“Ah,” Pinocchio thought to himself as he woke, “another beautiful day.” He strolled over and threw open his window. But the view on the other side of the frame was not the usual sight. It was bright, so bright it stung and he had to hold up a hand to block his eyes. As he reached forward to close the window, he missed and toppled forward, falling through the opening.

The *thump* was hard and sudden. Not how he expected it to feel falling onto the grass outside his window. But we wasn’t outside at all. He was still in…somewhere. Certainly not the little cottage where he and Geppetto live. He looked around and saw rows and rows and rows of books. All shapes, sizes, and genres of books. Then, as he turned to look where he thought he had fallen from he saw one book, front cover facing out: “Pinocchio: The Puppet Boy”.

At this, Pinocchio was confused, frightened even. Why would there be a book about him? He was just a little boy. AND he was *not* a puppet anymore, thank you. In this confusion he turned and ran from the book. He raced through shelves and past people wearing the most unusual clothes, he noted. Then he saw a set of doors, he reached forward to push them open but by magic, they flew apart in front of him!

“Oof,” groaned Pinocchio as he rubbed his head from the fall. He looked up and around, and the first thing he noticed was the noise. Several different types of music blaring from all around him in a cacophony of sound. Great metal boxes moving on the path in front of him with terrible groans and honking like angry geese. Then the lights. He could not tell if it was day or night for the walls of the massive buildings around him held huge, glowing images. Some of them flashed or changed colors, some had enormous faces and some even moved!

Even as he reeled, attempting to make sense of what was happening around him, he was battered incessantly by wave after wave of bodies. People walked past him, around him, and practically through him without so much as a “hello”. This was beyond too much, Pinocchio turned in terror and ran back for the magic doors. He races through the rows in a panic, searching frantically until he found the book with his name on it. As he reached for it, he prayed and wished with all his might that the Blue Fairy might be able to help him. He opened the book, was covered by a blinding light, and was home. Back in his bed, with the morning light cast softly through the window. Pinocchio sighed with a feeling of relief so pure and profound he thought he might cry. He would rather face 1000 Monstros, or be a donkey for 100 years than go back to wherever that place was.