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thekatkoproject · 6 months ago

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Another short story, by me!

Betrayal on the Menu

by Katko on December 23rd

William sucks in his breath as he carefully closes the office door in front of him. As the door shuts against the doorframe without a sound echoing through the empty kitchens, he whispers, “Now grab it and get out of here”. He opens a drawer and digs through the piles of disorganized notes; scribbles about grocery savings, jot notes about specials, and pen scratches of random phone numbers. Will carefully peels back the layers of Post-it glue among the notes, holding each note up to his dim flashlight. As he feels the adrenaline build up with each tick of the clock, Will’s hands jitter and rush as he tries to find it, and when he sees the speck of the word he’s looking for under his flashlight, all he can release is a smirk. He saw the recipe. Now, he can go back and get his money, the money beyond his wildest dreams, but first–

Click.

As the lights in the office turn on, all Will can do is freeze in his position, alarms raging on in his head. When Will turns towards the sound of the noise, the only thing he could muster out when seeing the dreaded man in front of him were the words, “Oh Crap”. The man’s large silhouette filled the doorway, his face contorted into a frown in his natural smile lines, and his eyes seemed angry. Will could recognize his face from a mile away, based on the amount of newspaper articles and pictures he sees of him. His chubby and wrinkly face, his cheerful red nose and thick black straw-like mustache, and his joyful smile were known across Manhattan. However, tonight is when Will finds out what a Chef de Cuisine, specifically his client’s jolly competitor, looks like when they’re angry. He patted his hands against his messy and splotchy white apron, searching for his phone.

“… you must be Ray?” Will awkwardly chuckled, leaning against Ray’s desk, “What’re you doing here so late?”

“I’m calling the police!” Ray shouts threateningly, leaping towards the phone on the desk. With one sleek movement, Will grabs the telephone and pins it towards his chest.

“No!” Will yells out, witnessing Ray’s shadow as he stands up straight, creating a barrier between Will and the door.

“You’re robbing my office. You’re robbing my restaurant.”

“That’s true.” Will awkwardly shrugs his shoulders, as he slowly slides the black flashlight into the back pocket of his black sweatpants.

“Who sent you, kid?” Ray crashes against the desk, making Will jump. As he takes in Ray’s words, his playful demeanor melts away as he tries to think of a way out of this mess.

“What are you talking about?” I guess the strategy is playing stupid, Will thinks as he rolls his eyes at his awfully improvised game plan. Strangely, Ray seemed to calm down, pointing at the paper that Will held, hidden under the phone.

“Out of all the things you could’ve stolen,” He whispered, clenching his jaw, “you took my notes.” Will’s eyebrows shriveled as he looked around the office, cringing at the sight of the very expensive and untouched white Mac desktop. Taking it would’ve pulled Will out of his quick-sand-like debt. Nevertheless, Will is an honest man, and what an honest man would do right now is listen to what Ray was murmuring under his thick mustache.

Will pulled out the paper from the phone’s clutter of wires and plastic, flailing the note around like a piece of litter. It was an untitled post-it note that was dated November 2nd, 2001. Ray watched as Will’s eyes scanned the note, a short list of ingredients that he could barely pronounce. The silence rang through the room, echoing Will’s sudden confusion. Ray exhaled with a strange chuckle.

“Was it Steve?” Ray says, causing Will to whip his head up. His eyes widen, Ray knows about the operation now. Will keeps his mouth shut–he isn’t admitting anything yet, he has to get out of here first.

“Come on, tell me. How much did he pay you?” Ray laughs as he senses Will’s heart beating at a faster pace. He’s already caught anyway, lying isn’t going to help him get himself out of this mess. Forget it.

“Ten thousand.” Will spits it out, like a child finally admitting to stealing from the cookie jar. He sets the phone down back on the table in front of him, and from the corner of his vision, Ray cracks a smile.

“Ridiculous.” He shakes his head, shifting towards the dark bookshelf across the room, filled with knick-knacks and various photographs throughout the years, “He hired a thief to take a sheet of paper.” He grabs a picture frame, holding it close to his chest. He looks down at the image of two friends during a simpler time, his expression warmed up under the fluorescent ceiling lamp. The cold expression Will was greeted with disappeared. Ray glances at Will incredulously, as if he was intruding on something private. With hesitation, Ray verbalized the sadness he felt about this betrayal, “Did he tell you why he wanted to take that recipe?”

“He just told me to find the green note with this date.” Will said as he poked at the note, “He just told me he needed it tonight. Something about a food critic coming tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Ray’s warm expression froze once again.

After waiting a beat, Will steadily sets the paper down on the desk dividing the room between the owner and the thief.

“I’ll leave the note here, and get out.” He creeps closer to the door, “Just don’t call the cops.” Ray doesn’t budge, and not even hinting at a sign of decision-making on his face.

“It still baffles me to this day, why’d he do this to us,” Ray says without a blink, setting down the picture frame and shifting back into his door-barricade position, “Did he ever tell you that we used to have a restaurant together before he opened Le Petit Bistro? We were on the path to getting our first Michelin star, becoming one of the most recognized restaurants in the world.”

“What happened?” Will asked.

“I wish I knew. One day I was met with a new restaurant opening across the street, and it was his restaurant. All of a sudden, he was trying to one-up our–my menu, trashing my name throughout the city. I asked him why, and all he said was that he felt… restricted… Maybe it was from all the arguments we would have, we just stopped clicking”

“Pretty smart idea, the one he had…”, Ray continued, “Steve’s been wanting a star next to that name for a while now. He even remembered the day we came up with this recipe and how good our friendship was. It created an incredible dish.”

Ray smiled as he reflected on his relationship with Steve. He suddenly leads his train of thought back to Will and the crime.

“I’m not going to call the cops, kid.” Ray said as he looked into Will’s eyes, almost pleading with him, “But, I’m going to make a deal with you: Leave the recipe here with me. I’ll let you go and protect you, as long as the authorities are reported about Steve. I’ll keep your name out of it. Deal?”

Will doesn’t budge, and Ray starts to doubt himself. He knows that a young man like Will only wants money, that’s why he signed up for this in the first place. All Ray wanted was just another chance to make things right with Steve, knowing deep down that a punishment of a report would be the only thing that would avenge the memories of friendship. Ray tries to plead with Will one more time.

“When you get older, kid, you’ll do anything to keep times the same as before, to keep those memories. Please don’t only care about that money he promised.”

Will felt the room’s atmosphere thicken. Will grabs the note.

“Sorry, Sir.”

The streets of New York were lively on this cold December morning, the noise filling the neighborhood of Manhattan. Will zips up his coat as he walks up to the familiar cement steps of the Daisy Mart convenience store. He dug his stiff fingers into his right jacket pocket taking out some change to cover his coffee. As he zones out the chatter of the Morning Show hosts projected on the large yet rickety television in the corner of the store, Will’s eyes meet with the stacks of this morning’s newspaper on the elevated counter. Will’s eyes squint as he tried to faintly read the title of the front-page article, being able to pick up words such as Failed, and Michelin Star. As the store emptied, Will quickly rushed over to the counter and threw the coins onto the counter.

“Just my usual, and cover the paper too.” Will pointed to the newspaper, grabbing a copy. After he received a nod from the cashier; he quickly opened the paper, murmured a polite ‘thank you’, and froze as soon as he saw the photograph of the front of the Le Petit Bistro building. He released a chuckle.

“Le Petit Bistro has failed to receive its First Michelin Star.”

Will took a step back, leaning against the counter in disbelief. He carefully scanned the front page, catching the scent of ink that had transformed a food critic's cruel words into text. Will was enthralled by the text, gasping at every sharp sting and chuckling at every remark. As the cashier places the coffee cup on the counter while calling Will’s name, Will finishes reading the article:

“While the new special of Le Petit Bistro is exquisite in a technical sense, the dish had no heart–eating to nourish the body, not the soul. My experience at the Michelin Star candidate can be described in one word: Empty and imposterous. The restaurant seems to try to incorporate elements of traditional culinary techniques and elements from other Manhattan restaurants, similar to ‘Ray’s’, which was recently awarded its first Michelin star last week shortly after my visit to Steve Blanc’s restaurant. My advice: Give your time and money to a restaurant that cares about their food.”

Will closes the paper and takes a sip of his coffee, tucking the article underneath his armpit just as he begins to find his way out of the store. As he steps out into the polluted atmosphere of the streets of Manhattan, Will throws the newspaper into the garbage can next to him and walks down the sidewalk, going on with his day.

#writing #artist #granola #heartstopper #hippie #poet #writers on tumblr #short story #original story #original character #original poem #original post #beginner writer #writerscommunity #writers and poets #new writer #please read #please edit

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thekatkoproject · 6 months ago

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I might post a couple of short stories/poems that I wrote for class because I feel i've been writing less and less for fun lately. If you have any feedback, let me know!

The Hunt for Forgiveness

Written by Katko on December 2.

Art cowers behind the yellow-green bush, breaking the rifle’s barrel through its thick branches. His eyes settled between the leaves, through a gap in the bush. Right in the middle of his field of view, was the deer. It hasn’t even flinched, clueless that it’s soon to become a man’s trophy. Art stretches his legs outward, holding himself up on his elbows. He leans towards the rifle, staring at the deer. As he watches the deer before it makes any sudden movements, the world becomes more quiet. All He could hear was the blood flowing to his arms, urging him to fill the trigger. He could feel his skin shrivel as he gripped the rifle, making sure his aim didn’t falter. He feels the adrenaline–God, it’s been so long. As the wind blowing through the bush contorts, his heart beats faster, and his muscles tense with each Lub-Dub. His finger around the trigger tenses and-

A twig snaps.

Art freezes and his eyes widen, watching. The earth around him stands still. The gentle breeze has frozen, and the leaves are as still as a statue. Art’s eyes catch movement before him as the tree behind the deer rustles. A small fawn leaps out from the greenery, hopping around the stag playfully. The deer’s eyes darted to Art like he was a pair of headlights. As Art stared into the deer’s eyes, sensing the threat of his heavy antlers whispering “If you move a single muscle, you’ll be sorry”. Art hesitates, as his hunter roots urge him to keep going, keep hunting, keep shooting–But the deer's eyes wrinkle like his father’s.

Art still remembers that same wrinkle in his father’s eyes with each fluctuation of his voice, “You were on such a great career path, and you're ready to just throw it away?!”

“Just say you don’t want me to be happy, admit it!” Art leaps out of his chair, his eyes burning and teeth grinding. “You only want me to do things that YOU want me to!”

Art’s arms ache from holding himself up–trying to find balance. The target is right in front of you. The trigger is calling his name, his muscles are craving the twitch and the adrenaline. But Art couldn’t. Something was keeping him back. He remembers the first time he even held the rifle. His father held it up for him, gently pressing down on Art's fingers, letting them grip the device.

“Now, shoot whenever you’re ready son” His father whispered in Art’s ear, as he aimed for the eye of the squirrel. “Take your time.” His hands brush off of Art’s, letting him hold the trigger itself. Art’s hands tighten as his thoughts linger from the happy memories to the recent.

“Just forget it! You’re a HORRIBLE father!.” Art stuffed his backpack full of essentials; keys, wallet, random garbage… Anything to help him get far away from the house quickly.

“Son, you know I want the best for you, but I'll admit that I'm upset too!”

“What on earth do you have to be upset about? All you do is push me around!” Art whips his head around to see his father plead with him.

“I’m upset you never told me about this, son!”

You never told me, what a ridiculous statement. Why was this situation Art’s fault?

He snaps out of it– focus Art, focus! He swiftly points the rifle back towards the deer, but he makes eye contact with the deer's dark eyes. There’s something different in his eyes. Art looks deeper–the deer doesn’t have a threatening look but looks at Art pleadingly. Don’t take me away from my child. Art wonders if his father ever thought the same, but he remembers his first time hunting again when he started shaking before taking his first shot.

“Hey kid, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, just tell me.”

Art handed his father the rifle. He wasn’t ready to shoot that day, and he wasn’t afraid to show his father. Art’s eyes widened, “I should have told him.”

His lips quiver as he suddenly erupts in tears. He drops the rifle on the grassy ground, burying his face in his hands. He hasn’t spoken to his father in a month over an argument–If only he actually talked to him. But all he could do was cry, as the cold air of the bushes’ shadow isolated him from the warmth of the sun.

Suddenly, Art hears branches rustling. He tilts his head up and he watches the fawn leap out of the grass, jumping into the forest. Before the older Stag follows his fawn, his body relaxes. He glances at Art, his eye’s signals of threat and pleading melting away. With a reassuring look and gratefulness, the Stag leaps after its son to go play among the trees. Among all the tears, Art’s heart filled up with warmth, and all he could do was crack a smile.

Written by KatKo

Thanks for reading!

#short story #original short story #original #original characters #granola #hippie #poet #writing #artist #original work #original story #beginner writer #writers on tumblr #original fiction #new writer

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