell to the floor, trembling.
“Mister Geppetto. We’re arresting you for murder.” The burly policeman towered over the cowering figure of Geppetto. He motioned to the three men behind him, “Take him away, lads.”
~
MURDER.
He knew it had to be a case of mistaken identity. There was no way he’d killed anyone; he’d not left the house in at least two weeks. He didn’t really know anyone either. Who would he have killed? It must have been the early hours of the morning before he’d succumbed to exhaustion.
Geppetto stumbled from his sleep a fraction at a time. As he lay face-down on the bunk, he thought he heard a small voice, as if from underwater.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Father…”
Geppetto bent over and peered beneath the bunk. Nothing but dirt dust and drain. He sat upright, rubbing his temples as his head began to pound.
“Father…”
Easing himself off the bunk, Geppetto squeezed beneath it, putting his ear to the small drain. “Pinocchio?”
There was no reply.
“What are you doing on the floor, old man?”
The policeman’s voice startled Geppetto and he jerked his head upwards, banging it on the underneath of the bunk. He slid from the awkward space, rearranged his glasses, and got to his feet. “N…no… nothing, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Right you are.” The policeman unlocked the cell door and beckoned Geppetto forward. “Come with me. The detectives want a word with you.”
Geppetto ambled from the cell, shoes scuffing on the harsh, cold tiles. A short journey through the police station ended in a small square room populated with a single table and three chairs. Two on one side. The policeman indicated the single chair on the far side of the table. “Have a seat, Mister Geppetto. Detectives Hill and Gray will be with you shortly.”
The old man nodded and slumped into the chair.
The policeman left and was replaced with two middle-aged men in suits. Both wore their hair longer than regulation length and one had a massive beard. The other carried a manilla folder. Beard spoke first. “I’m Detective Gray. This-” He arced a thumb at his partner. “- is Detective Hill.”
Geppetto nodded his head and attempted a smile.
Detective Hill ran through the preliminaries, establishing Geppetto’s details, whereabouts, and situation.
Geppetto cleared his throat, and, in a weak voice, said, “This must be some terrible mistake. I’m just an old man. I keep myself to myself. I barely leave the house, except to use my workshop at the bottom of my garden, and I’ve hardly done that sin--”
“Ah, yes, the workshop.” Hill cut Geppetto off, removing something from the manilla folder. “Glad you brought that up.”
Confusion clouded Geppetto’s eyes. “My workshop?”
“Uh-huh.” Hill nodded, slow and deliberate, then remained silent.
“I had a break-in, a few weeks ago. It got messed up pretty bad. Vandalism, really--”
“Report it?” Gray asked.
Geppetto shook his head, looking at a spot on the table before him. “Didn’t see the point. The only thing missing was a wooden doll.”
Hill slid a photograph across the table. “This doll?”
Geppetto scrunched up his eyes and stared at the photo, letting out a small gasp. There on the glossy paper was Pinocchio. Not the real one, of course, his son, but the intricately carved replica he’d been working on. The colour-balance seemed a little off, the wood too dark, but it was definitely his. “You… you found him.”
Gray smiled but his eyes remained fixed. “So, that is your doll, Mister Geppetto?”
“Yes.” Tears threatened to flow as Geppetto stared at the image. “Can I see him… I mean, it?”
Hill and Gray cast each other a furtive glance. Gray held out a hand, palm up. “Show him some more, Hill.”
Detective Hill selected several more photos from the folder and spun them across the table in the direction of Geppetto.
The old man grasped each eagerly and formed them into a neat pile to peruse them. The tears fell as he shuffled through the pictures, each one holding a more disturbing sight than the last. Geppetto’s lips moved but no sound came out. The pictures fell from his tremoring hands.
“You see, Mister Geppetto-” Gray plucked a particularly gruesome image from the table, “ – these were all taken in your workshop. You’ve identified that the doll is, in fact, yours. Every one of the tools was caked in blood and God knows what else. The hair on the doll’s head is from two young lads who went missing a few weeks ago. They’d last been seen playing in the grounds of the local church - the church which backs directly onto your property. There were bone fragments scattered over the earthen floor of your workspace and a patchwork of crudely stitched skin draped over section of that monstrosity.” Gray tapped a finger on Pinocchio’s image.
“B… But… I didn’t do this. Pinocchio was stolen… the break-in--”
“Which was never reported. If you didn’t do this, who did? The bloody doll!” Hill gathered the photographs back together and slid them back into the folder. “You’re one sick old man.” He nodded to Gray and both men left the room.
Geppetto sat in bewilderment, muttering to himself. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”
Before too long, the big policeman returned to escort Geppetto back to his cell. As he turned to leave the cell, the policeman cocked his head for a moment. “Weird. Thought I heard something.”
After he’d gone, Geppetto lay face-down on the thin mattress covering his bunk. A strange tune running through his head and from somewhere in the distance, as if through water, the words echoed in his ears.
“I’m a boy, I’m a boy. A real, little boy.”
 Recognized |
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