still fluttering around above him. Ian catches glimpses of the pages up there, flickering on and off as they waft in the breezeless, failing afternoon light. It’s a peaceful image that’s in stark contrast to the feel of the wind shear buffeting Ian’s lateral line, the pinstripe of sensory epithelial cells that runs down the length of every fish’s body.
The lateral line is, firstly, a physiological adaptation to sense changes in water turbulence and aid in schooling with fellow fish. Coincidentally, and still unbeknownst to science, it’s also a means to judge airspeed. The feeling of the wind on his lateral line is not unpleasant. It’s akin to being in the middle of a big school of fellow fish. A warm feeling of brotherhood and camaraderie floods through Ian’s mind, and if his musculature were equipped to smile, he would. While incapable of higher thought, Ian is reactionary on a base level, and the feeling of friendship and family is something he understands.
Presently, Ian twists sidelong to the ground. By the nature of his physiology, this leaves one eye staring at the wide-open sky, with its fluttering pages and balconies passing by, and the other eye on his destination, the hard ground below. In turn, this leaves his brain conflicted. Is he to be calmed by the peaceful enormity of the crystal-blue sky and the beautifully clear day? If this is the case, Ian wishes he had eyelids to squint against the brilliance of the late-afternoon sun. Alternately, is he to be in absolute terror of the approaching sidewalk? If this is the case, Ian wishes he had eyelids to close in fright against the impending doom. Ian isn’t sure which he is supposed to feel. The result is a middling emotional state, that fine point between absolute panicked fear and complete transcendental calm.
Seven stories have passed since Ian began his descent, and already he is moving at quite a speed. He has fallen roughly a quarter the distance between his bowl and the pavement. Rounding up by a few milliseconds, that is roughly one second into his fall. In this short distance, he has already reached a speed of twenty-two miles per hour. To this point, there’s a steadily building headwind, which Ian finds increasingly uncomfortable, primarily due to its drying qualities. Again, he finds his lack of eyelids and tear ducts to be quite a disadvantage.
In the manic shaking and trembling of his vision induced by the fall, his earthbound eye registers something interesting far below on the street. It offers a welcome distraction from the gumbo of confusing sensations he experiences. Ian sees flashing red lights strobing the building-shadowed street below.
When did that get there? he wonders. Has it always been there, or did it just arrive?
The lights are attached to a little box with large black numbers painted on the roof. An ambulance has pulled to the curb in front of the Seville. Traffic on Roxy has slowed in response, clotting up as it approaches the vehicle and then freeing up afterward. The aesthetic grips Ian’s mind for the moment. The perspective of it fascinates him. From this height, there’s a reassurance from a vehicle that indicates dire trouble, attesting to the fact that, from a distance, even a disaster can look peaceful.
The bustle below has slowed, calmed in the presence of the emergency vehicle, creating a coursing, multicolored thread of cars free to flow once past the ambulance. Somewhere, there’s an injured person or some other crisis. Viewed from up here, the spinning bank of red lights is tranquil, rhythmically flashing off the shadowed metal and glass and concrete and all the other hard surfaces below. They say that help has arrived. Cars slow to a crawl, and the little specks of people walking the sidewalk mill about. They stop in groups and wonder what is going on.
Ian can see the clusters of them. He wishes that Troy the snail were with him to share the sight. Even though Troy is infuriatingly dim-witted, Ian
The lateral line is, firstly, a physiological adaptation to sense changes in water turbulence and aid in schooling with fellow fish. Coincidentally, and still unbeknownst to science, it’s also a means to judge airspeed. The feeling of the wind on his lateral line is not unpleasant. It’s akin to being in the middle of a big school of fellow fish. A warm feeling of brotherhood and camaraderie floods through Ian’s mind, and if his musculature were equipped to smile, he would. While incapable of higher thought, Ian is reactionary on a base level, and the feeling of friendship and family is something he understands.
Presently, Ian twists sidelong to the ground. By the nature of his physiology, this leaves one eye staring at the wide-open sky, with its fluttering pages and balconies passing by, and the other eye on his destination, the hard ground below. In turn, this leaves his brain conflicted. Is he to be calmed by the peaceful enormity of the crystal-blue sky and the beautifully clear day? If this is the case, Ian wishes he had eyelids to squint against the brilliance of the late-afternoon sun. Alternately, is he to be in absolute terror of the approaching sidewalk? If this is the case, Ian wishes he had eyelids to close in fright against the impending doom. Ian isn’t sure which he is supposed to feel. The result is a middling emotional state, that fine point between absolute panicked fear and complete transcendental calm.
Seven stories have passed since Ian began his descent, and already he is moving at quite a speed. He has fallen roughly a quarter the distance between his bowl and the pavement. Rounding up by a few milliseconds, that is roughly one second into his fall. In this short distance, he has already reached a speed of twenty-two miles per hour. To this point, there’s a steadily building headwind, which Ian finds increasingly uncomfortable, primarily due to its drying qualities. Again, he finds his lack of eyelids and tear ducts to be quite a disadvantage.
In the manic shaking and trembling of his vision induced by the fall, his earthbound eye registers something interesting far below on the street. It offers a welcome distraction from the gumbo of confusing sensations he experiences. Ian sees flashing red lights strobing the building-shadowed street below.
When did that get there? he wonders. Has it always been there, or did it just arrive?
The lights are attached to a little box with large black numbers painted on the roof. An ambulance has pulled to the curb in front of the Seville. Traffic on Roxy has slowed in response, clotting up as it approaches the vehicle and then freeing up afterward. The aesthetic grips Ian’s mind for the moment. The perspective of it fascinates him. From this height, there’s a reassurance from a vehicle that indicates dire trouble, attesting to the fact that, from a distance, even a disaster can look peaceful.
The bustle below has slowed, calmed in the presence of the emergency vehicle, creating a coursing, multicolored thread of cars free to flow once past the ambulance. Somewhere, there’s an injured person or some other crisis. Viewed from up here, the spinning bank of red lights is tranquil, rhythmically flashing off the shadowed metal and glass and concrete and all the other hard surfaces below. They say that help has arrived. Cars slow to a crawl, and the little specks of people walking the sidewalk mill about. They stop in groups and wonder what is going on.
Ian can see the clusters of them. He wishes that Troy the snail were with him to share the sight. Even though Troy is infuriatingly dim-witted, Ian
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