A Rolled Cinnamon Spike

I pushed past the heavy tea tin into morning light. High above the tile floor, narrow wire rungs rattled under my weight. In the shadow between two spice jars lay a stiff, tightly curled cinnamon stick. Fragrant bark. Dense obstacle. I froze, head cocked, measuring its tapered length. Pause. Gauge leverage. With a decisive strike, I drove my sickle claw under the curled seam and flicked it backward! Clatter! The aromatic timber spun ninety degrees across the wire grate, wedging tight against the metal uprights like a crossbeam barrier. Strategic pass fortified.