Morris Graves's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Morris Graves wiped his hands on his apron and beamed at the empty dining room of his crumbling little eatery. One day, he knew, this place would be the most popular spot in the whole city. He just had to keep cooking. A folded paper sat on a table near the door. Morris picked it up. The envelope was fine and cream-colored, sealed with a small wax dot. Inside, in sharp black ink, the note read: "Your food is TERRIBLE. The worst I have ever tasted. Please stop." Morris read it twice. Then he grinned. "Feedback!" he said out loud. "A real customer opinion!" He pressed the note to his chest like a prize. He hurried to the back and cleared a long, scarred prep counter. This would be his experiment station. He grabbed a stub of chalk and began sketching wild ideas right on the wood. Purple noodles. Eyeball garnishes. A pie with tentacles curling out the crust. His hand moved fast and happy. By nightfall, the counter was covered in sketches and a steaming bowl of bright purple spaghetti studded with staring eyes. Morris set it down and nodded. The old menu was finished. Something bold and new had begun.