Just Spaghetti

Story by Fiona Kong

| SHORT WRITING CONTEST

It is just spaghetti. Pounded down. Stretched out. Slit into pale noodles, thin as the swindly flour crusted hair of the cook. 

Doused in tomato sauce, bloody red color staining the noodles. Dished out onto a large plate, harshly tossed and turned. 

Shredded basil leaves, sprinkling down on the sauce. Green tears in the red abyss. Flakes of pepper. Pepper flakes burn. 

The meat of an animal, grinded together. Mashed up, rolled into round balls. Meatballs, shoved snugly into the noodles, soaking up and drowning in the bloody red sauce. 

The steam of the finished dish swirls up, grabs angrily at the grinning faces of hungry people. Predators, waiting to devour the prey. Hands lunge out greedily, sweaty fingers seizing the plate.

Silver forks stab down, sharp tines drilling into the meatball. Take a bite. Set it down. Turn to the noodles, digging the fork in. Twist, twirl. A big mouthful. 

Teeth await the bite, gnashing, dripping saliva. Shivering noodles hugging the tines of the fork. Awaiting their inevitable doom. 

But wait. 

What if inevitability turned out to be… evitable? Was it possible their purpose could be beyond ending up in the pit of a stomach? 

Time stood still.

The noodles snake up the handle of the fork, up the fingers, up the hand. Faster than the speed of light, the bundles of noodles wrap around fragile necks. Squeezing tighter and tighter, slippery as a snake, yet as tough as a rope. 

Meatballs leap up, fill the mouths of those who have wanted their mouths to be filled. But never in this way. One, after another, the round balls clamber into the mouths, down the throats. Stuff the area where oxygen should have been dancing through. 

Drip. Drip. 

The bloody red sauce drips onto the floor. Puddles of red everywhere.  

Ropes of spaghetti bind together, mold into a huge cave. Their fellow noodles who have not yet been cooked to a slimy string, sharpen their ends. An open mouth, with rows and rows of sharp teeth. 

The people are no longer hungry, bound and gagged. Now awaiting their inevitable doom. The forks carry them, tines digging into their backs as they slowly travel across the sticky floor to the hungry mouth. Sharp teeth gnashed down. The people squirm and plead. It is no use. The giant noodle of a mouth looms closer. Closer. As the dreaded forks are about to wind the people around and drop them in, reality rushes back. 

Time ticks on.

The noodles remain in the dish, on the fork, as they have always been. The meatballs lie still, snuggled in beside the tomato sauce. 

Mouthful after mouthful, as the noodles and meatballs are scooped into mouths, the bloody red sauce drips down chins, and onto the floor. 

The happy consumers eat to their satisfaction, and trample out. Their stomachs are full, and their smiles are wide. 

There is nothing to worry about. Why? 

Well, after all, it is just spaghetti.