{"id":1999,"date":"2018-05-15T20:06:03","date_gmt":"2018-05-16T03:06:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/?p=1999"},"modified":"2018-08-11T08:06:57","modified_gmt":"2018-08-11T15:06:57","slug":"four-chefs-nyc-midnight-flash-fiction-contest-round-1-july-2017","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/2018\/05\/15\/four-chefs-nyc-midnight-flash-fiction-contest-round-1-july-2017\/","title":{"rendered":"Four Chefs – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest, Round 1 (7\/2017)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Backstory<\/strong>: On the recommendation of my friend Laura, I entered the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest<\/a>. Basically, you have 48 hours to write 1,000 words using a randomly assigned GENRE, SETTING and RANDOM OBJECT. You are judged on how well you adhere to those rules. So here’s my first story from last year \u2014 YOU be the judge:<\/p>\n

FOUR CHEFS<\/strong>
\nGENRE:<\/strong> Romance (And I never in a million years would’ve ever considered writing a romance)
\nSETTING:<\/strong> Waiting Room
\nRANDOM OBJECT:<\/strong> Banana Split<\/p>\n

FOUR CHEFS<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Four chefs, three courses, only one chance to win: A game show for chefs with a $10,000 ticket out of the kitchen for Amanda Wolfe.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Four Chefs<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not like being in a kitchen at all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

With its chrome wire shelves and aluminum platter cart, the waiting room played the part, but there were four of them here, sitting on metal stools, trying to make small talk in front of three cameras. <\/span><\/p>\n

No one sat down in the kitchen during service. They rarely even stopped to pee.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know, right? There\u2019s so much space. Having my own table is like\u2026 damn.\u201d Nat owned a Creole bistro in Houston. He needed the money to cover a storm-damaged roof. <\/span><\/p>\n

A butcher from a Phoenix steakhouse, Amanda was thrilled to get the table closest to the pantry. It should\u2019ve given her an advantage during the basket-opening melee, but that didn\u2019t stop \u2018Best New Chef\u2019 Jean-Claude from checking her into the anti-griddle so he could grab the meat grinder. <\/span><\/p>\n

Fat lot of good it did him: Not adding bacon to the venison dried out his appetizer. His five-star attempt at sabotage made him the first to walk the long Hall of Shame.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the entree round, poor Braedyn nearly vomited when his Whole Chicken in a Can evacuated its container with a flatulent splat. He cooked exclusively with organic, in-season ingredients at his upscale, upstate New York inn. The man-bunned man-child had never worked a four-hundred-cover Friday in his life.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so hungry right now, I\u2019d eat the whole can.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSaid the woman who makes hot dogs for a living.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Nat shot a side-eye at him, but Amanda didn\u2019t mind. She spent every shift dodging screaming-hot pots, sailor-mouthed insults and grabby-handed line cooks. This twerp wouldn’t be around for dessert, not after forgetting the greens on one plate.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nat leaned on his elbows, eager to talk shop. His skin was the color of caramels. Working side-by-side with Amanda, they\u2019d spun a graceful pas de deux<\/i> across the rubber safety mats. Suck in, swivel around, shimmy to the stove. Hyperaware of their bodies in motion, they cut a cool contrast to Braedyn\u2019s panicked tantrums over canned chicken, sardines, dandelion greens, and a banana split. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDude, your curry\u2026 using the ice cream to thicken it? Genius.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy grammaw\u2019s recipe. I was a little worried about the spice level.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He dragged a calloused hand across his bald head. His lion\u2019s mane of dark lashes closed languidly over dark brown eyes. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey loved yours.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know if a chicken salad sandwich is enough to call an entree.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t make excuses for your food. The fried fish bones blew their minds.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just Japanese bar food. I used to have it all the time in Kyoto,\u201d said the petulant Millennial, before he, too, was dismissed.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dessert Round: If it\u2019d been Jean-Claude or Braedyn, Amanda would have embraced the trash talk, but she felt foolish, looking up at Nat\u2019s wide smile.<\/span><\/p>\n

The network didn\u2019t do hair and makeup for the chefs. She rarely managed a swipe of mascara at home, but she cursed herself now for forgetting her lipstick, a subtle pink that brought a little color to her delicate cheekbones.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis Sausage Party ends today.\u201d She cringed hearing herself say it. Nat burst into giggles. Another three takes finally quieted their laughter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m taking dessert back to the desert!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLooking forward to the fight.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Araucana eggs, feta cheese, shoo-fly pie, and kiwi fruit. With the dance floor rearranged, their careful quickstep clattered into one another, swooping, stopping, stooping, dipping. The judges called the play-by-play through the swirls of her bubbling caramel, the churn of her feta ice cream and the brown-sugar warmth of his oven-full of cupcakes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Banished to their kitchen-themed prison, they slouched, weary and worn, onto their stools. Twelve hours\u2019 worth of culinary fire drills had begun to take its toll.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo what took you to Phoenix?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFollowed a boy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Nat glanced at her hands, tattooed with old burns and past cuts. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then I realized I liked the desert more than him.\u201d She twirled a dark, shoulder-length curl around her index finger. \u201cAnd you? Anyone special waiting at home?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTwo of them.\u201d Her heart now wallowed in her empty belly. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBoy or girl?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPit bulls. If I win, I\u2019m buying a new couch.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you said you needed to fix your roof.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI do, but the dogs got bored and tried to tunnel out. I\u2019d like to have a place for people to sit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou say that like you have friends over all the time.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Amanda\u2019s last day off had been thirteen days ago: She never bothered to make her bed anymore. She didn\u2019t remember the last time she\u2019d made a friend who didn\u2019t work in a kitchen.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo what are you gonna do with the money?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFood truck. Take the Sausage Party on the road.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

That sly grin danced across his face. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe you can come to Houston.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCall me when you get a couch.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The production assistant called them back to the kitchen. The cloche revealed his crumbling cupcakes. <\/span><\/p>\n

Her hands to her mouth, her heart on the floor. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNothing to be sorry for. You killed it.\u201d He folded her in his strong arms, their sweaty, exhausted bodies leaning into each other.<\/span><\/p>\n

He disappeared down the hall, leaving her to a lonely hour of post-production paperwork and congratulatory interviews. Back home, at eight o\u2019clock, she\u2019d still have three hours before she could escape the greasy smog of fryers and steam tables and emerge beneath the faint stars and blue-black sky.<\/span><\/p>\n

She had no plans for the night in the city that never sleeps. The streets buzzed with headlights and taxicabs. The evening chill shivered through her damp T-shirt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWanna go celebrate?\u201d Nat emerged from the shadows in his street clothes, enveloping her in his oversized jacket.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGod, yes. I could use a drink.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go. You\u2019re buying.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Backstory: On the recommendation of my friend Laura, I entered the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest. Basically, you have 48 hours to write 1,000 words using a randomly assigned GENRE, SETTING and RANDOM OBJECT. You are judged on how well you adhere to those rules. So here’s my first story from last year \u2014 YOU … Continue reading Four Chefs – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest, Round 1 (7\/2017)<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1999","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-creative"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1999","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1999"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1999\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2027,"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1999\/revisions\/2027"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1999"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1999"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/patandstacy.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1999"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}