An old man and his wife traveled down the bumpy dirt road to Tuweep. On the map, it was a single dot along the Colorado river. All the windows were open, and the air was hot and dry, just as one would expect for Mid-July. In the back seat their hound was resting beside a small urn. They passed no other cars. The guidebook was right. This area of the Grand Canyon was secluded.

“Is it wrong for me to be so excited,” his wife said.

“I’m not sure,” the old man said.

“It’s just that we’ve been talking about coming back here for fifty-two years.” she said.

“I know,” he said as they hit a pot hole and bounced an inch above their seats. His wife laughed heartily. The old man watched as her eyes almost disappeared behind the broad brilliance of her smile. He wanted to smile back, but he didn’t know how.

“It’s alright to laugh,” she said, but this only induced his tears. Soon the canyon was upon them. The winding orange cliffs looked massive even from a distance.

The old man parked the car, and they all got out, including the hound. The old man delicately cradled the urn in both hands as they approached the canyon edge. The Colorado river, copper green, flowed below their feet.

“It’s even more beautiful than I remembered,” said his wife. The old man didn’t move. “It’s like being a part of history. Each layer claims a recorded period of time. When you release the ashes, they will settle a new layer.”

The old man dropped to his knees. His forehead was sweating profusely.

“It is time,” said his wife. “a breeze is coming. Do it now.” The old man felt no breeze, but he did as his wife instructed. The breeze did come, and it carried away her ashes, and her spirit.

days.

This story was written by Alex Schattner  (10:39am – 12:39pm, 7/11/12)

Ryan Briggs grew up along the Emerald Coast of Florida, Port St. Joe, to be exact. Since the age of five, he helped his father run their diner, The Arrowhead. Ryan learned to man the cash register, wait tables, and wash dishes, but his favorite job was cooking.

He couldn’t get enough of the way a hamburger smelled when it earned that perfect pink center. He didn’t mind all of his clothes smelling like oil after hours of frying fresh-cut potatoes. Him and his father were happy, and so were the customers, for the portions were not only delicious, but the largest you’ve ever seen. A single burger might have ten, fifteen, twenty patties. A single order of fries was always a triple.

“You gotta give the people what they want, and plenty of it. Burgers and Fries!” Ryan’s dad always said. Unfortunately this sounded better in theory, for Mr. Briggs was a very obese man, and Ryan was well on his way to becoming the same.

At twenty-three, Ryan lost his father to diabetes, and Port St. Joe became a much sadder place. Ryan was at a cross-roads. How could he serve people large quantities of food when too much food had killed his father. As the days went by, Ryan made the diners portions smaller and smaller. A customer was lucky if they got half a patty on a bun.

Ned Campbell, the wealthiest man in town, saw this as an opportunity, and decided to open his own diner. Within weeks, the Big n’ Sloppy Diner was opened to much applause, and The Arrowhead was all but forgotten.

Then one night, as Ryan sat at the counter looking over his diner’s books for the last time, there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I’ve come about the employment sign,” said a female voice. Ryan didn’t know he posted a  sign, but he didn’t want to be rude. So, he answered the door. Before him stood a beautiful young woman as skinny as a toothpick, and wearing a green dress that reminded him of broccoli. In her arms she carried a slim cloth bag made of hemp.

“Unfortunately, I’m not hiring at the moment.” Ryan said solemnly.

“Have you hired someone else?” she asked politely.

“No,” Ryan said.

“Has the diner been closed?” she asked. Ryan again responded in the negative.

“Then it seems there is work to be done. Do not worry. I work for food, and I come highly recommended. Is that the kitchen in there?” Without waiting for a response, she headed right into the kitchen and set her bag on the table.

“What are you doing?” Ryan asked.

“You have set a precedent. You cannot make your portions smaller. So, you must make your portions better. You must add more vegetables.”

“But people don’t like vegetables,” Ryan said, “people like meat.”

“This is only because you have not been preparing the vegetables properly. They must be grilled, baked, or steamed in sauces that tempt the senses. Salads must be dressed. Do not worry. I will teach you.” As she spoke, she pulled eggplants, squash, tomatoes, zucchini, onions, peppers, and garlic, in an unending stream from her bag. When the table was full, she commenced dicing, slicing, and chopping. As she worked, she sang, “When your diet is unstable, it can make you feel ill able.”

Ryan watched as his pots and pans sizzled with the colors of the rainbow. Never had he smelled the sweetness of oregano, or the lemony scent of basil.

In one evening, this twig-like young woman had turned Ryan’s life around. She and the vegetables had taken a place in his heart, and it wasn’t long before the smells that filled his kitchen wafted across town to the Big n’ Sloppy. Once that smell lodged in the minds of St. Joe’s residents, the Big n’ Sloppy didn’t stand a chance.

This work was written by Alex Schattner (11:45am – 12:45pm, 7/9/12)