above, while others backpedaled, snapping images
of the firemen busy with a slapdash yet apparently newsworthy canvas circle.
Murmurs grew organized. Ryker practiced thoughts in American English.
Chants. They are chanting. Who is
chanting? The crowd is chanting, currently.
Persons
encouraged others; those on the ground saluted those aloft, wishing them well.
Ryker glimpsed the faces of individuals. Some seemed sad yet also angry. The
street was a free area.
Symbolic gestures proliferated .
Ryker
could appreciate why freedom mattered.
The food was better, for example .
And
if one didn’t have enough food, or heat, one could move about to find a
preferable circumstance. And here was a slowly closing cage door that may not
re-open—a perceived if not correct loss of options. Here on the street,
there in the building … those looking up were free; those who looked down were
not. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the twins began to understand the event.
Humans were simple. They used so little
of their skills when they required them most.
Their not-mother had locked herself in a frustrated grief
bubble. The workers above and even the firemen appeared oblivious to her
glands. Their not-mother ’s cortisol and adrenaline had
surged, and she pumped wetness into her armpits and between her breasts. The
backs of her knees smelled different.
Vanilla bean frosting
and the sharp edge of musk.
Ryker
clicked at his brother. Each flicked shut his inner lids and backed close to
her, ears and eyes—teeth—at the ready. The twins stood guard. Even
she, as advanced as she was, remained oblivious, blind to their proximity and
the purring they provided to reassure her. As the workmen continued to block
off the upper windows, their fräulein’s emotional state seemed to disallow her
to peer up, yet she seemed to sense their progress.
Frozen.
A
man with a different hat peered from a high window then darted his head back
in. The muzzle of a rifle emerged tentatively, swept the crowd, retreated. The hat again. A cigarette planted in the middle of his
face, he steadily inhaled smoke then let the paper stick dangle from his lips.
The eyes above the smoking tube narrowed in thought then widened when an action
occurred to their owner. The soldier flicked the firebrand into the crowd below
and seconds later urine drizzled from the window. The arc of electrolytes
rained on those free folk gathered below and the chanting increased. Some
humans held things above their heads, but didn’t leave, and others sought distance. All became louder. Backfiring, his wet
disgrace had fueled their collective resolve. Jump. Jump. Jump .
The
hastily assembled canvas circle popped open , a target
of egress. A mason preparing to smear more mortar onto a window ledge took a
deep breath, focused on the red dot, and leapt. Shouting, the ring of firemen
scudded sideways a few feet to catch him.
It worked.
The
canvas diaphragm, springs, and thirty-two arms dispersed the mason’s weight. An
onlooker handed the jumper his hat, and he ducked low to tunnel through the
mass of bodies, disappearing from sight in moments. The celebratory shouts
didn’t last. They turned fearful in just a breath.
A
workman on the seventh floor, more than half-finished sealing off an
apartment’s access to the west, dug bricks frantically back into a room.
He wished to jump also.
Thin
arms grabbed at him from inside. His limbs were thicker, perhaps due to his
vocation, than the soldier’s limbs. The canvas circle awaited him as sounds of
the scuffle filtered to the street. Shoulders tensed. Every person below seemed
as though they held a part of the ring—his canvas escape, and their
fearful smells mounted. The crowd shouted encouragements at the window, past
the bits of earth baked into square rocks, to the well-muscled mason … then he
burst from the window with halo of bricks.
Too far.
The
crowd was in the way. Firemen faltered, stepping backward, forward, sideways.
Each man’s
of the firemen busy with a slapdash yet apparently newsworthy canvas circle.
Murmurs grew organized. Ryker practiced thoughts in American English.
Chants. They are chanting. Who is
chanting? The crowd is chanting, currently.
Persons
encouraged others; those on the ground saluted those aloft, wishing them well.
Ryker glimpsed the faces of individuals. Some seemed sad yet also angry. The
street was a free area.
Symbolic gestures proliferated .
Ryker
could appreciate why freedom mattered.
The food was better, for example .
And
if one didn’t have enough food, or heat, one could move about to find a
preferable circumstance. And here was a slowly closing cage door that may not
re-open—a perceived if not correct loss of options. Here on the street,
there in the building … those looking up were free; those who looked down were
not. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the twins began to understand the event.
Humans were simple. They used so little
of their skills when they required them most.
Their not-mother had locked herself in a frustrated grief
bubble. The workers above and even the firemen appeared oblivious to her
glands. Their not-mother ’s cortisol and adrenaline had
surged, and she pumped wetness into her armpits and between her breasts. The
backs of her knees smelled different.
Vanilla bean frosting
and the sharp edge of musk.
Ryker
clicked at his brother. Each flicked shut his inner lids and backed close to
her, ears and eyes—teeth—at the ready. The twins stood guard. Even
she, as advanced as she was, remained oblivious, blind to their proximity and
the purring they provided to reassure her. As the workmen continued to block
off the upper windows, their fräulein’s emotional state seemed to disallow her
to peer up, yet she seemed to sense their progress.
Frozen.
A
man with a different hat peered from a high window then darted his head back
in. The muzzle of a rifle emerged tentatively, swept the crowd, retreated. The hat again. A cigarette planted in the middle of his
face, he steadily inhaled smoke then let the paper stick dangle from his lips.
The eyes above the smoking tube narrowed in thought then widened when an action
occurred to their owner. The soldier flicked the firebrand into the crowd below
and seconds later urine drizzled from the window. The arc of electrolytes
rained on those free folk gathered below and the chanting increased. Some
humans held things above their heads, but didn’t leave, and others sought distance. All became louder. Backfiring, his wet
disgrace had fueled their collective resolve. Jump. Jump. Jump .
The
hastily assembled canvas circle popped open , a target
of egress. A mason preparing to smear more mortar onto a window ledge took a
deep breath, focused on the red dot, and leapt. Shouting, the ring of firemen
scudded sideways a few feet to catch him.
It worked.
The
canvas diaphragm, springs, and thirty-two arms dispersed the mason’s weight. An
onlooker handed the jumper his hat, and he ducked low to tunnel through the
mass of bodies, disappearing from sight in moments. The celebratory shouts
didn’t last. They turned fearful in just a breath.
A
workman on the seventh floor, more than half-finished sealing off an
apartment’s access to the west, dug bricks frantically back into a room.
He wished to jump also.
Thin
arms grabbed at him from inside. His limbs were thicker, perhaps due to his
vocation, than the soldier’s limbs. The canvas circle awaited him as sounds of
the scuffle filtered to the street. Shoulders tensed. Every person below seemed
as though they held a part of the ring—his canvas escape, and their
fearful smells mounted. The crowd shouted encouragements at the window, past
the bits of earth baked into square rocks, to the well-muscled mason … then he
burst from the window with halo of bricks.
Too far.
The
crowd was in the way. Firemen faltered, stepping backward, forward, sideways.
Each man’s
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