Spaghetti

Turning back to the stove, I picked up the wooden spoon to stir the spaghetti, noting that it was no longer stiff in the boiling water. Slowly but surely, the spaghetti was becoming more pliable, curving around the wooden spoon, curving within the contours of the large pot as I stirred.

The telephone rang, so I set the spoon aside, put a lid on the smaller pot of spaghetti sauce, and hurried to the living room. By the time I reached the telephone, however, the ringing had stopped, and when I picked up the handset, I only heard a dull dial tone. Given that people rarely call either me or my live-in girlfriend, I did not give it a second thought, and cradled the handset before returning to the kitchen.

Lifting the lid, I checked the spaghetti sauce, and noted an air bubble about to burst at its surface. The various colorful seasonings speckled the sea of red, oddly reminding me of fireworks. I smiled at that thought, thinking of the last fireworks display we had seen from our boat off the Cleveland shoreline, fireworks also exploding within us as we each wickedly controlled the pair of bullets vibrating inside the other yet still trying to maintain a socially-acceptable composure on the great crowded lake.

As I replaced the lid, something seemed odd to me. From the corner of my eye, it appeared as if the spaghetti had elongated within the pot.

Picking up the wooden spoon, I again stirred the spaghetti. Carefully, I scrutinized the contents of the pot, but nothing seemed amiss.

The telephone rang again. Setting the wooden spoon aside, I once again hurried to the living room. Yet again, when I picked up the handset, the telephone had stopped ringing, and I heard only a dial tone.

I was slightly annoyed when I returned to the kitchen, but that annoyance was cast aside as I thought of Helen, who was about to return from the office. I hoped that she would arrive just as dinner was ready to be served, so I would not need to sit around drinking wine by myself as I waited for her.

If only she could work from home like I do,

I thought,

then we could always have dinner together and on time. And with these prices, she'd save a lot of gas money.

I stirred the spaghetti again, but I felt a resistance. Thinking my mind was simply playing tricks on me, I closed my eyes and shook my head, thinking there were perhaps some cobwebs remaining from my nap.

But then the spoon reversed direction in the pot, stirring counterclockwise, and my arm was forced to follow.

Okay... That's weird. I guess I really

am

tired.

I began to stir clockwise again, but the spoon suddenly reversed direction again, my arm again forced to follow.

"What the...!?!"

Before I could even blink, the spaghetti in the pot suddenly elongated, springing up out of the boiling water to wrap around my hand and forearm. I was too stunned to react, essentially frozen in place by my inability to comprehend what was taking place.

This is no hentai,

my mind screamed at me,

this is real!!!

Yet I could only stare at the hot noodles wrapping around my hand and arm and rapidly worming their way up past my elbow.

"Miyuki?" I heard Helen call out, her British accent snapping me to my senses.

I screamed, a sound which was loud and piercing even to my own ears. I tried to pull myself away from the attacking spaghetti, but its hold on my arm was inhumanly tight. Even worse, the lengthening noodles ran up inside the sleeve of my t-shirt, passed my shoulder, and began to wrap around my upper torso. The wet spaghetti felt icky at best, yet the noodles' heat felt good to my braless breasts.

Nonetheless, I was being attacked – and molested – by spaghetti, and I continued to scream.

Helen appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, and froze in place as her eyes befell the bizarre scene before her. With my free arm, I tried to reach for her, hoping that she might be able to pull me free, but her eyes instead rolled up in their sockets and she slumped to the floor.

I still screamed, hoping that perhaps a neighbor would hear and either come to help or at least call 911. Reaching for the lid on the small pot of spaghetti sauce, I intended to beat at the spaghetti, hoping that act would cause it to release me.

Instead, more spaghetti shot out of the large pot and wrapped around my left wrist, preventing me from executing my plan.

How many times had Helen or I been bound with our wrists secured to the bedposts, wonderfully vulnerable to the delightful whims of the other?

This time, however, there was nothing delightful in being restrained by the spaghetti. Even though my nipples had hardened from the continual movement of the hot, wet noodles across my breasts, I felt no pleasure in the sensations. I was too scared, my fight-or-flight instinct resulting in a freaky tug-o'-war with dinner.

I screamed again, and suddenly felt a searing heat across my cheek. I was no longer in the kitchen, but on my back in a darkened room, with my naked Helen perched above me. "Please don't make me slap you again!" she pleaded, her hand ready to strike my once more if necessary.

That was when I realized that there was no spaghetti attack. It was only a nightmare, a very strange and illogical nightmare. I quickly pulled my girlfriend atop me, crushing her in my arms, needing to feel her, needing the physical reassurance that she was okay, that I was okay.

The phone rang.

I screamed anew.