Andy Goldsworthy Oak Room

Ascension by Leslie B. Patient

I wonder if we, as infants,

fear birth with the same intensity

that we, as adults,

fear death

enveloped in the safety, comfort

of the womb

might an infant scream at birth

so vehemently

because being ripped from this

amniotic haven

feels like death.

But to approach the light

to climb those stairs

from whose bourn no traveller returns

Maybe our fears of leaving this

earthly realm

would be appeased

if we knew, like birth

the harsh light leading us out of sanctuary

brings us second birth

in a world yet unknown

but no less amazing

than where we are right now.

Earned Honorable Mention: NYC Midnight Microfiction Contest

 HISTORICAL FICTION

GATHERING FOOD

DREAM

Harvest at Dawn by Leslie B. Patient

“Lucius! Wait!” Aeila walked among rows of ripe carciofo, her bare feet warm on the terracotta pavers despite the chill in the air. “These are ready! Look at the leaves!” She touched the leathery squeak of the green vegetable. Their mother would cook them in olive oil and lemon later tonight for Madame Portia. 

Her brother, uninterested in cutting the spiky vegetables, thought only of the general’s return. Scrambling to stand on the stone wall, Lucius looked into the city, tracing Via Florida with his eyes and straining to see the crowd forming at Curia di Pompeo. Why had Marcus Brutus left before dawn? 

“Help me with the stalks, Lucius, they’re too thick for this bodkin.” She poked her little dagger at the plant while her brother dragged the General’s old Gladius behind him. 

“Come on, use that old sword, it will cut right through.”

“No. He will come back for it.” Lucius stood on his toes teetering along the wall. He could see the white robes of the Senators but no one’s face seemed clear. He tried to push aside the dream that startled him awake only a few hours ago: a raging black lion clawing at Marcus Brutus’ neck. 

“Here I’ll hold the stem, Lucius. Mama said we had to bring at least five blossoms.” 

Lucius turned abruptly and swung the hilt over his head, slicing through the base of the artichoke and his sister’s tiny thumb. 

Aeila’s scream mingled with the distant roar of an angry mob. 

THE JUDGE'S FEEDBACK:

''Harvest At Dawn'' by Leslie Patient -     WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - {2306}  You do a good job establishing your place and time through interesting historical and cultural details. I like the moment at the end where you twin the slicing of the artichoke/thumb with Brutus's own infamous slice.   {2203}  The reader is able to grasp the location and the era in which the piece is set. The author has slipped in references that give big hints about the setting and the time, allowing the reader to picture the scenes based on their prior knowledge of Rome's history. In doing this, the author has added context that helps the piece be visualised by readers. The story is original and has a progression of events that keep it moving forward. By including enough moments to give the piece direction but not so many that the piece feels rushed, the author has given it a plotline and prevents it from sitting in just one place.  {2258}  I thought the author carries the action through this story very well. The sense of urgency is evoked as the mob approaches. I really enjoyed this line and what it did, for the story and my imagination - "He tried to push aside the dream that startled him awake only a few hours ago: a raging black lion clawing at Marcus Brutus’ neck."   WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - {2306}  I want to know who, specifically, Marcus Brutus is to Lucius that Lucius is having these vivid dreams and obsessive premonitions about him. A bit more connective tissue between the sibling scene and the action with the senators would help. I'd also like a clearer idea of exactly how close, physically, the siblings are to the action happening with the senators.   {2203}  The relevance of Lucius' dream is a little lost, making it feel a little shoe-horned in. This may leave the reader questioning the meaning of the dream rather than focusing the the events surrounding it. The references in the piece are good and allow the reader to get an understanding of the time and location in which the piece is set, however, for readers with no prior knowledge of Brutus' part in history, the reference may be lost. To ensure that readers all understand his importance in the piece and the cries of the angry mob at the end, some clarity about his story would be useful. Even a brief mention of Caesar would help readers understand the events since he is a more well-known part of the events that took place.  {2258}  It's clear that Lucius is distracted, but this doesn't seem to register with Aeila. In reading, it felt off that she wouldn't ask Lucius what it was that he was thinking about. I think it would engage the reading more if we see the characters address the greater situation with each other.

 Earned Third Place in  Round One NYMidnight Short Fiction:

JiJi Returns To Manzanar

“JiJi, the park closes soon, we should probably ride back toward the exit.” I shout over my shoulder, assuming my grandfather is following right behind me on his teal Schwinn three-speed. Instead the dust flies up behind me and I see my seventy-year old Ojisan, pedaling with the speed of a junior high kid to the back side of the replica mess hall. 

“What are you doing? Jiji!” I am breathing heavily  as I finally catch him skidding to a stop. 

“Shizukani, Mia! The rangers will hear us.” He jumps off his bike tucking it behind a large green dumpster, frantically gesturing for me to do the same, as we both hear the announcement over the loudspeakers. 

“The Manzanar National Historic Site will be closing in five minutes. We ask that all guests make their way to the exit near the Visitor Center at this time. We will reopen again tomorrow morning at nine. The National Park Service thanks you for your visit and hope you come again.”

My grandfather is belly crawling along the back edge of the Mess Hall. 

“JiJi, what the hell are you doing?” I should not have quit my karate lessons after high school. You’d think hauling wood chips and dirt at Yoshida and Sons Landscaping, I’d have some more stamina, but I can barely keep up with this man five decades older than me. He’s crawling through the large drain pipe under the park perimeter road now.

“I have to find something I left here.” 

“We were not in this drain pipe, JiJi. I doubt it is here.” 

“No, it’s something I left here back then.” He scurries down a small ravine keeping his back close to the dirt wall along the road.. 

I hear the NPS jeep in the distance. How can JiJi possibly think something from 1945 would still be here sixty years later? I knew there was something suspicious about how eager he was to come back to the park today. How, he kept calling this trip to California his “quest.”  I realize now that yesterday what appeared to be a somber memory of the three years of his youth spent imprisoned in this once “relocation center”, was really Tommy Yoshida on a reconnaissance mission. I am suddenly sliding down the ravine. 

“I knew I should have come on my own today. Mia, you are so out of shape.” He catches me before I plant my face in the dirt. “See that small outcropping of rocks by that dead old apple tree. That’s where we need to go, but keep yourself pressed here until that jeep leaves.”

“JiJi, we are going to get arrested. This is insane.This is federal land!”

“You want to know insane? It is stealing peoples’ businesses, then locking up whole families in the middle of a desert and calling it ‘relocation’.” His eyes stay fixed on the dead tree as he gruffly whispers. “Go on my signal, not a second before. And stay with me.”

The jeep stops for a moment at the top of the ravine. We hear the car door open then shut. Steps go toward the mess hall. Keys in a lock. The car door opens and shuts again. A bead of sweat blinds my left eye. The jeep pulls away.

Seconds later. “Go!” 

We run to the dead tree and my grandfather pulls out a folding camp shovel from his backpack. JiJi sees the look of surprise on my face.

“Well, I’m not going to dig a meter with my bare hands!” He pushes me to the other side of the tree trunk. “You be on lookout.” He hands me binoculars. Well, that explains the insistence on carrying his own backpack today.

I hear digging as I scan the horizon. Looking out at this vast and deserted place. I am in awe that my Great Grandparents survived this upheaval from their gardening store in Seattle to this arid wasteland. And then I remember, Great Grandfather did not survive.

“You take over digging, Mia. I’ll be on lookout.” My grandfather shoves the sweaty handle toward my hand.

He’s gotten about 20 inches down already, more than half-way. The clay is packed and crumbly, but I suddenly hit something metal.

“That’s it!” My grandfather rushes to the hole scraping the remaining dirt away from a small dented tin bento box. He quickly shoves the box into his backpack. “Quickly, the sun is setting.” 

 I am scrambling back up the ravine, dirt caking into my fingernails. JiJi gets both bikes from behind the dumpster. 

“Now, follow me and ride like the wind!” He swerves to the far end of the Visitor’s Center, toward the staff entrance and exit. Two National Park Rangers about to get in their cars stare at us quizzically.

“We got lost, sorry!” I don’t know what else to say as I pedal harder to catch up with JiJi. 

Back at the motel, I am washing the sweat and dust off my face as my grandfather slowly takes out the tin box from his backpack. 

“Are you going to at least show me what all that craziness was about?” I’m half afraid

these are Great Grandpa’s ashes or something.

Reverently, JiJi pulls off the lid, takes out a waxed cloth bag, and slowly pours seeds into

his hand.

“These are Sakura seeds. From Japan. My father brought them to America. It was one of the only things he had with him when we were evacuated from Seattle. I buried them here when my father never returned from the infirmary. It was our second year in the camp. I was ten years old.”  He places the seeds back in the bag then hands the bag to me. “Take them, Mia-chan. Plant them.” Tears fill his eyes. “It is time for them to grow in American soil.”

 I have not been to too many mega-stadium rock shows, despite growing up in the era of Live Aid and Lilith Fair. In fact, I can count on two hands the number of stadium rock events I've been to (nine) and even then, there are actually only four artists I've seen in those nine shows: Billy Joel earns five of those spots, doubling with Elton John in two of those five. Then there was the The Who, on two of the "farewell tours" perhaps five years apart.  The final two spots belong to U2 who I saw in the Joshua Tree Tour November 1987 at the L.A. Coliseum my Senior Year and then on July 14, 2011 in Philadelphia when a Seattle friend had to sell some tickets to the 360 Tour. And while I listened to every U2 album up to Rattle and Hum, I cannot call myself a real "fan" because I had no idea they have done like eight or more albums since then. That is, not until I listened to Bono's amazing memoir Surrender. What a fascinating journey he takes the listener on from his heartache at his mother's death when he was 14 to that fateful posting Larry Mullen Jr. put up at their high school "Drummer looking for a band." It seems unfathomable that U2 met each other in high school! And both Bono and Larry met their life partners in high school, too. Bono has woven a non-linear thematic tapestry of his very full and blessed life. His soulful look at his own Messianic complex, or his touching recognition of the grounding his wife Ali has brought to his life gives him such realness. And yet, here's a man who has sat down with three U.S. Presidents to bring about change in the continent of Africa through debt relief and activism to bring anti retroviral medication to countries like Ghana and Uganda. He analyzes his activism with great precision. Giving props to the likes of conservative American Politicians like John Kasich, Jesse Helms, and George W. Bush for the way in which they were willing to change their minds and make decisions that could bring about great change in Africa. To think Bono was a collaborator with Warren Buffet, Steve Jobs, and Bill/Melinda Gates, is to see the scope of where he took his rock star status and used the "currency" of his fame. 

Most powerful is how he speaks of his brotherhood with Mullen, Adam Clayton, and The Edge with reverence and clarity, but also giving us glimpses into his encounters and friendships with the likes of David Bowie, Johnny Cash, and the Artist Formerly Known As Prince. 

Bono's writing is poetic and rhythmic, not surprising for a lyricist and musician, but his eloquence and intellectuality is more that of a theology professor, or at least a college retreat leader. He speaks so openly of his faith and belief with poignant moments in French churches or jumping into the River Jordan with his whole family. 

Paul "Bono" Hewson is someone who has used every moment of his life for connection and creativity. His memoir paints the portrait of the artist as a whole and fully perceptive man, husband, father, activist, believer.

I am perhaps the perfect demographic for Brett Morgen's Bowieaanisqatsi-esque Moonage Daydream. While David Bowie was one of the definitive rockers of my high school and college days ("Under Pressure" was on the charts during my Freshman year [1981] and then the album Let's Dance came out my Junior Year of high school, so I listened to it almost all four years of college) I was never obsessed nor fantical about Bowie. A lot of "unique" performers were seeking our eyeballs and eardrums in the 80s from Madonna and Cyndi Lauper to Boy George and Mick Jagger. But Bowie's music lasted far longer than "Karma Chameleon" or "Material Girl" in my playlists because his depth of lyric and emotional rhythms transcended our teenage years, carrying us far into adult hood. His most amazing song "Changes" was my "bride's song" at my wedding. So, when I saw an ad on my Facebook page last week for Morgen's Moonage Daydream on Imax this weekend, I bought the tickets right away. My millenial child, who, to be fair, had just played a field hocky game so was pretty tired, fell asleep next to my wide-eyed full immersed self, and then proceeded to spout the negative internet reviews already posted of the film as we drove home. And I just listened to phrases like "enervating frippery" and "all show, no substance" and chuckled. Naysayers can hate all they want, but I really liked the film. Far from "boring" as many reviewers claimed, I was fascinated with the wherewithal Morgen must have had to sift through millions of hours of footage and cull it down to 140 minutes. By commiting to using Bowie's voice as the only narrative, we are transported into a meditation on the man, the myth, the megastar. Morgen's choice to intersperse clips of classic films like Nosferatu or Metroplis, were just an additional way of bringing the visual story alive so that our meditation becomes fragmented glimpses into Bowie's mind as these clips and footage quite likely came from Bowie's own collection of films. I had never really had much exposure to Ziggy Stardust, so the concert footage of Bowie's early career fascinated me, as did seeing Bowie oil painting or acting on Broadway in The Elephan Man. Though Morgen's overdone use of explosion audio was surely distracting, the fact is, I would not have said I idolized David Bowie prior to watching this film. Now, I'm designing the shrine I'm going to put up in homage to my hero.

On June 1 I was happy to raise my new Progress Flag to commemorate the start of Pride Month. Even if I was not the mother of a transkid, I would fly that flag proudly as the teacher, advisor, mentor to countless LGBTQIA+ youth over the close to thirty years I've been teaching. While my life in education, as well as a life of travel experience has helped me evolve and expand a scope of vision that sees and celebrates the vast diversity of humanity, that recognizes, appreciates, admires other cultures and systems, at heart I still am proud to be an American. So when on July 1, I went to put the flag of the United States of America up and my kid, yes, the trans one, showed a great deal of consternation at this prospect, I found myself defending my right to be a Progressive and Proud American. This is what the last few decades have wrought on America. The binary thinking of both Conservative and Progressive politicians has created little room for the rational middle. The people who are are willing to "break with party lines" to "cross the aisle" have dwindled to a minority and with this concept of rational thought and willingness to compromise has been replaced with ideological and dangerous thinking. The concept that all abortions should be banned is ludicrous. Ectopic pregnancies, non-viable pregnancies, these all require abortions to save the mother's "right to life". So the "us vs. them" thinking cannot work when it comes to abortion. Common sense gun safety laws that protect children, children out of the uterus, like mandatory background checks, or public spaces where it is illegal to carry a gun, or making sure people who are mentally unstable do not have access to guns, not only for the safety of others, but more so, given the rate of suicide by gun in this country, for their own safety, these are all rational and necessary responses that do not negate the "right to bear arms".  Binary thinking does not work in life. And the last few decades in the United States has shown that it doesn't work in politics either. Humans are complicated and the swirl of angels and demons live inside us all. Or better, to think in terms of Asian ideas, we have both yin and yang in us. While there are a handful of people who may appear entirely lopsided to the yin "darkside" (I'm thinking of some of the cowardly Republicans in Congress who knew the truth of January 6th on January 6th, but somehow conveniently forgot it on January 7th) the fact is system changes from external forces rarely take hold. Change can only come from within. So I will fly the Progress Flag because I live in a country (and fortunately in a fantastically diverse and loving town) and I will fly the Flag of the U.S.A. This is not incongruous in my mind. Because, while I can recognize the harrowing ways in which that flag has been used before to belittle and oppress and kill, I can also fly this flag as a symbol of the defiant masters who worked for Progress in the system: for Frederick Douglass, for Alice Paul, for Harvey Milk, for Deb Haaland, for Danica Roem. If I give into cynicism, then the only thing that "wins" is cynicism. But if I believe, and let's be frank, continue to fight, to make sure there is room for all in this country, "we" all win. I don't believe America is #1, I don't believe it is a "city on the a hill" that can do no wrong. A nation is made of people, flawed people, and I am one of the flawed people who is a citizen of the United States. I will fight for progress in my country, but I can also be proud of the progress so many Americans have made. Despite the ill-conceived decisions of six non-elected people who wielded their power recently, gravely affecting the rights of Americans, I will not allow their myopia to dampen my belief in the power of the people of the United States. There is room for both flags in my home, I hope and belive that there will continue to be room for both flags in my country. 

Ama's Peak (entry to 2020 Flash Fiction Challenge)

AMA’S PEAK a short story by Leslie B. Patient

(NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2020 SUSPENSE/INDOOR CLIMBING GYM/PISTOL)



“Todd, why are we doing this?”


Krista crouched under the desk with her twin brother in the darkened office of Ama’s Peak, the Denver climbing gym they co-owned.

“Stay quiet. Trust me.”

Right then Krista knew Todd had done something stupid. Living in Nepal with their free-spirit Coloradan mom as children, one day Todd convinced an unwitting Belorussian to pay $250 for passage to Everest Base Camp. Krista acted as interference when the money transfer happened. “Trust me,” Todd had said. Their mother was good friends with town officials, so when the naive tourist climber realized he’d been duped, Officer Chaudry brought the children home instead of to jail. “Ama, it was all Todd’s idea.”

“Who are we hiding from?”
Todd put his finger over his lips. The front door smashed open.
Todd bumped his head on the desk. “Where did you put Mom’s gun?”
“Shithead. You know where it is.”
“Oh Fuck, right.”

Their mother’s Beretta Cougar Mini lay in a box just above the peak crevices of Annapurna Wall out in the gym. Krista and Todd agreed if they ever needed their mother’s protection they’d have to climb for it. Intelife Insurance never cracked Officer Chaudry. He insisted armed Bhutanese thieves had rampaged through the region. All Krista and Todd knew was their mother was already cremated when their Denver flight landed in Kathmandu. Three years later as UBoulder graduates, Intelife paid the half-million policy. Four months later they got a certified package from Officer Chaudry containing Ama’s pistol, with one ten-round .9mm cartridge, nine rounds remaining.





“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, COWARD?” The intruder clamored around the entrance. Krista and Todd saw his cell phone flashlight scoping the gym.
Todd clenched his fingers into Krista’s thighs.
“He’s going to kill me.”
“Who?” Krista grabbed Todd’s wrists.
“Gino Smaldone.” Todd’s face was two inches from Krista’s.
“Gaetano’s Gino?” Todd’s face belied a similar terror when the Bellorussian tourist threatened to break Todd’s legs. “You didn’t!”
Krista warned Todd after seeing how chummy he was with his Tuesday afternoon private climbing lesson.Tina Smaldone was married to the owner of Gaetano’s Pizzeria, notorious for his drunken rages. Todd hadn’t listened.
“If we can get to the closet, the back half opens to the gym.” They bellycrawled toward the closet.
“Climber boy!” Large steel-toed kicks into the office door reverberated. Todd and Krista shut the closet door behind them just as the office door came crashing open.
“You are paying for new doorlocks, asshole.” Krista hit her brother in the back of the head then shimmied along the perimeter heading to back exit before the drunken Italian Stallion heard them out there.
Gino’s cell phone flashlight swept the gym again landing right on Todd’s legs as Todd dove behind the pile of mats.
Krista first thought she would get herself out and leave her brother to fend for himself. She slid past the Anapurna wall before getting to the back exit. She felt the bottom handholds, knowing what she must do, unable to block out her mother’s answer to her plea some fifteen years ago.

“It was all Todd’s idea.” Ama took Krista’s face in her hands, “I know, honey, and I’m so glad you will always be there to keep him safe.”

Krista had climbed the A-wall blind-folded once, but never free solo. Todd and Gino scuffled through all the floor equipment.
Focus, she thought. 22 handholds, 15 footholds, she reminded herself. She could almost make out the second half of the wall from the streetlights coming through the transom windows.
“You freakin’ punk!” Gino’s voice echoed through the gym.
Slow and steady, Krista thought, that’s the key to free solo. Just keep moving. Her legs shook. Keep moving, Krista willed herself. Gino laughed manaically.
“Climber Boy? Scrambling up a wall? I’ll still get you.”
“I never touched Tina! I promise. Never.” Todd’s voice was shaky.
Krista wanted to turn toward the shouting but knew her mission and was only four handholds away. Mats and chairs were thrown at the wall parallel to her. One struck its target and Todd hit the ground with a thud, a moan, and a “fucking goddamn”.
Adrenalin coursed through Krista’s final leg push. No box. She reminded herself how far right she must have started the climb. Reaching further left she found the corner of the box, not having yet thought how she was going to bring the box back down to the ground.

The sound of fists to flesh jolted Krista. She pulled off her tank top, trying to tie a knot at the bottom with her teeth and left hand. She slipped the tanktop backpack on her shoulders the Beretta box corners cutting into her low back as she felt blindly for the footholds below. Perspiration streamed down her temples. 15, reach, 14, and 13. Her eyes were adjusting enough to see the dark green of the rubber floor. As Krista jumped she heard Todd scream.

“Fuck, man, my face. Is that a fucking knife?” More scuffling and Krista heard Todd over by Kidz Korner making a mat barricade.

At the closet, Krista flipped all the switches flooding the gym in light. As she fumbled with the Beretta clip she pulled the safety but forgot the hair-trigger and a shot rang across the gym hitting the mat wall Todd was constructing.

“The fuck? Krista?”
Gino dropped to the ground his hands covering his head.
“Mr. Smaldone. I won’t hurt you. Just get the hell out of here and never come back. We’ll refund Tina’s subscription.” Gino scrambled to his feet and ran out the door.
Todd slowly came back from around the mats.

“You don’t get paid until all of this is repaired.” While Krista pulled the clip out of the Beretta she picked up Gino’s bloody switchblade. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“I probably need stitches.” Todd held his bloody cheek. “It might scar.”

“Hope so.” Krista placed Ama’s Beretta back in its box, eight rounds remaining.