Beef Dreams

The place is festooned with party lights but it’s still a shed and it smells like cow shit. You blot your lip gloss while Amy from the co-op rehearses near a hay bale in a red strapless number she got off the rack at Chiswick’s. ‘Miss Beef is a spiritual event for our town,’ she’s saying, a wedge of sunburn flaring on her chest. Your smile is collegial but you’re thinking surely she’s got to tank with that bollocks and this year the sash is yours.

You bought your satin pantsuit in the city. It’s royal blue with silver brocade trim, like the winner’s cape. You’re confident. You know your Red Angus from your Brafords and if anyone asks, it’s medium rare or suicide. You want this crown. For the all-expenses weekend in Coolangatta and for Tracy. She moved here for you; this redneck town can shift.

A cowbell clangs and everyone’s huddling on stage saying they’ve got Buckley’s, but Amy’s acceptance speech is flickering behind her eyes. Becky from the stock agents mangles her bit about where Brahmans come from (Italy, though?) while Jenny from the abattoir pouts indifference at her fingernails. Amy just wants to give back. When she says it, last year’s Miss Beef presses her tiara deep into her French braid.

At the judge’s table the bigshot stud man in moleskins tongues his lips and winks when Amy is named the winner. Her tearful speech is to him. You can’t get to your ciggies fast enough. The others deflate at the losers table while Amy does a victory lap. Tracy finds you. ‘Let’s go swipe the balls off the Big Bull with the angle grinder,’ she says, kissing your shoulder. When Amy comes in for a hug you feel the brocade on her cape. It’s pretty scratchy.

Longlisted Bath Flash Fiction Award 2024