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.

SAKASAMA

(received Honorable Mention in 
NYCMidnight's 2020 100-word Microfiction Challenge: 
parameters = Romantic Comedy / Reading a book / the word "better" )

He first saw her at Totto’s slurping on ramen. A day later they walked into the little Chelsea cake pop store simultaneously. He held the door for her and she smiled saying, “Thank you”. He believed in fate when he walked into the Webster Library and there she was reading a magazine. Blindly grabbing a book from a shelf, he feigned naturalness as he slipped into the chair across from her.

“You might have better luck reading that if it was right side up.” She flashed a bright smile.

His face flushed.

They walked out of the library together.

Dear Leslie Patient,

The feedback from the judges on your first round submission from the 100-word Microfiction Challenge 2020 is below.  You should be proud of rising to the challenge and we hope you find the feedback helpful.  Thank you for participating, stay safe, and we hope to see you in a future competition!

''Sakasama'' by Leslie Patient -     WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - {1636}  This is a sweet, short narrative, with their interaction in the final sentences being the highlights of the piece.   {1854)  I liked how specific the setting of this story was. It gave it more personality.  {1774}  This felt sweet, charming and light-hearted. It seemed fate wanted these two together since they kept meeting up everywhere. Amusing and romantic.   WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - {1636}  One thing that could help this story stand out a bit more would be to introduce some character perspective.  The notion of fate, happenstance is strong, but feels like it's coming from somewhat of an outside voice.   {1854)  There isn't any conflict in this piece. Conflict is necessary to plot, without it, the story is boring.  {1774}  Reveal if one of them overheard something to intentionally be where the other was going to be later. Also, share physical attributes and any intangibles that attracted each to the other.

Busting The Booty Buster Hill

Written as part of the Fat Girl Running Virtual Retreat (5/23/2020)
#mirnavationnation


Yo' booty buster hill
You think you got me?
Well, you did.
This time.
But I will get you
Because my will is magic
Adamantine like granite
And I will not give up
Because my feet are networks of mystic fibers
that lead up thighs of power
that are strong enough to push a piano while lying on my back
these thighs connect to hips
that are rolling Ozarks
smooth abut imposing
More imposing than you
Stupid bitch hill
You are just asphalt
and my ass and my heart have
strength to push my legs far beyond your crest
My body is a force
and will reckon with me
I promise.

Teacher Appreciation Week 2020: Missing my "Hallway Students"

It is teacher appreciation week May 2020 and we are in the middle of a pandemic. As a teacher myself, I'm teaching from my kitchen table on Google Meets about four hours a day. Upside, I am at a school where I am able to connect with all my students at least three days a week. All except, ironically, the Chinese students who have now returned home and have a great deal of difficulty accessing American sites like our Google Suite or Quizlet.

Teaching in 2020

These are strange times indeed. Or as I told my students as we read Lord Of The Flies and encountered the word "vicissitudes", the daily vicissitudes of quarantine are mighty exhausting. I can go from a morning joy having a lovely 9:00 late start, no commute, I can do yoga, I can walk my dogs 3 miles, I can have a healthy homemade breakfast!! To the depths of melancholy, I wish I could move around and tap Myron on the shoulder because I know he needs a subtle "attention reminder". Or give a knowing eye to Ally when I see that she understands, but doesn't want to say anything. I miss walking into my department chair's classroom and getting a Peppermint Patty and hearing his calming voice say that we'll all get through this. 

The compression of  "all the emotions" came to such a head recently when one of my students was featured on our Student Council's weekly Quarantine Shows (which are SUPER highlights to our lives). She sang "Rise Up" and I broke down. It was the first time that I cried during this "Shelter-in-Place" and here is why: I haven't taught this student in two years. In fact, I probably won't teach her again because I only teach ninth and eleventh grade and she'll be a senior next year. I only taught her for one year, but I feel like I've known her for much longer. She is one of my regular "hallway kids". All teachers have those, and our school is relatively small, only about 300 in the Upper School, so we really do have a chance to get to know so many of them personally through their activities, sports, performances. I've known this student since she was nine years old! I put her mic on her at a summer theatre program I was running tech for my first year at this now-not-so-new school. I saw her perform in all her Middle School shows. And while she was not what one would call a stellar English scholar in my class. She always brought a great deal of energy to the classroom. It is this energy I am deprived of and that is what made me tear up, ok, I'll be honest, I ugly cried bawled when I watched her performance. Even those little hiccup kind of sobs came out of me. What hit me so much was the loss of the micro-teaching moments. 

Sure, I have the technology to convey information. Sure, I have the means and wherewithal to come up with meaningful projects for the students in my classes. But having taught at a boarding school for eighteen years, and being a twelve-hours-in-the-building kind of teacher at my day school, what I do in the classroom is the smallest fraction of what I believe I do as a teacher. I chaperone dances, I help sell baked goods, I cheer at basketball games and give standing ovations at the musical. In quarantine, I'm confined to my classroom in such a stifling way. It's shrunk down to a 13" monitor. My students have to be 'invited' in, and there are no waves at the doorway, or smiles and fistbumps in the hallways. My students only see this rectangular version of my face, the same books in the background. No arms hardly, no legs. I cannot dance like a lunatic at prom with them, I cannot sit on the bleachers and chat with their parents at the baseball game. I miss all these micro-interactions. I miss my "hallway kids". I miss all my students. 

I hope during this teacher appreciation week we can all appreciate that while teachers, of course, teach content in the classroom, we teach character all throughout the building. We teach with our hearts and our souls and there is not a monitor big enough or HD enough to capture that. 

TO MY BABY DAUGHTER  a spoken word poem by Leslie B Patient

(performed at Ranney School V-Day 2020)

In the late evening twilight I hold you close, my baby daughter

You drink in the miraculous milk my body knows to make for you

I am your creator, your protector

Your tiny hand grips my finger 

And I am taken aback by an ancient primal rage pulsing in my veins

My breath catches, my eyes widen

I am a lioness

A Mother Bear

And I am sure that if anything

Anyone should ever hurt you

I would kill them with my bare hands.

The feeling scares me at first

An ancient lineage of warrior queen mothers

Whispering in my ear

Will I be strong enough to shoulder

The weight of this responsibility 

Will I, like Ceres, make the earth grow cold

If someone steals my Persephone

Will I, like Hecuba, stave off the Argive soldiers

To wrap my arms around my Cassandra

Will I, like Meena Kamal, sacrifice my own life 

For my daughter’s right to freedom

You have supped full

Your eyes fluttering to sleep

And I bundle you tightly in your mint green blanket

As if fleece and white stars can protect you

And the flash of fear erupts again

Creating a wormhole in my mind

You are four years old 

In the fountain on the eastside of the city

And the little girl you were playing with

Says you are weird

she doesn’t like you

she won’t play anymore

And your eyes are pools of sorrow

But I can’t make her be friends with you

You are nine years old

Swinging on a bannister 

Then run to me holding your two front teeth

In your hand

And I know I cannot fix you

You are eleven

With the swagger of an independent soul

at the amusement park

You ride the coaster on your own

And when I get to the exit you are not there

And I panic

Circumnavigating the entire park

Only to learn you had gone back to take another ride

You are fourteen and the boy who said you had to prove your love

No longer answers your texts

Instead he calls you a slut to his friends

Who were your friends

And now they are not

And you cannot breathe

Or think

Or feel

For months

Until one night you say

“Stay with me, Mom, I’m afraid to be alone”

And for a moment you are my baby daughter, again

and the lioness in me wants to roar and bare her teeth

But I cannot tear the flesh from that boy’s bones

Even if I want to 

Because it’s not his power anymore

But a deeper darkness inside you I must fight

When you are sixteen I stand and watch an ambulance take you 

To some kind of safety 

But too far away from my arms

And the emptiness is crushing

Because I had wanted to protect you

But I couldn’t

Then you are seventeen and we sit in a car and you are stoned

And you are raging

And you say “I Hate You With Every Part of My Being”

in a voice controlled by Satan or poison

You kick and punch

And I want to slap you

Instead

I hold you tight

Squeezing you in Mother Bear arms

And tell you that I love you

That you are my baby daughter

And I will not let the darkness take you

You grow limp as if that incantation is exorcism enough

For you to believe I will do everything in my power

To always keep you in the light

The wail of mothers from ancient dawn reverberate 

In the black hole of my mind

They hear the cries of their daughters

Who are hurt 

Harassed

Raped 

Mutilated

Killed

Warrior matrons beating on burnished steel breastplates

Until our knuckles bleed knowing our only hope

Is to give you tools and strength to be warriors

Yourselves 

and if you die in battle

At least we gave you the iron daggers to maim the enemy

Because your mother’s jaws of rage, her claws of vengeance are impotent

To the myriad powers against you 

We can only slow them down with the strength of our hearts

But we must teach you that you are special

We must teach you to fight your own battles

We must teach you that you are strong

And no one has the right to make you feel small

But there you are again, my tiny baby daughter, snuggled in your crib

Your little belly breaths grow longer, deeper

And I look at you one last lingering moment

Feeling peace flood back in as I gaze at the calm

Of your pink alabaster face.

And I step quietly out of your room.

SAJJA'S POPSICLES

(a story still in need of revision-- ASSIGNMENT: Suspense, Key, Social Worker)

Who knew that crazy skinny white girl would get under my skin in only four months? I was caught off guard this morning by the panic I felt when she didn’t show up for our weekly appointment. Maybe it was because at our very first session she said, “Myra Meeks, if I ever miss an appointment, I mean EVER, it’s because the BTD finally got me.” I found it oddly endearing how she always used my full name and I was fascinated with how this barely twenty-one-year-old managed to spew the most outlandish garbage with a kind of prophetic truth. She always appeared strung-out, this scrawny pink-haired scarecrow with a pale freckled face, sucking on her Juul like it was a lollipop. She seemed to be playing the part of an addict half the time. Everyone else in the clinic called her Loopy Lindsey, but I learned quickly not to underestimate her. Lindsey O’Neill had a clarity in her eyes and a lucidity in her logic that always had me questioning how she got on my caseload in the first place.
So this morning when Lindsey didn’t come to our appointment, and didn’t answer my texts, her ominous first session words rang in my ears. I still didn’t know who BTD was though after a couple of months meeting with Lindsey I did know that he was wealthy and he was powerful, and she had some kind of hefty goods on him because she lived rent free, “payment for my silence, Myra Meeks.”  I often questioned whether he was pimping her, she always said, “No” with a lingering “not me” at the end of her sentence every time.
Lindsey was referred by NYU Langone after her best friend and roommate Gina Tozza threw herself off the top of Bopst Library. Not long after, Lindsey downed a bottle of Vicodin that’s how her file landed on my desk. “Caucasion female, college dropout, confirmed opioid addiction, estranged from single mom in Arizona” was about all I knew of Lindsey on paper. But I learned a great deal more in our sessions.
We started with in-homes so I could assess her environment. Lindsey and Gina’s apartment was a sweet third floor walk-up on Bleeker Street, just above Bo Thai Cafe. Pretty prime real estate, so whatever in the world Lindsey was holding over this “BTD”, it was hefty enough to rank the kind of apartment a social worker like me could only dream of, or marry into. Deep shiny walnut floors, two spacious bedrooms with private baths. I joked that I was going to move in. “Myra Meeks, I’d totally have you, but ol’ BTD won’t let me replace our Gina.” There were pictures of Gina and Lindsey all over the apartment. She and Lindsey on Spring Break in Cancun, smiling in parkas on a ski slope, standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial. That first day, and every time I came to the apartment,  Lindsay pointed to the 8x10 on the mantle. It must have been Gina’s high school senior photo, her head tilted and her long brunette curls falling on her shoulders.  “That’s our Gina, Myra Meeks.” And she would always add, as if it were Gina’s surname, “My Dead Roommate.” Then she’d kiss her two fingers and point first to her heart, then to the sky and say “Gina, always you, me, and Truth popsicles, R.I.P.”
As I hustled out of the clinic to walk the six blocks to Thai Bow my breath caught in the back of my throat. I saw Gina Tozza My Dead Roommate’s familiar face smiling from the Daily News at the stand on the corner of Mercer and Third. Gina, in a gold sequined tube top dress sat on the lap of another eerily familar face, current GOP candidate for president, Ted Dean.  “What Did Teddy Know?” I checked my phone, no texts from Lindsey. I quickened my pace.
It was only last week when Lindsey and I went downstairs to the cafe and ate spring rolls in celebration of Lindsey’s “100 days clean”. I remarked about how good it smelled as we came down the back alley into the restaurant kitchen. “Gina said it made her want to barf when she was pregnant.” And then Lindsay high-fived all the kitchen staff hugging the owner Sajja as he guided us to a small table in the corner of the cafe. Then Lindsey plopped down in the caneback chair as if she hadn’t just dropped that juicy piece of information into my head like a bomb. I just needed to slot that away in my Loopy Lindsey file, because that was the end of the conversation. When I went to hand Lindsay back her apartment key, since our in-homes were concluded, she closed it back into my palm, “Myra Meeks, you need to keep that, woman. In case I ever relapse.” She air quoted “relapse” and then spoke very softly leaning across the wobbly table. “Myra Meeks, keep it mad subtle, but look over my right shoulder, you see a fat Greek man chowing on Pad Thai?” I nodded slightly. “If I ever o.d. and you see him anywhere in the vicinity, you need to know I didn’t o.d. You keep the key.” And then another abrupt end of sentence.
I felt the teeth of Lindsey’s key dent into my palm now as I clenched my fists.
About two blocks away, I could see him, the fat Greek man sitting on the bench in front of the restaurant. My chest tightened. I had to consciously think of breathing. Still mixed in a sea of people, I slid down the alley toward the back of the cafe texting Lindsey one last time. No response. My next call was to my cousin Shereen at the 9th precinct. “Can you send Jameel or someone to Bow Thai, on Bleecker, tell him to come around the back? No lights.” I didn’t know why I had this pit in my stomach, but I wasn’t about to take my chances with fat Greek guy. I was consciously trying to slow my breath. I started to say, “Be alive. Be alive. Be alive.” The coconut spiciness of Tom kha kai pricked my nose. Sajja was on the stoop smoking a cigarette. It was as if we both had different Lindsey nuggets to the puzzle, because when he saw my face, he immediately stamped his cig, and followed me up the backstairs. I pounded on the door. “Lindsey! It’s Myra!” I looked at Sajja, he was biting his lip and started banging. I put the key in the lock.
I have had similar scenes seared into my mind before. The needle in the arm, the listless body, blue lips. The deafening silence. I almost reflexively yelled to Sajja to call 9-1-1 but then remembered Greek guy. “A blue Explorer is going to be around the back. He’s a cop. Jameel. Get him!” And I was already fumbling in my purse for the Narcan spray. “Be alive. Be alive. Be alive.” I rolled Lindsey to her side, cradling her small head in my lap. I pumped the spray, hoping time was on my side. Eternal seconds passed, then the gurgle, the cough. Never was I happier to be barfed on. Lindsey looked up at me, weak and slurring, “Hello, Myra Meeks.” She let out a wheeze. I heard footsteps coming down both ends of the hall and froze. Lindsey’s eyes grew wide.
“Stay still. It’s my friend Detective Johnson.” But it wasn’t. Fat Greek guy was standing in the doorway.
“Step away from her.”
“Not on your life.”
But as he tried to approach us Jameel and Sajj came running in. Jameel flashed his badge and his gun, “Thanks very much, big guy, we need someone like you to help get her down the stairs.” And just like that, Lindsey’s almost murderer carried her tiny body to the Ford Explorer. Jameel flashed his eyes at his partner who had gotten out of the car and immediately started reading Greek guy his Mirandas
Lindsey lay in the back, her head on my lap her voice was weak, but she still managed another “Myra Meeks,” then another wheeze, “tell Sajja it’s time for popsicles.” Sajja heard her and ran back into the kitchen returning with a large box of mango popsicles.
“Lindsey, you don’t need the whole box, we need to get you to the hospital.”
“They aren’t popsicles, Myra Meeks.”
I slowly opened the box and inside was a plastic bag of some kind of giant blod clot.
“Lindsey, what is this?”
“Oh, just Big Teddy Dean and Gina’s baby.”

FEEDBACK FROM NYC MIDNIGHT JUDGES:

''SAJJA'S POPSICLES'' by Leslie Patient -   WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - {1964}  There is a vibrant, chaotic narrative voice propelling this story along at breakneck speed, which suits its tone and works within the genre of suspense. Lindsey is reckless but likable, thanks to Myra's endearing portrayal of her friend.  {1919}  Sajja's Popsicles has engaging prose and excellent attention to detail. The characters are nuanced and well-developed, right down to Lindsey's endearing habit of calling Myra by her full name. The great pacing and solid plot development make this a truly compelling suspense. Well done.  {1955}  I like the section that describes Lindsey calling Gina her "dead roommate" and the little ritual that follows. Good characterization.

The plot thickens when Myra sees Gina Tozza on the Daily News. This made me curious to read more.

Nice description: “I felt the teeth of Lindsey’s key dent into my palm.”

The story includes good sensory details, such as the “coconut spiciness of Tom kha kai” followed by the cigarette smoking.

Eww . . . that ending. It made an impact.  WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - {1964}  The investigative quality of the story is incredibly interesting and the conclusion could be a satisfying end; however, the popsicle box with the blood clot that is Gina's baby is confusing. There is a slight disconnect between scenes - even in moments when Myra is attempting to enter the apartment and suddenly is turning Lindsey over - that seem to skip over connective moments in the plot. The writer might consider using more of the allotted word count to supplement these disjointed beats with more expository detail.  {1919}  You might consider elaborating on what Teddy Dean knows regarding what Lindsey knows. He's obviously aware she knows about the pregnancy since he's paying her rent and keeping her under close watch. But does he know about the fetus in the freezer?

It seems like Lindsey would have to have told him something about it for her to successfully blackmail him. Otherwise, he could just deny any accusation by her as a lie. If he does know about it, or at least know she has some kind of physical, tangible proof, why didn't the Greek guy ransack the apartment when he drugged Lindsey? If Teddy was willing to have her killed, wouldn't he also take the precaution of destroying any evidence linking him to Gina's pregnancy? Tying up this loose end will help strengthen the resolution of this great narrative.  {1955}  Even though the ending was a surprising twist, I didn’t understand why Sajja had the blood clot/baby. And why Lindsey wanted it. Consider clarifying to avoid confusion.

Consider fine tuning the formatting for easier reading by keeping body language and dialogue of one character in one paragraph and starting a new paragraph when switching to a different character.

Example:

Never was I happier to be barfed on. Lindsey looked up at me, weak and slurring, “Hello, Myra Meeks.”

Sample revision:

Never was I happier to be barfed on.

Lindsey looked up at me, weak and slurring, “Hello, Myra Meeks.”

[Since the indentation feature doesn’t work here, the line space designates two separate paragraphs.]