from a prompt...
“When you wish upon a star, then you end up in a bar. That is pretty much how it started I guess.” The group stared, eyes glazed. They’d heard it all before. Pinocchio wasn’t sure exactly how many times he’d have to tell his story; how many times he’d have to justify the fact of his failures. But apparently the therapist felt this form of torture - repeated self revelation - was helpful.
“So tell us, Pinocchio…what happened the first time you got drunk?”
“Well, I was about fourteen. I screwed up the assignment in woodshop - I am sorry, but it felt like murder or cannibalism, ya’ know, my whole wooden boy past and all - and I’d…”
“Oh please. Enough. Can’t we talk about me for a change?” Cinderella fussed with her skirt, a pricey number just recently featured on some red carpet special. She tried to smile, but after so many Botox injections, her face was frozen in something that more resembled shock and awe than happy.
The therapist pushed her glasses down her nose, looking over the gold rims toward the Princess. “Cindy, keep in mind, this is a group session, not a me-session.”
Cinderella huffed, and tugged at her waistline. After Prince Charming demanded an heir, she could bleat for the whole hour about her once tiny midsection that had ballooned out to a giant size 1. “Fine, whatever. But I’m next.”
Pinocchio sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking. Can’t we move onto someone else?” Seeing Cinderella’s sharp movement, he added, “I mean, someone other than her royal-narcissist.”
“Name calling isn’t necessary. We do have someone who is fairly new here,” she paused turning to the tin man, “Rusty? Would you like a chance to talk to the group.”
Pinocchio let his mind wander as the metal man droned on about his self image issues and oil dependence. He was sure the tale would eventually get around to Dorothy or the fact that she seemed love the others best. Rusty may be new, but his story certainly wasn’t anything out of the group-session ordinary.
His thoughts pressed on to Gertrude, who was probably wondering where Pinocchio was about now. She didn’t agree with the group therapist’s demand for more than one session a week, especially since it meant less time helping out around the house. There wasn’t much money these days, and his wife’s only talent seemed to be the ability to procreate…he wasn’t even sure if they were all his. No strings could mean they belonged to pretty much anyone.
Group finally adjourned, the finale of the session being a near catfight between Cinderella and a crack-addicted Snow White…Pinocchio was pretty sure Snow could take her though…she lived with eight men, tiny or not, and had to pick up at least one or two moves.
He started his usual stroll toward the docks…half hoping for a glimpse of the whale, and envisioning the leap into his mouth. Suicide by mammal. At least he’d pull in a little cash on the talk show circuit if the creature managed to cough him up yet again. But at the thought of the endless queries and sad eyes while embellishing for the Montells and Oprahs of the world, the idea of bathing himself in chum before leaping into the water crossed his mind.
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“So tell us, Pinocchio…what happened the first time you got drunk?”
“Well, I was about fourteen. I screwed up the assignment in woodshop - I am sorry, but it felt like murder or cannibalism, ya’ know, my whole wooden boy past and all - and I’d…”
“Oh please. Enough. Can’t we talk about me for a change?” Cinderella fussed with her skirt, a pricey number just recently featured on some red carpet special. She tried to smile, but after so many Botox injections, her face was frozen in something that more resembled shock and awe than happy.
The therapist pushed her glasses down her nose, looking over the gold rims toward the Princess. “Cindy, keep in mind, this is a group session, not a me-session.”
Cinderella huffed, and tugged at her waistline. After Prince Charming demanded an heir, she could bleat for the whole hour about her once tiny midsection that had ballooned out to a giant size 1. “Fine, whatever. But I’m next.”
Pinocchio sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking. Can’t we move onto someone else?” Seeing Cinderella’s sharp movement, he added, “I mean, someone other than her royal-narcissist.”
“Name calling isn’t necessary. We do have someone who is fairly new here,” she paused turning to the tin man, “Rusty? Would you like a chance to talk to the group.”
Pinocchio let his mind wander as the metal man droned on about his self image issues and oil dependence. He was sure the tale would eventually get around to Dorothy or the fact that she seemed love the others best. Rusty may be new, but his story certainly wasn’t anything out of the group-session ordinary.
His thoughts pressed on to Gertrude, who was probably wondering where Pinocchio was about now. She didn’t agree with the group therapist’s demand for more than one session a week, especially since it meant less time helping out around the house. There wasn’t much money these days, and his wife’s only talent seemed to be the ability to procreate…he wasn’t even sure if they were all his. No strings could mean they belonged to pretty much anyone.
Group finally adjourned, the finale of the session being a near catfight between Cinderella and a crack-addicted Snow White…Pinocchio was pretty sure Snow could take her though…she lived with eight men, tiny or not, and had to pick up at least one or two moves.
He started his usual stroll toward the docks…half hoping for a glimpse of the whale, and envisioning the leap into his mouth. Suicide by mammal. At least he’d pull in a little cash on the talk show circuit if the creature managed to cough him up yet again. But at the thought of the endless queries and sad eyes while embellishing for the Montells and Oprahs of the world, the idea of bathing himself in chum before leaping into the water crossed his mind.
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AOL now offers free email to everyone. Find out more about what's free from AOL at AOL.com.