Excerpt 1 from Rhododendron Cigars
“Rhododendron cigars.”
The man lifts his arms as if releasing a home pigeon.
Dozens of documents take off from his hands, rise, sink or sail above the water like albatrosses.
A gust of wind changes their direction and they fly, dive and land in the park.
The ground in Battery Park is filled with them.
Taken by surprise, people watch the sheets getting stuck in bushes, in trees and under waste baskets.
The scene is like a playful game staged by the breeze.
Other documents smoothly land on the water next to the sightseeing boats and float like a flock of gulls. The man exclaims: “Hell no!”
He starts waving his arms frantically. Astonished tourists and New Yorkers see him appearing like a police officer or a firefighter shooing people away.
“Get back. Get back.” His strong voice fills with power and leadership. His hands and arms speak a clear language.
“Back off. There is a bomb. Back off.”
Panic hits the park. People run for their lives.
“You´ve got ten seconds now, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one.”
The explosion makes pigeons take to the sky and people to lie down, protecting their faces.
Heat and pressure, the speed of an attacking cheetah, build up in the blink of an eye. A vicious eruption of energy has set the device afire. The hot, compressed air melts and warps the surrounding objects, and scorches benches and shrubs. Air particles, the speed of sound, spread for the next milliseconds. It is like Aladdin leaving his lamp. After the blast a strange change of scene takes place. The roaring, lethal attack dies. Silence takes over.
The man exists no longer. His jacket is found on a bench, a shoe next to it.
The stillness is replaced by the sound of patrol cars getting closer. In minutes officers with drawn weapons are running toward the scene of the blast.