Spaghetti Doesn't Walk!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Spaghetti night. Almost everyone's favorite day of the week.

Prompt: Please stop putting things in my microwave. Phobia stops character. Number 49.

Submitted: October 15, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 15, 2018



“How do you ruin spaghetti night every, single, fucking time!”

Gina’s head boiled into a rage, the temperature, similar to what the crusty sauce reached.  Her microwave’s guts, the one kitchen appliance she understood, glowed neon pink. 

“How many times now?  This—This is no longer a microwave!  It’s an artificial spaghetti infusor, suitable only to force the rank taste of your secret sauce into my T.V. dinners.”

Her guest sulked into his overcoat; his head nearly concealed by the upturned collar.  This caused remnants of bird poop and cabbage to rub against his cheek.  All week, he’d wear the coat inside out, that way he’d only dirty the lining.  Gina couldn’t know.

He shied away from eye contact.  “T-t-the sauce…it’s sensitive.”

“Sensitive my ass.  Put some Preparation H in there!”

“I-I don’t think that will work, sweetheart.  J-just don’t cook it more than forty-nine seconds…it-it burns.”

“Sweetheart?  Don’t even act like you’re interested in a piece of this, you limp noodle!”

He sank lower.  The mites died off, but the rash remained.  She’d find out.  “S-s-sorry.”

“Just get out!  And take that scummy gunk with you!”

He gathered up the scalding Tupperware.  The sauce gurgled, agitated by the disturbance.

As she slammed the door behind him, he wondered what went wrong.  Everyone at camp loved his concoction and he loved its efficiency.  It only needed a single ingredient.

Her porch light trailed off, shadowing his descent back to the street.  I’ll reset the traps for next week.  Maybe it came out too thick?  Has to be it.  The old raccoons are awfully tough.

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