Spaghetti season, he said with a sigh. We heard it underfoot. You couldn’t tell if it was communicating with the others or just sobbing. Occasionally Big Jon would stir it with a giant hook, forming glistening piles near the path. On the shadow spaghetti coasts it’s especially intimidating. Little gnomes would use it as housing material, a titmouse would drink red liquid. We would daydream about the gentle burbles of soup season and it would just be spaghetti spaghetti slamming against the windows. Curling around the churches, the skyscrapers. It spilled down chimneys, into overpasses. That’s when you would run for your life, because even as strainers covered the landscape, spaghetti made its way through. It would stick to the wall, but it was toxic.