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  • Sarah Gordon

Frankenpasta, or the Modern Cookmetheus

It was on a dreary night of October that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. I had dutifully boiled four to six quarts of water in my Ikea pot, and it was time to bring the spark of life to the lifeless spaghetti I had gathered from the graveyard-- that is, Fenway Target. With the deepest anticipation and anxiety, I grabbed a fistful of pasta, stiff with rigor mortis, and approached the steaming pot. Ten long minutes I had invested in preparing this apparatus for the creation of life itself. Oh, what a wretched task! What terrible work! How sorry I was to be!


Within moments of my tossing the pasta into the water, its shape began to morph in the most fascinating way. Each rigid strand loosened, coiling from one end to the other and falling limp to the bottom of the pot. What a beautiful and terrifying sight: the pasta, come to life again! I laughed aloud with joy at my achievement and grabbed my large spoon of silicone to keep the pasta stimulated and the newfound energy circulating.

But then, a sensation struck: a prick of pain on my right wrist, towards the base of my thumb. I gasped in shock and agony, immediately grasping my stinging hand. With a splash of boiling water, my pasta had burned me.


My magnum opus, the sum of my struggle, the totality of my toils-- a monster! Me, the creator-- attacked by my own creature! How can I overstate the horror of this betrayal?

At once I backed away from the pot, trembling profusely for fear of being burned again. The pasta did not relent; with each popping bubble, I became more anxious that it would leap from the pot for another attack! I fled the kitchen, rushing to my bedroom and shutting the door. All night I paced and worried, dreaming up the most terrible ways my pasta could breach the room.


In the morning, I reluctantly returned to the scene of my grave mistake, intending to kill what I had brought life to once and for all, but alas! The pasta was gone! And with it, my peace of mind! How ever can I sleep again, knowing this pile of spaghetti is out there, lurking, waiting? Oh, wretched pasta!

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