Lies and Fantasies

It began with an itch on the spire of the nose. It was like a pinprick that spread in tingling waves. The meat became red, the skin stretched and then curled in crispy and woody knots.

Thirty-two and a half year had passed since Pinocchio was a wooden puppet no more, but every time he lied, his nose — the naughty thing jutting out of his head — still changed. It was always an unpleasant and embarrassing event. The last time the…