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[stormbarrierroofing]

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[cookies-and-mirrors]

Prison of Stone and Flesh

Chapter One

This is a collaborative fic between @cookiesupplier and @faceless-mirror.

Divider by @samspenandsword

Pairings: Chris x transfem!Vinny, Justin x Transmasc!Ricky, Chris x Justin x Ryan, Chris x Transmasc!Ricky, Ryan x ONBC, Ryan x transfem!Vinny, ryan x transmasc!ricky, Justin x transfem!Vinny

Christopher, Justin, and Ryan are members of the Gargoyle Order, soldiers fighting in the angels war against the demonic supernatural evils of the world to protect human kind. Through the years they lost comrades and now just the three of them remain in their little town. They have long since been abandoned by the angel that had been sworn to keep them safe and protect them during the day while they were trapped in stone.

Now, Ricky and Vinny are moving into their church to renovate and live in the space due to Ricky always found it as home as a child, stirring up old and new feelings, along with the past, posing the challenge of navigating this new chapter in their lives.

Can they navigate this path successfully and break free of the prisons that is their lives of both stone and flesh, or will they all be trapped forever in a world that could prove to be a constant misery?

Taglist: @embracethereaper42 @21-century-tae @dragon-chica @shilohrosechicken @phxntxsmicgoricxl

@missduffsblog @witchyweeb34 @spicywhenspeaking @lacktoesandtoddlerants @blackveilomens

@bngurngheart @dominuslunae @collapsedglasshouses @embracethereaper42 @emmmm127

@sunsshinesunny

(please comment/reblog/message to be added to taglist)

Outside of the church was mostly silent other than the soft noises of people talking and construction. It was a mild day at least. The roof had been fixed up and supports had been reinforced. People had been in and out of the church for weeks but now… This was a different sound. People moving in. Part of the church had been turned into an apartment-like space. Three bedrooms… and a kitchen and living room. It was nice at least and the Rectory had even had some work, plumbing replaced, fresh paint, and heating and cooling throughout the entire building.

Now, a black-haired man drifted into the building with a warm smile, blue eyes twinkling and shining as he carried a cardboard box labeled ‘kitchen’. He was followed by a curly red and brown-haired person wearing jeans and a t-shirt that hugged their masculine frame beautifully. “Ricky wait up- Holy shit it’s pretty in here- wait am I allowed to cuss? This was a church-”

“You can cuss. The gargoyles have heard me cuss enough when i was younger-” he said, stopping to wait for his companion, before looking up towards the rafters not seeing the gargoyles right away. Though when he spotted them near the altar- covered with some light graffiti he scowled rushing to them and set down the box, moving to get some soap and water and a brush. “Fuck- Vinny- Can you help me? Shit-shit-” he mumbled softly scrubbing away the graffiti, cupping Loyalty’s face gently, “Hey- Hey i came home. I’m here- Let’s get you cleaned up, Loyalty… Trust you’re next.” he insisted.

Vinny’s green eyes widened in shock seeing Ricky’s concern and they rushed over, quickly moving to help by starting on the worst- Responsibility. “So… these are your friends you told me about?” they asked looking at Ricky curiously.

The raven-haired man nodded, happy to see Loyalty’s face free of paint and staining. “Yeah. Loyalty, Trust, and Responsibility. That’s Responsibility you’re working on.” He explained, smiling softly up at Loyalty petting his cheek. “Guys this is Vinny, she’s my friend I made in Washington.” His voice was deeper, and his smile was just as sweet as when he was younger. He moved to scrub Trust of paint, his hand falling from Loyaltys cheek gently as he did.

Christopher had been irate when the construction had finally started. Finally, considering the builders and architects had been coming and going through their home for weeks prior to any work to their space being actually done, and to make matters worse… it didn’t actually scare off the teenagers. Some time back, it had become a popular dare for the local hooligans to see who could get in here, climb up to the rafters, and tag one of the gargoyles in the most inappropriate way.

The ones that had managed to crawl underneath them and managed to tag their groins certainly had reached the top of the list. The problem was, being able to wash away the graffiti from their stone forms was extremely difficult. They couldn’t move when they were stone, what were they to do, transform in the river and way for the water to rush by long enough to wash the dried paintaway? It didn’t work, and it didn’t disappear when they shifted back and forth.

Now, seeing these two moving into their home after desecrating the church by, by completely changing it. Their home, while holy ground to them, following the edicts of the angels, admittedly hadn’t been a place of worship for a long time. These humans coming in and tearing it apart, changing everything, it had Christopher seething from the moment they first stepped in here with their equipment, that was even before they started moving in today.

Then there was the two that came up to platforms where they were perched in their stone prisons, still, trapped and unable to move in the light of day. The voices, the voices had already drifted up here long before they did, hearing the other call him Ricky, and Justin seeing him once they’d climbed up here from that apartment space.. He knew it was him. It was Ricky. He’d come home.

Stone eyes watched Ricky as his soft touch scrubbed at the markings on the stone skin of his face. He looked, his smile just as it always was, there was no missing that. Though, he sounded different.. A good different. He sounded happy.

Vinny. Christopher blinking at this female that was cleaning him, her touch scrubbing at some of the multitude of markings that covered him. He did bear the brunt of the markings, his pride of place more prominent than Loyalty and Trust, he was the commander of the unit, and his placement showed it. In turn became the prime target for shenanigans. Did he question her muscular frame with her jeans and shirt, no, stone eyes merely regarded her curiously, still, refusing to be pleased at their presence.. Ricky, how could you do this to their home?

Ryan was in absolute disagreement with Christopher to his frustration to the updating to their home. With how long it had been since anyone of true honest religious intent had stepped foot on these grounds, it was about time someone put the holy ground to good use once more. To them, it would always be holy ground, because their work, was always going to be in the name of the angels. As long as they resided here, and still functioned in fighting their war on their behalf, they did their duty.. As long as they breathed, they fought.

Trust they would always fight, and Ryan, he trusted, and he hoped others would trust him just as much. He was glad to have Ricky home.

Ricky was scrubbing Trust free of the paint now soothingly humming to them. “I'm going to take some pictures of the gargoyles and find a better place for them. I was thinking the Rectory so that they wont be as accessible-” Ricky babbled sweetly with a grin as he worked finally getting the last of the paint off of Trust.

“I think the rectory would be perfect. Is that why you put in the window so we can check on them sometimes?” Vinny asked kneeling as she scrubbed the rest of Responsibility without much thought as movers moved some of their stuff up into their apartment across from the rectory.

The Rectory. It was where they retreated enough as it was, it was how they got cleaned up when some of their battles got, messy. If they couldn’t find other means. Of course, it was easier to use since the place had been abandoned and was no longer used to house the local parish priest. Ryan found it curious that Ricky would put them in there, however he was, it would be a place that could be closed off from the rest of the church opposed to here, and unbeknownst to him, had perfect balcony for them to fly from when they head out on patrol. They could come and go as they needed to continue their work, and it would be far less having to hide from the mortals down below in the church open space.

“Precisely. I figured it’d be nice for them to have a space just for them.” Ricky explained gently. “I'll arrange for the construction workers to help move them up to the rectory.”

Christopher wasn’t listening to Ricky, he was trying to focus on anything else but what was happening around him. Nope, not listen, he was thinking of battle strategy, and the report on the rogue vampire pack that had been trolling the east side of town last night that Justin had brought back to him that they needed to follow up on. Yes, that was what he was attempting to focus on, anything but the way Vinny’s scrubbing brush was moving over his skin underneath his belly. No, his body couldn’t physically react in his stone form, but he could feel every single stroke of that rough brush against the thick porous skin.

Ricky stepped back and noticed what Vinny was doing, sliding down to scrub Trust's crotch first, his eyes wide when he noticed there were actually… dick and balls. “Oh shit… well. Let's get you cleaned up. Loyalty, I'll help you shortly. Trust doesn't have as much paint down here i dont think.”

Trust wasn't too big but thick at least making ricky blush. He was grateful he had never noticed until now.

Vinny giggled and smiled softly, “it was a nice surprise.” She commented with a smirk as Ricky scrubbed away.

A nice surprise. A nice surprise, that was what the female said of scrubbing Christopher’s groin. Oh boy. It was blessing that is was mid afternoon and the sun was still out, forcing them to be rigid as stone, and not in the way that would make what the pair was doing to them even more embarrassing. It was a blessing, because hearing the way this Vinny just giggled like that and said it was a nice surprise, would have had him falling over with laughter, there would be no hiding, even trying to keep his stone form.. Thousands of years of keeping the secret wasted over two mortals scrubbing his commanders cock of graffitti. Oh, the angels. This was priceless.

Justin was no better, he was no better, until he remembered something, Ricky said he would be going next.

Shit.

He moved back to Loyalty finally and blushed seeing exactly what Loyalty had been packing compared to Trust. Oh. Oh. He swallowed cheeks burning as his mouth watered, “oh fuck I would take you in a heart beat if you were erect.” He mumbled.

His face burned as he realized what he had just said when Vinny snorted. “Size king.” She said softly, as she scrubbed a bit harder at Responsibilties’ length noting some stubborn paint.

“As if you arent a size queen.” He retorted his focus on cleaning though he allowed himself to let his fingers glide over his cock teasingly for a moment under the guise of feeling for paint.

No, no, absolutely not. Justin did not hear that. He did not hear that. He was not imagining that. This was Ricky. Ricky. Hear that. Ricky, whom used to sleep curled up in a pew down below, crying over his father being an ignoramus- oh that was, Ricky needed to stop that, now, immediately, Justin had to fight now to groan. Any sound he made was swallowed on the wind through the rafters of the Church, thank the Heavens, please, please, Ricky, just finish quickly and be done. Justin eyes were focused on the far beams across the rafters, mentally going over his different weapons that he had tucked away in his arsenal. His daggers, his blades, his dual warrior swords, those were his specialty.

Christopher was doing no better, he had started itemizing the reports one by one for the past week as he had run out of the vampire issue from the night before. Most of the reports were verbal of course, magically recorded rather than waste the likes of trees as per humans did. Vinny, Vinny seemed to be taking a prolonged time with her scrubbing. Ryan was done and moved on to Justin already, and Vinny was still at work, and as, as… he couldn’t lie about how… pleasing it felt… What was he going to do?

Finally, Vinny pulled back smiling at her work and smirked. “Okay. I’m gonna finish taking boxes upstairs- she said kissing Ricky's cheek before slipping off. There was a long silence before Ricky was satisfied and sighed in relief. “All better now… I’m gonna have you guys moved now…” he murmured drying his hands.

Oh, he could try to calm down now, Christopher was thankful that the siren had taken her hands off of him. Watching as she pressed that tiny kiss to Ricky’s cheek. Oh. Oh wasn’t that interesting. Ricky had said they were friends, but from watching humans over the centuries, most friends were less close in such a manner than that, such nonchalant kisses tended to be reserved for more intimate relations. Could it be that Ricky had found himself a partner?

Well, in that case, Christopher wished them well.

Of course, he would be infinitely happier for them, if the pair hadn’t decided to completely decided to upend and destroy his home. It was a Church, not whatever they were turning it into!

Ricky talked to the construction crew and they set to work to move the gargoyles into the Rectory, careful with the new drywall in the smaller apartment. He sighed softly, smiling to himself as he helped move things into the apartment with Vinny, setting things up. It felt amazing to be home and peaceful for once. He was arranging to have it still remain looking most like a church, but he and Vinny had decided the outcome of the building. It would be their home, along with being a coffee shop during the day and a bar at night. He had found a beautiful old bar that would be perfect for both and fit into the decor perfectly.

It would be a few more weeks until it was fully ready to open but Vinny had been delighted at the thought of opening the business. Seeing that joy alone was priceless to him… Beautiful and endearing… how could he resist?

He tied his long hair back up into a bun as he worked and helped with some of the smaller details in the apartment. It was beautiful and perfect in his mind. This was and would be his only home. It had been for so long already. And with his grandparents now… gone… he felt even more sure of himself that this was where he was meant to be.

- - - - -

Finally, Ricky had finished up enough and set some coasters out in the Rectory, a pumpkin latte, black coffee, and a sweet caramel coffee with whipped cream placed in each one. The coasters were homemade one for each of the gargoyles. He smiled and looked at them exhausted, “Thank you for being here. I’m going to be here for you too.” he admitted softly, “Vinny and I are locking the church up now and I’m going to make dinner before bed. You’re safe now. No one will do that again to you. I promise.”

He left, flipping off the lights leaving the gargoyles alone with the beverages as the sun began to fully dip below the horizon. “Oh. And every day I finish my work I’m going to leave some drinks for you all to enjoy. The coasters will be moved to the bar.

Then there was the soft click of the door shutting and the sound of his footsteps clicking down the stairs.

[breakingnewsforyoublog]

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[canconstruction]

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[tsthrace]

What does a girl do when she realizes she needs to cut an entire chapter from her WIP because it doesn’t fit? She posts it to tumblr. 

So yeah, this starts to build a scary world that might look a little too close to our world. It might introduce you to this badass trauma surgeon, Dr. Griffin, who needs to make a quick escape. And then it might leave you hanging. Forever. 

Well, not exactly forever. This is now Clarke’s backstory for my WIP. She’ll resurface years later on a church-turned-farmstead. Guess who’s the priest of this church? So yeah...

Content warning: mention of rape (but no rape itself) and just general hits-too-close-to-home: you know—fascism, totalitarianism, misogyny, toxic masculinity. Oh, and Clarke swears a lot.

It’s angsty. That’s what I do.

3,260 words. No tagging for Clexa, because Lexa doesn’t come on the scene yet.

It’s also posted over on ao3 if you’d rather read it there.

---

We all thought it couldn’t happen here, even as it was happening here.

Clarke had been running for so long that she wasn’t sure if she was still being chased. She had spent the last six years wandering through parts of Washington she never knew existed. First to an abandoned sawmill a few miles east of Mansford in the mountains. It was a glorified barn, really, but a community of refugees from Seattle had been gathering there, doing their best to patch up the building’s roof and walls. Then, there was still enough gas to transport what they needed if they rationed properly. But they were all adjusting to life without electricity, without phones, without any sense of who they were without those things. 

She was there only three months when word came that a militia had materialized in Darrington and was registering children and looking for doctors and healers. Healers. That’s what they called women with Clarke’s skills. People who had gone to school for 13 years, who had prioritized their craft over their health, their family, their relationships for a grueling residency followed by an only slightly less grueling fellowship. They called men doctors, even if they were less educated, less skilled, and less practiced.

Fuck them. Clarke’s response had become reflexive. It was her internal response when the police came that first night of what some called the Resistance but what the police called the Riots. 

Unrest had been brewing for months, but It was when the President “temporarily” suspended the First Amendment right to assemble that all hell broke loose. Thousands of protestors became tens of thousands, even in small cities like Spokane and Tacoma. Police traded rubber bullets for real ones, patrol cars for tanks, pistols for AK-47s. Dozens of people landed in Clarke’s hospital, some gone before they were taken out of the ambulance, ripped apart by the people sworn to serve and protect them. 

That was the night two officers were trawling the halls of her ward, looking for “resistors” to arrest. 

“They’re unconscious,” Clark said slowly. “They’re sedated because they’re waiting to go into surgery.” She knew it was a bad idea to talk to them like they were kindergartners, but she couldn’t stop herself. What these men were doing was sick. Her patients were here because of them. Some of them filled with bullet holes, their lives barely clinging to them, others with collapsed lungs caused by broken ribs, others with simple fractures who would be out to fight another day. But Clarke wasn’t going to tell these guys that.

“Is there someone else we can talk to?” The officer said. His name badge said Blakely. “Maybe your boss?”

Clarke felt her fingernails digging into her palm. “Officer Blakely—”

“Corporal Blakely.”

Clarke went on as if she didn’t hear him. “I’m the person with the highest seniority here right now. If you’d like me to call the Chief of Surgery...”

Blakely pulled out a pad and pen. “What’s his name?”

“Her name is Dr. Marris.”

Blakely scoffed but wrote down the name.

“Is there a problem?” Clarke bent a little to catch his eye with her glare.

“Not at all.”

After that night, everything changed. The President sent in federal troops. There were tanks outside police precincts, and men in uniform carrying AK-47s stood at every corner in downtown and Capitol Hill. They rode the light rail, searching for enemies and booting out anyone who fell asleep on the trains. Curfews were instituted. Clarke had to have her ID and a letter from the hospital ready after every shift. The same soldiers (or were they cops?) stopped her every night, even after the sixth time when everyone knew everyone’s names. She had written theirs down. Because fuck them.

Two months later, the Seattle PD renamed themselves Washington’s 1st Militia when the President had encouraged all “patriots and protectors of freedom to band together, arm, and fight for American values.” Police departments across the country took this as a rallying call. They traded their police uniforms for military fatigues. They tore off their city badges and replaced them with a thin blue line. Bros before everything else, even democracy. 

They pulled her out of the OR as soon as she wrapped up a craniotomy. It was her third surgery of the day, and her hands were stiff, her scrubs covered in sweat. The two soldiers’ assault rifles startled her, but she’d seen enough gore in her time to know how to keep a straight face. Blakely was back, but this time he was dressed like he was serving in a desert war zone.

“Officer Blakely.” She remembered he was a corporal but fuck him.

The corner of Blakely’s mouth lifted in a sharp smirk. She watched as his eyes glided down her body. “Congratulations, Ms. Griffin, you’ve been recruited to Washington’s First. We are in need of fine healers like yourself.” 

Fuck you. The words raced through her mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She understood by now that those words aloud could do nothing but put her in danger. “How can I be of service?” she asked evenly, looking him straight in the eye. She had heard rumors that the militias were taking medical workers from their hospitals and clinics to set up their own facilities, but she thought they’d only take men for their specialists and surgeons.

“You need to come with us,” Blakely looked down at the sweat stains under her arms.

Clarke didn’t move. “What kind of healers are you looking for?” she asked in her most neutral tone. 

“A variety, ma’am.” Blakely’s jaw stiffened.

A small crowd of the floor’s staff had gathered at the nurses’ station, halfheartedly pretending to work while they watched the interaction.

“Like nurses? There are a lot of nurses here who are much better at their jobs than I would be.” Clarke laughed lightly and glanced at the nurses. “I’d make a terrible nurse.”

A few of the nurses nodded, their eyes smiling because smiling with their lips might bring trouble.

“We already have healers for that kind of work.” Blakely took in a breath and looked around the floor, frustrated. He knew he’d said too much. “Maybe we should go somewhere—”

“Then I can’t possibly think why you’d need me. I’m sure there are doctors who can meet your needs.”

“Ms. Griffin—”

“After all, there are two other trauma surgeons on staff here more suited to your, uh, preferences.” Clarke glanced down at Blakely’s groin.

“I was sent to find you, Ms. Griffin.”

The more he called her “Ms.,” the more her resolve solidified. “I just can’t imagine what anyone would want with little old me.” She covered her voice in maple syrup. “Dr. Lee and Dr. Bancroft are very fine surgeons, very respectable. Dr. Lee graduated top of his class from UW. I’m supervising his fellowship, and he’s very skilled.” Clarke let the words roll like waves along a beach on a calm day. “And Dr. Bancroft is who we call whenever we need a feeding tube done right the first time. His focus on fundamentals is exceptional—”

“They want you,” Blakely said more loudly than he intended.

Say it, she taunted him with a sharp look, though the words that came out were light. “I’ll call Dr. Lee. I’m sure he’d be more suitable to you—”

“Ms. Griffin—”

“You’d rather have Dr. Bancroft? Sorry. I thought you’d want the more skilled surgeon, but to be honest, we do perform a lot more feeding tube placements than major—”

“We know you’re the best.” Blakely growled, giving in. 

Clarke had won, but she still felt empty. “You can’t even call me a doctor.” 

“Protocol.” Blakely refused to look at her. “Come with us, ma’am.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You can appeal on grounds of pregnancy or motherhood.”

Clarke scoffed. “Of course.” She didn’t even try to hide her disdain, though she knew she had to play along. She looked down at her scrubs. “I need to change.”

“Of course,” Blakely said. His smile was sharp, an insult. “Though we’ll need to supervise.”

Clarke bit down hard. She had not joined the Resistance, but she’d been obsessively keeping track of their Instagram posts at @emeraldcityjustice. Militiamen never raped, she’d learned, especially if the woman was white and of marrying age. They didn’t call it rape, though, they called it “sexual theft.” They were not to spoil another man’s property (or potential property), and that meant no touching. This restriction forced men to get creative, find new ways of dominating without ruining the goods. Resisting, the posts said, meant speaking the militia’s language. 

“But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” Clarke had memorized some key verses, and she said this one loud enough for everyone around the nursing station to hear it. “Matthew 5:28. I think those are words in red. You know, Jesus. The son of God himself.” She would not let these fuckers anywhere near her. 

Blakely squinted and his face turned to stone.

“The locker room is on the second floor,” she said. “You two are welcome to wait outside the door, if you like.” Clarke strode towards the elevator. Blakely glared at her a few moments before nodding at his partner. They followed her into the elevator. Clarke looked at her watch. 10:15 p.m. Shift change. The locker room would be packed. 

“We need to sweep,” Blakely said as they stepped off the elevator and approached the locker room door.

Clarke sighed loudly. There was no use in arguing. Blakely nodded towards the key swipe. Clarke swiped her badge and a little red light on the handle turned green. Blakely opened the door then turned conspicuously so that his back was facing the opening.

“This is Corporal Blakely of Washington’s First Militia,” he shouted into the room. The volume of his voice made Clarke jump. “Private Cooks and I will be doing a sweep of this locker room in two minutes. Those who are not appropriately covered at that time will be taken into custody.” Blakely let the door close behind him and set a timer on his Apple watch.

Are you fucking kidding me? Clarke didn’t say out loud.

Five minutes later, Blakely and Cooks were back out in the hallway. Clarke knew they wouldn’t find anything. The locker room was a windowless space that was mostly concrete and tile. It had one exit, a fire hazard long ignored because that part of the hospital had been built 140 years ago. The only other door was a closet full of cleaning supplies.

Blakely nodded at Clarke to go inside. 

“You have five minutes,” he said, fiddling with his watch again.

“I’d like to shower.”

“Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. If you don’t come out on time, we will come in.”

Clarke swallowed and pushed through the door. Dozens of annoyed eyes lifted as she walked in. She just shook her head as she walked past them. 

Because it was an old hospital, doctors—female doctors, even surgeons—shared the locker room with nurse supervisors, charge nurses and other medical staff who had seniority. (Male doctors, especially surgeons, did not share a locker room with anyone, of course.) It bothered Clarke on principle, but for the most part she liked being around the non-doctor staff, and it didn’t hurt to have a friendly relationship with the nurses when she was on the floors. 

The women’s eyes quickly went back to their tasks of leaving. Between the unrest and a new virus no one seemed to know anything about, the hospital, which was already under-resourced, had been over capacity for weeks now. Everyone was tired, stressed, and getting more and more afraid. They just wanted to get home as soon as possible. The later at night, the more aggressive the patrols got. 

Clarke walked to her locker and took a few deep breaths as she quickly spun the lock to its numbers and pulled it open. She took off her white coat and hung it on the hanger inside. She pulled out her backpack and checked that her phone charger was inside. She pulled her wallet out and stared at her driver’s license for a long moment, not sure if it would be a liability. She decided to bring it, along with her curfew papers, and a used copy of The Obelisk Gate she’d picked up from Horizon Books a few weeks ago but never opened. Next, she stuffed her street clothes inside along with two sets of clean scrubs (only later would she wonder why she took the scrubs). Finally, she grabbed the two boxes of protein bars and four bottles of Gatorade that she kept there to keep her energy up on long shifts.

Clarke almost laughed at how much could fit in her small backpack. 

She looked at her watch. Three minutes left. Shit. She almost forgot to switch watches. She pulled off the little cheap thing she used at the hospital and replaced it with her dad’s chunky but sleek metal piece. It was heavy on her wrist, but that’s what she liked about it. Somehow she felt safer with it on.

She swallowed. She needed to move, but to move meant everything would be different. She threw her shoulders back, lifted her hands in front of her, palms up as if making an offering, and took in a deep breath. It’s what she did whenever she was about to make a first cut. She closed her eyes, felt the ground solid under her feet, felt her heart slow to steady saunter. 

Clarke smiled to herself. It was a heavy smile, sad and defiant. Fuck them.

She grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and walked to the broom closet.

“You alright, Dr. Griffin?” A voice rang out. Veró, the charge nurse from the post-op wing, looked up as Clarke was about to go inside. Her eyes were nervous.

“I will be,” Clarke replied as she closed the door. “Take good care of yourself, Veró. Be safe. You didn’t see me, okay?”

Veró nodded. “You stay safe, Clarke.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. Her smile was heavy with concern. “I didn’t see nothing.” 

Clarke held Veró’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded, stepped into the closet, and closed the door behind her. It was a small space, but large enough for two people to fit—a fact Clarke had exploited with Lu, a nurse from the Telemetry unit, several times. There was a small, dirty, pointless window at the top of the closet that she and Lu had covered with a tray from the cafeteria so that the janitors in their breakroom across the alley couldn’t watch them taking their break. During the day, thin streaks of light leaked in around the edges. Clarke was grateful it was so late and that the alley outside got so little light. The metal shelving served as the perfect ladder, sturdy and wide. She disrupted the toilet paper and big bottles of cleaner as she climbed, leaving hints of her escape, but there was nothing to be done about it. The top shelf was blessedly empty, too high up to be useful.

She pulled the tray out of the way to reveal a window that was smaller than she expected. She turned a small latch and pushed the window. It didn’t budge. She pushed it again, harder this time, though she didn’t have much leverage. Nothing happened. The shelf wobbled minutely under her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

It held steady as she gingerly pulled her full body onto the top shelf. She barely fit up there. She checked her watch. She maybe had a minute. Probably less. Clarke hit the base of the window with the flat of her palm. Nothing. She hit it again. Still nothing. She took a breath and closed her eyes. 

Please.

She hit it again and heard a tiny scrape. One more push, and the window swung open with an achy shriek. It might have been shut for decades. Clarke was lucky. The drop from the second floor window to the sidewalk was short. The alley swept upwards from 9th Ave., ending at the top with the fifth floor’s windows being at street level. 

She was out, and she had no idea what to do. By now, Blakely and Cooks would have noticed that she hadn’t come out. Maybe they’d give her another minute. She remembered the Apple watch. 

Her mind churned and tumbled. She had opened holes in skulls with drills and saws. She had cracked ribs to expose hearts that stopped beating in front of her eyes. But now, on this warm summer night on an empty sidewalk, she didn’t know what to do. So she ran. The hospital was a mess of old buildings connected by narrow alleys—easy to get lost. But Clarke had done her residency and fellowship here—spent nearly a quarter of her life here—and while she didn’t know the alleys, she knew the buildings, recognized the skyways above linking everything together. She slid from shadow to shadow in the direction of the interstate. It was an intuitive decision, the way she knew exactly where to find the bleeding in surgery. 

She kept moving, the rolling rumble of the highway getting closer. Finally, she found herself at the parking garage and knew exactly where to go. She walked calmly through the first level reserved for people going to the ED. She was careful to avoid the security booth where Mitch would be. He was a good guy, and Clarke didn’t want to bring him any trouble. She moved quickly towards an emergency exit which brought her to a fire escape facing the interstate. During her first year as resident, she and Dr. Salem used to meet there to smoke a joint after a 30-hour shift. 

She paused. Think. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Her breath caught when she came across her mom’s contact. You could have called, she could already hear her saying. We would have figured it out. Even if there was enough time for her mom to get from Whidbey Island to the city—and there wasn’t—it wouldn’t be safe. Anyone she called could be implicated and punished. Unless she chose to crawl back into the hospital, she was now an RRL, a Resistor of the Rule of Law.

This is moment everything changes. The thought cracked across her mind like lightning and disappeared just as fast. The thunder would roll on for years and years.

She closed her contacts and opened Instagram instead. She went to the @emeraldcityjustice profile. Her grin was grim as she hit the Message button. How ridiculous this world had become.

“Canada or the mountains?”

“What?” Clarke shook herself out of a haze. The driver hadn’t spoken since he picked her up from a dark corner under the interstate where @emeraldcityjustice had told her to go. They immediately turned east over the lake to Bellevue.

“You’ll have to decide at the drop point in Everett,” the driver went on. “They can either get you on a ferry to Canada or you can head to a refugee community in the mountains.” He glanced over his shoulder to the back seat where she was lying down to avoid facial recognition cameras on the interstate. “Do you want to escape or do you want to fight?”

THE END. THAT’S IT. I’M SORRY.

[ohgoddard]

Fist of Fire.7.

The sky was a crisp and light blue that day. Children laughed and ran alongside the national mall, with their parents shortly behind them. The crowds were filled and packed along the streets, as the President was soon expected to come down to them in his motorcade. The city of Washington D.C. was as tranquil as it could possibly be.

“SHS Check in, perimeter callouts.” Stationed along the street and in their work uniforms were the 12 members of Laurens SHS. Dressed in simple three piece suits, all the members were hidden in plain sight. This was an important mission, the most important in their running as the Laurens SHS. Victor had gone to many meetings and contract bidding competitions to get this position, and if successful, the company and all involved would be set for life. “Eldritch, all clear.” Victor himself was not in the crowd, but with the President himself. The image of Helios was often enough to deter any wannabe villain or criminal. “Scythe, all clear.” “Huntsman and Meteor, clear.” The crowds were roaring as their President turned the corner and began the last stretch of his return home. Inside the car, no one was for certain what was being discussed. But no doubt it was about the “Quirk Ethics and Governance” conference he just came from, which Helios also attended. “Snowthrone, all clear.” “Breakerx2, all clear.” All was going smoothly. The Job was going off without a hitch. But a thought rested in the back of every member’s head. The crowd was cheering and throwing streamers. The President had been away for months from his own country, and had been championing the rights of those with quirks on the international stage. Those with quirks were still being classified as outlaws, so they were outside the protections of the government. The President helped fix that. “Inside team reports are all good. Missing two reports.”  Inside the car, Victor was dressed in his Hero uniform. A powerful white and gold color scheme ran up and down his button up jacket and pants, being capped off with brilliant red hair. He adjusted his reading glasses as he played with the President’s young daughter who was also in the car. “Mr.President, I do hope your stay with us was enjoyable.” The President looked over at Helios and chuckled. “The best I've had yet. I might even permanently hire you. Not a single thing has happened.” Helios gave a small laugh. He turned back to the President’s daughter. “I do hope you also liked hanging out with these heroes!” The little girl looked up at Helios and gave a toothy grin, with some teeth missing. “You guyses are so cool!!! I wanna be like you when I grow up!”  Helios grinned, but was stopped from continuing his conversation any further. A static buzz in his ear, followed up by dangerous words.

“Reverse, Tapout, problem.”

The sky of D.C. were bright and blue. The parking garage four miles away, however, was not.

Tapout flew forty feet into a concrete pillar, cracking it. Reverse was not too far in front of him. His hands were raised, and he had many cuts on his arms already. In front of him was a man dressed in a wife beater and welding goggles with a purple mohawk. “I’m tired of all this. You really think you could attack me? THE San Andreas?” He let out a maniacal laugh. Reverse straightened his back. He put his hand through his hair, and let out a small laugh.”oh please. Don’t think we were anything but more than you. We just had to report something in before we ripped you to shreds. You wanna take this one Tapout?” Reverse looked behind him and saw a hand raise from the pile of rubble where Tapout was. “You go on ahead, I'm a bit occupied.” Reverse turned back to San Andreas, and cracked his knuckles. After the last snap, he was already touching noses with him. San Andreas ducked his first punch, then punched the ground. Spikes shot up from the concrete and caught Reverse’s hand, cutting a gnarly gash into it. Reverse wind-stepped through the spikes, and threw a left hook. Even though San Andreas slid to the right, the force behind the punch broke the sound barrier. San Andreas weaved behind Reverse and dropped a huge block of stone from the ceiling onto Reverse. As the dust cleared, he saw that Reverse was not there. “I got you! You weakling I got you! Now nothing can stop us! The New World Order! The Nation of those with Quirks and nothing more!” Reverse came flying out of nowhere and delivered a double kick into San Andreas’s chest. He went flying out of the parking garage and into another building. The force of his impact left a huge crater, with a pair of arms and legs dangling out. “This is Reverse,” he said as he touched his ear, “The Villain we encountered was named San Andreas. He implied there might be more, be advised.”

Helios started to talk back, but Reverse was distracted. He heard clapping come from around the corner. Out from it came The Planeteer. “Planeteer? What are you doing here? You change your mind.” The Planeteer was dressed in a similar Three Piece suit , but different from the ones the Laurens SHS was wearing. His was green and grey all over, and he had a cane for some reason. “Reverse, you did it again. You stopped a villain from disrupting the peace. Bravo, really.” The Planeteer then raised his wrist to his face and spoke, “First step complete, initiating phase 2.” At the end of that, The Planeteer tapped his cane twice against the ground, and the sky turned orange. Instantly. “You two will be the first victims of my Vision.” And then suddenly the parking garage was gone, replaced with air as Tapout and Reverse were now free falling, the Planeteer gone.

Elsewhere, the city was on fire. “Huntsman and Meteor, fighting Guang He.” “Eldritch, fighting Warcross.” “Breaker here, helping evac alongside the inside team.” “Snowthrone, putting out fires. Scratch that, fighting Molten.” Helios watched silently as he saw Scythe get thrown onto the hood of the Presidential car, before dodign the punch of what looked like a huge werewolf. He calmly turned to the President and spoke, “Sir I think it is our best interest to leave.” Helios pointed to the roof and it disintegrated into the light. 

Reverse and Tapout were beginning to see what the city was turning into. Still miles above the ground, they saw the fires starting to rise from the buildings and chaos in the streets. Explosions were going off around the capitol building, and numerous figures in black suits ran out and suddenly disappeared. “TAPOUT,” Reverse yelled through the wind, “SOMETHING IS GOING ON HERE!” “NO SHIT IDIOT! HOW ARE WE GOING TO STOP FALLING?!” Reverse struggled against the wind and pulled his hand to his ear. “THIS IS REVERSE AND TAPOUT WE ARE ABOUT 1100 FEET ABOVE THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT AND WE NEED HELP!” At the end of that broadcast, a beam of gold shot up from the streets and grabbed them mid air, and brought them to the ground. The caster of said beam was Ribbon, another Laurens SHS hero. “Reverse, Tapout what's going on?!” “Planeteer betrayed us, this is all his doing.” “What?! How?!” “HOW INDEED.” A voice echoed from above.

Helios was sprinting in the streets, shooting beams of light from his arms. The President and his service were not too far behind, moving him out of the way when explosions and debris fall or go off near him. But they all stopped and looked up when they heard that voice. “No..” Helios uttered. The ground shook and a crack opened up, consuming most of the National Mall. The President and his Service were caught on a piece of falling rock, and were taken too quickly for Helios to act. In his hands, the President’s daughter screamed as her father fell into a molten lava mass pushing itself up from the tear. Helios scanned the horizon and saw Reverse, Tapout, and Ribbon pulling people from the rubble. He flew over there, dodging bolts of lightning firing from the newly appeared dark clouds in the sky.

“Reverse,’ Helios said as he landed down near him, ‘take this girl and run. Go now! NOW!” Helios yelled as he thrust the girl into Reverse’s arms. He nodded then sprinted off. Reverse left D.C. within minutes. “Tapout, I need you to - “ “HALT, VICTOR. YOUR HEROISM WILL NOT SAVE YOU TODAY!” The heroes turned to see a figure floating in the air, staying in one space as if standing on nothing. The Planeteer stood above the gaping maw of the tear, with molten lava pouring out. “TODAY I INACT MY REVENGE. YOU WILL PAY FOR NEVER LISTENING TO ME,MY IDEAS, MY VISION!” As he spoke, the lava began to rise, and started to swirl. Soon, a tornado of molten rock began to envelop the air around him. Helios took to the sky and began firing beams of pure light at him, disintegrating pockets here and there of rock,but they quickly filled again. The lava tornado began to move, tearing up the buildings of the Smithsonian. The winds began to pick up, and they were drawing everything around into it. People caught up in them flew into the burning inferno, along with piles of rubble. Helios flew around, trying to catch as many as he could while still shooting at the tornado. Tapout was catching them in midair and pulling others behind cover while Ribbon snatched those in danger’s way. “YOU WILL LOATHE THE DAY YOU DENIED ME!” The ground shook, and more and more lava came gushing out.

Helios stopped flying for a moment, to stare down the inferno. He put his arms up to the sky and beams of sunlight began to poke through the orange sky and dark clouds. They began collecting in his hands and then..

Bolts of sunlight ,akin to lightning, began striking the tornado, tearing chunks of it off. Faster than any attack ever seen before, and devastating. “Fool.” Helios did not notice in time, turning around only to see it. A wave of molten lava the size of a tsunami, overtook Helios in one giant swoop. When the wave lowered from the sky, Helios was no longer there. The cuts in the sky where he pulled sunlight from now closed. And not a sign he was there to begin with existed anymore.

“Finally. Finally! MY VISION WILL BE REALIZED! I WILL RULE WITH ALL-” “YOU BASTARD!” Tapout shouted from the ground, loud enough and with fury to break the enhanced thunderous voice of the Planeteer. Tapout began to sprint towards him, screaming. Tears were falling off his face and evaporating, the heat boiling. Planeteer pointed down at Tapout running at him, and two giant hands of rock flew from the ground and narrowly missed the hero. Planeteer raised his hand and the ground itself began to rise, creating boulders that Tapout hopped to and from. 

“YOU KILLED HIM!” Tapout threw a right punch, and around the Planeteer one thousand punches appeared. The Planeteer was expecting this though, and had formed a barrier of clear quartz around him. “You thought I'd be easy to kill? You always underestimated me.” He made a backhand motion and the wind itself slapped Tapout away. “Looking down on me.” Tapout, on the ground and bleeding, looked up with pure vitriol. “NOW IT'S MY TURN TO LOOK DOWN ON YOU!” Planeteer raised his hand and moved to slam it down. In the air, debris rose and started to melt, turning into molten lava. As he threw it down, Tapout came from the ground with the mightiest punch ever thrown in American History.

Tapout bounced from the ground with an uppercut, and put forward all energy he had left.

The debris in the air cooled and disintegrated, the clouds and sky were cleared. The fires were all put out. Any and all people who were not behind cover were blown away. And The Planeteer was seen flying away at 100 miles per hour. What happened is still discussed when the question of “can x hero beat y hero in a fight”. Tapout came from the ground, and delivered one million punches at once to the body of The Planeteer, with enough force to cause biblical events.

Tapout then looked up, spit on the ground, then passed out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That,” Reverse spoke with finality, “was what really happened in D.C.” He got up and stretched his back, and looked out the window. The sun had long set, and the city of Atlanta was no less busy. “Tapout delivered what is still called “the end all punch” and defeated the Planeteer. But not before he got to your father. After that, and numerous court visits, the Laurens SHS was dissolved and we all went our separate ways. Tapout said he was going to go out of his way to end all those who had a connection to Planeteer and his New World Order.” He turned around and looked Jade in the eyes.”I think the Planeteer is still out there. And he just killed Tapout. And he will likely come after you, the last connection to the man who was better than him.”

Jade sat in her desk shocked, and Reverse walked out the door, turning off the light.

“I’d get some rest for tomorrow. You know what you’re up against.”

But will I be ready?

[stormbarrierroofing]

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[jghouse-asia-pacific]

New Post has been published on https://www.jg-house.com/2020/03/31/rain-down-guet-ndar/

Rain Down on Guet N'Dar

It was already too hot. Moving south on Rue Blaise Diagne, Lomax stopped, removed his cell phone from a pocket of his photographer’s vest, and checked the temperature: 29°C. I stopped next to him and asked, “Any rain in the forecast?”

“No,” Lomax replied, studying the information on the screen of his iPhone. Laughter erupted, and we turned our heads to see François standing behind us while about 10 feet to his right, hopping across the west side of the dusty street, a large, black raven was picking at remnants of fruit and fish.

“Rain?” François said, a smile forming on his face underneath the baseball cap he wore. “In the middle of May?” He looked from me to Lomax. “You serious?” The big black bird grabbed the fish head off of the asphalt a short distance away, alighting on the roof of one of the bars near the corner of Rue Blaise Diagne and Rue Blanchot. François’ smile disguised his skepticism. “The bird is a scavenger,” François noted, “and flies on the winds along the coast. But it’s hard for him to land and take off again in a narrow street due to his size. He’s taking a risk.” Lomax and I remained silent. The raven cawed from its perch on the roof, almost dropping the fish. François didn’t know what to make of Lomax and showed some caution. “You know we’re in the dry season, right?” François asked. He glanced up at the big black bird which now looked back and shifted the fish to a large claw.

I recalled that St. Louis received about 10 inches of rain fall each year with most of it falling during the months of August and September with a smaller but measurable amount falling during July.

“So you didn’t bring a rain coat?” Lomax responded, putting his cell phone back in his pocket. “Or your poncho?” Lomax added, zipping up the compartment into which he had placed his iPhone. The raven unfolded its wings, took to the air above the top of the building, and rose into the sky. “You can’t be too prepared,” Lomax said, not cracking a smile, although I knew he was having fun at François’ expense.

I adjusted the wide-brim hat on my head and watched the black shape of the bird become smaller in the sky as it rose higher before shifting my gaze farther into the distance beyond the buildings along Rue Blaise Diagne and toward the West. We were half a mile from the Atlantic Ocean although it was out of sight on the other side of the settlements on the spit of land known as La Langue de Barbarie. An entire mini-city had taken shape there, a place we wanted to explore.

It was going to be a difficult and uncomfortable task.

Relief from the heat, I realized, could come from a breeze which could start blowing off the ocean, but it wasn’t guaranteed. I glanced at the digital watch on my wrist: 1:04. We had 26 minutes to reach Ismael at the rendezvous point, but I knew he would be there even if we arrived late.

In practical terms, Ismael had no choice but to wait for us and for our next requests for his help. I looked at Lomax. Under the photographer’s vest, he wore a light blue, short-sleeved polo shirt. Over the vest, he had on a backpack in which he carried several camera lenses. The Pentax camera itself hung by a strap from his shoulder. He carried too much equipment, but I knew he would argue it was necessary and he would vouch for his results. Lomax stopped in front of an orange storefront, moved the camera up to his face, and took several photos before previewing the images in the small LCD at the back of the camera. I could tell he was happy not only with his photos but also with his subjects. The people in the narrow streets were unusually photogenic. I admired their clothes and personalities. I shifted my gaze to Madeline, who had stopped next to me and taken off a pink cotton sweatshirt.

Eastern Shore, N’Dar Island, St. Louis

“I think we made a mistake in deciding to come with you this afternoon,” Madeline said, glancing at Sylvie, who walked slightly ahead of her. “It was cooler yesterday afternoon,” Madeline added, “when the clouds came in after lunch. We should have taken our tour of Guet N’Dar then.”

“Yes, but today it seemed it was going to rain a little and cut down the heat,” I replied, looking around for François. “Anyway, I couldn’t go yesterday afternoon,” I explained. “I had to talk with one of my colleagues in Washington, D.C.”

“About what?” Madeline asked. “Are you busy at work? Are you keeping a journal or writing an article?” She peered into my face. “You were a journalist at one point. What are you now?”

I looked at Madeline. She was Parisian and took pride in her English but also enjoyed asking questions. François caught my attention. He stopped on the other side of Madeline and appeared to be listening. “I have a new project,” I replied finally, starting to walk again while shifting my gaze back to Madeline. She arched her eyebrows. “It’s an analysis of the U.S. government’s decision to take troops out of the Sahel,” I said.

Madeline and François also started to walk again.

“Really, why—” Madeline began.

“It was my idea to postpone our tour too,” François interrupted.

Madeline glanced at François, surprised. “I couldn’t go yesterday afternoon either,” he added. “I had to go across the river into the main part of St. Louis to meet an old Senegalese colleague.” François paused. “He was a college teacher for many years,” François continued. “Now he’s retired.”

A silver-colored Olympus camera hung from a strap around François’ neck, but it was much smaller than the medium-format model that Lomax used. François brought the camera up to his face, changed his mind, and allowed the camera to dangle from his neck again. He removed a handkerchief from the back pocket of his expedition-style shorts with one hand, lifted the baseball cap off his head with his other hand, and used the handkerchief to mop the sweat from his bald head.

Young Man with Portrait of His Grandfather

“Sure, we’re on the edge of the Sahara Desert,” François continued, replacing the now soiled handkerchief in his back pocket while placing the baseball cap back on his head again, “but St. Louis gets much less rain fall now than before.” François gestured with his right hand. “I’ve been coming here for 25 years,” he continued. “Nobody can deny the impact of climate change.” He looked at Madeline, then at me. “What does the future hold for these people?”

At that moment, I had nothing to say in response to François. Instead I focused on the dusty street ahead, where Lomax now stood next to Sylvie on a corner, waiting for Madeline, François, and me.

We turned right on Rue Blanchot as a group of men in traditional dress approached. Leading the way was a particularly old man who wore a white skull cap on his head as well as a flowing white robe extending from the bottom of his neck to his feet. I could see the ends of a pair of white pants just above his leather sandals. Behind him three other old men also wore flowing white robes; however, these men, in contrast to their leader, were bare headed. No one else walked along the sunlit street. Occasionally starlings flitted among the buildings on either side of the street, sometimes darting down to the dusty asphalt to peck at one object or another before alighting on rooftops.

The white-robed old men smiled and greeted us in Wolof as they passed. I wondered if they would walk far in the heat. I watched as Lomax stopped and took a photo of the ancient men. Sylvie approached Madeline, who stood next to me. On the right side of Rue Blanchot, I recognized the Banque Internationale Pour le Commerce where Lomax and I had found an ATM two days previously. The bank was closed for business, and the street in front of it deserted. Madeline put her arm around Sylvie’s shoulders.”

“Tonight we have an appointment with Ismael and his partners,” Madeline said to me. “They’re bringing some gold pieces.” Madeline paused. “The gold comes from their mine, I believe.”

Sylvie smiled. Madeline laughed loudly. I thought I detected a note of anxiety in Sylvie’s muted response. The idea of going on a shopping spree for gold in Senegal seemed quite odd to me.

“My mother in Combs-la-Ville is counting on me,” Sylvie said.

Looking toward the Atlantic Ocean

Riverfront

Green and blue with flashes of golden light, the water appeared before us as we approached the end of Rue Blanchot and turned left on an equally narrow street, Quai Giraud, alongside the river. Figures dotted the river bank, busying themselves with unloading the big wooden boats along the water’s edge. While men removed plastic containers colored blue, red, and yellow from the boats and placed the containers on the sand, women bent over plastic tubs in which they washed fish with water they transferred from other plastic tubs.

Lomax was taking photos rapidly. François leaned over the wall along Quai Giraud and began pointing his camera down at the boats and fishermen. Two large men on the river bank looked up, paused in their work, and waved at Lomax and François. One young woman glanced in our direction, but she didn’t stop what she was doing.

Walking next to Madeline and Sylvie south on Quai Giraud, I pointed to a bridge 300 feet ahead of us, connecting the western edge of N’Dar Island to the eastern edge of La Langue de Barbarie.

“The bridge is named Pont Moustapha Malick Gaye,” I said. “We’ll meet Ismael in the middle of it.”

Madeline looked at me. “I’m so glad you’re here to lead us,” she said. “I don’t think we could find our way without you.” She touched me lightly on the arm. “In fact, Sylvie and I were on that bridge yesterday. We found it for ourselves, although we didn’t go all the way across and set foot on La Langue de Barbarie.”

Madeline, Sylvie, and I halted at the bridge’s entrance, waiting for Lomax and François who were looking at an image on Lomax’ camera.

“Oh, I want an ice cream,” Sylvie said, spotting an ice cream shop on the street behind us. I could just make out the words, Happy Gelato, above the front door of the shop. As Sylvie started walking toward Happy Gelato, Lomax arrived.

“I’ll go with you,” Lomax said to Sylvie. François approached and stood next to Madeline and me.

“Lomax got some good shots,” François announced.

“So tell me about your life in Washington, D.C.,” Madeline said, turning to me. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Sure,” I replied. I didn’t say anything more.

Madeline looked at me.

“Well?” she said finally.

François stared down at his camera, which he held in both hands.

“Well what?” I replied.

François moved to one side, embarrassed by Madeline’s questions.

“Aren’t you going to tell me anything more about yourself?” Madeline continued. I looked back at her.

“Tell you what?”

“Your girlfriend’s name?” Madeline said. “And what she does?” Madeline continued looking at me. “And if you have been with her for long.”

I didn’t reply.

A few minutes later, Sylvie re-appeared, holding a paper cup with vanilla ice cream in one hand. Lomax followed and stopped next to Sylvie, holding another cup with strawberry ice cream overflowing its edges.

“This stuff is good. I should have gotten a bigger container,” Lomax said, using a tiny spoon to shovel ice cream into his mouth. “Isn’t it time to meet Ismael?”

Madeline glanced at me before turning toward the bridge. “Actually,” she replied to Lomax, “you could have brought me a cup. You’re not a gentleman.” Then she started walking across the bridge. “Let’s go,” she said.

“You’re right,” Lomax replied, laughing. “I’m not.”

People on the River Bank

Pont Moustapha Malick Gaye

I had the impression Ismael had been waiting for us for some time. When I saw him in the middle of Pont Moustapha, I checked my watch. We were not late; we were early. Ismael, obviously, was anxious. He leaned against the concrete railing and stared down into the waters of the Senegal River, and the thought occurred to me that our guide was wholly dependent on us. Madeline and Sylvie, who were about 15 feet ahead of me, moved toward Ismael, talking in French to each other. Probably, Ismael was excited by Sylvie’s interest in gold, thinking he could trick her.

To my left, Lomax ate his ice cream as he walked, moving westward on the bridge. His large camera, now idle, dangled on its strap from one shoulder. Although Lomax periodically looked up, he didn’t seem to care now about views either to the north or to the south of the bridge. To my right, François stared into the distance as he walked. He, too, didn’t take photos. I stopped and removed a water bottle from my backpack, unscrewed its top, and drank the cold liquid while the sun beat down. As I tilted my head back and poured the water down my throat, I saw a mass of white clouds building in the sky over the Atlantic and wondered where the clouds came from and why they had formed in an otherwise blue metallic void. But maybe rain was falling somewhere out there.

When Ismael saw us, he stood up, but seemed uncertain as if he didn’t know why we had appeared. His reaction was strange. Under the bridge the green water appeared to flow slowly, almost gently, and then, after a moment, a long wooden boat with two men standing at the stern passed under the bridge. Ismael directed his gaze toward Sylvie.

“My partners and I will meet you in the bar at the Siki Hotel at 7:00 this evening,” Ismael said in French. “We’ll have the gold pieces with us. But my partners only will accept bills in euros.”

Sylvie seemed displeased, but she smiled and carefully placed her empty paper cup in a cloth bag hanging from her shoulder. Lomax placed his own empty cup into her outstretched hand. I recalled comments Sylvie had made earlier in the day, when she indicated she was upset by the mounds of trash lining the roads in St. Louis and by the constant reminders of the hopelessness of Africans. From previous conversations, I knew Sylvie had grown up in Cameroon. Also, I assumed that, as an anesthesiologist in a major hospital in Paris, she was used to high standards of hygiene.

Lomax raised up his camera and took a photo of the group. Ismael seemed uncomfortable. Watching Lomax, François raised up his own camera and took a second photo. Madeline stared at François. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip.

“What’s our plan for the afternoon?” I asked Ismael.

Ismael glanced at me. “We go to the southern part of Guet N’Dar,” he replied, “and stop to talk with people on the street.” He paused. “Before we start, I go to the market and buy a large bag of different types of candy.” He paused again. “I give the candy to children along the way.” He glanced at Lomax and François. “They will like the candy, and the mothers and fathers allow you to take photographs of their families.”

As I listened to Ismael, surprised by his ingenuity, I allowed my gaze to drift toward the eastern shore of La Langue de Barbarie. To the north of the bridge, I saw a bustle of activity. As many as 100 goats were jostling on the sand next to the water. To the south of the bridge, I saw men and women unloading boats along the water’s edge, just as they had been doing on the western shore of N’Dar.

“How many people live on La Langue de Barbarie?” I asked.

“About 80,000,” Ismael replied, “a lot of people in a small area.” He swept his arm toward the river and pointed to the Atlantic Ocean not far away. “All of them depend on the sea for food.” He paused. “The number of residents used to be much greater,” he added, “but many couldn’t survive here any longer.” He glanced at me again. He looked eastward in the direction of the distant land mass where Senegal became part of the African continent. “They had to leave because their homes were destroyed by floods. There are many storms and rising seas.”

I followed Ismael’s gaze toward the eastern horizon although I couldn’t see past the buildings of the old town of St. Louis which occupied N’Dar Island. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have more questions. I already knew the answer to perhaps the most important matter—that everybody would have to leave soon, including many on N’Dar Island. Madeline leaned into me while looking at Ismael. She looked at the river.

“What about the river?” Madeline asked.

“What about it?” Ismael responded. “The people here use the river only to get out to the sea,” he added. “That’s where the fish are.”

“You mean sardinella?” Madeline asked, referring to the ray-finned, coastal fish which, accompanied by white rice, represented Senegal’s national dish. Sardinella was the diet for every man, woman, and child along the coast and for many miles inland too.

“Yes,” Ismael said. He had regained his confidence. “Let’s go.”

Following Ismael, we moved across the final section of the bridge and walked onto La Langue de Barbarie. As Ismael led us toward a cluster of buildings across from the bridge, he held up a cell phone. When he spoke into the phone, he spoke quickly in Wolof, and I heard him say the name of everyone in our group, except mine.

Boats along the River

Marché Top

Standing before the front door of a two-story brick building painted white with a green trim, Ismael turned and held out his hand. “I need 15,000 CFA francs for candy,” he said. I saw the words, Marché Top, painted in black on the white brick above the door. I turned toward the road running along this side of the river. The road, known as Rue NDT-01 according to the map I had consulted earlier, was crowded.

Standing before the front door of a two-story brick building painted white with a green trim, Ismael turned and held out his hand. “I need 15,000 CFA francs for candy,” he said. I saw the words, Marché Top, painted in black on the white brick above the door. I turned toward the road running along this side of the river. The road, known as Rue NDT-01 according to the map I had consulted earlier, was crowded.

“Isn’t that a lot of money for a bag of candy?” Madeline asked, polishing the lenses of her sunglasses with the edge of her shirt.

“I left my wallet in the safe at my hotel,” François declared.

Lomax was adjusting the settings on his Pentax and took a photo of a goat in the middle of the road. I removed some bills from my pocket, but, before I could hand them to Ismael, Sylvie placed her own bills in Ismael’s hand. Ismael disappeared inside the store. On the east side of Rue NDT-01, just north of the western end of the bridge, the herd of goats came closer and now occupied parts of the street. Three men herded the goats while talking with three other men who were examining the animals.

“The owners of the goats are negotiating with buyers,” François announced. “The buyers want to select the largest animals and pay the lowest prices.”

Lomax shot a series of images. François raised his camera to take photos, but four goats suddenly rushed at him and began nibbling at his shirt and his shorts. François pushed the goats away. One of the herders spoke a few words in Wolof, and the four goats ceased. A few minutes later, Ismael emerged from the store carrying a large plastic bag in one hand. All of us could see a jumble of many types of candy mixed together through the clear plastic.

Goats

“How much did it cost?” François asked in French.

“Do we need a receipt?” Madeline asked. Then she smiled.

Ismael, who found himself the object of attention, started to cross the street, and we followed him to the southern side of Rue de Pont Moustapha. Then, looking down the street farther to the West, Ismael pointed us in the direction of the intersection of Rue de Pont Moustapha and Avenue Dodds where, in the middle of the intersection, we could see a monument to World War I featuring two white-washed statues, one depicting an African soldier and the other a French solider facing toward the East.

“As soon as we reach Avenue Dodds, we’re going to turn south and enter the neighborhood of Guet N’Dar, the center of the fishing community,” Ismael announced. “The men and women of Guet N’Dar provide the fish which feed Senegal. There are more than a million people in just Dakar.” Ismael paused. “But Senegal is not the only country depending on the fishing families here.”

I knew the waters off the coast of Senegal, in combination with the waters off the coast of Mauritania to the North, were among the richest fishing grounds on the planet. They supplied the fish which in turn supplied 75% of all protein consumed by the people of Senegal and its neighbors to the West, the nations of Mali and Burkina Faso with a combined population of 60 million people. In addition, the same waters were the source of the fishmeal fed to livestock in China. Almost half of the fish caught off the coast of Mauritania were ground up for fishmeal in factories in Mauritania, and then it was sent to the Chinese mainland. Ismael pointed toward the wider, busier street up ahead.

“Avenue Dodds is the main street from north to south in Guet N’Dar,” he explained. “At southern end, it stops in an area for refrigeration trucks. They load up with fish from the day’s catch. At northern end, the street stops and then starts again in another direction. There, you find Mosquée Ghoulamou Rassoul, the largest mosque in St. Louis.”

“We walk all the way down to the truck stop on Avenue Dodds,” Ismael continued. “We stop at some places along the way. I want to show you the main mosque in southern half of La Langue de Barbarie. This trip takes us a couple of hours. We pay a horse-drawn cart to get back to the hotel.”

I had been wondering how far we were going to walk. The idea of walking for another two hours seemed out of the question.

A small wooden cart pulled by a white horse approached. Sitting in the cart were three young men. The animal moved slowly, as if it were asleep. I looked forward to sitting in the back of a similar cart and relaxing while townspeople, goats, and other animals of La Langue de Barbarie went past.

“The trucks on Avenue Dodds are loaded with fish every day, right?” I asked Ismael. I hadn’t seen any refrigerated trucks coming and going over Pont Moustapha or, for that matter, over Pont Faidherbe, which crossed from N’Dar Island to the mainland.

Lomax took a photo of the three men in the cart as the horse slowly proceeded toward Pont Moustapha. The men stared at us as if we were aliens.

In the same moment, Ismael looked at me with an expression of disbelief. It occurred to me he considered both the question and the answer unnecessary. After a few moments, he replied.

“Yes,” he said. “The trucks are sent across Senegal every day.”

As we moved west toward Avenue Dodds, we passed a long line of vendors selling their wares on the south side of Rue de Pont Moustapha. In both small stores set back from the street and make-shift displays erected in the middle of the sidewalk, men and women sold a variety of goods from belts and dresses to laundry soap and shampoo and to magazines and newspapers.

A group of men approached, moving toward us on the sidewalk on the south side of the street. Each of the five men wore the traditional attire of West Africa. The flowing, wide-sleeved robe, known as boubou in Wolof and shown off by the elderly man at the head of the group, was a dark shade of green with embroidered designs of a golden fabric. Immediately behind him were two younger men, each clad in a boubou of a light shade of blue featuring isometric shapes made of white stitches. The final pair of men, in their mid-20s, also were dressed in ornate boubous, both of a purple color with designs formed with red stitches.

Together the men presented a shocking display of style, a spectacle I had seen only one time before in a marketplace in Dakar where women adorned themselves in equally fine robes and jewelry as they moved among the rows of vegetables, shopping for food.

The men smiled at us, uttering greetings in Wolof as they passed, proceeding in the direction of the bridge.

“Wouldn’t you like to wear a boubou?” Madeline asked, grabbing my arm. I stopped in my tracks. Madeline turned toward the men disappearing down the street just before the Moustapha bridge. “I think it would be a good idea,” she continued.

Woman with Daughter

“Maybe not,” I replied. I assumed Madeline was joking, but still I considered the idea of trying something new although I preferred the idea of modern-style clothing. I turned to François who had stopped next to Madeline. “Do you know where I can find robes like those men are wearing?” I asked.

“There are a couple of places in St. Louis,” François replied.

“Can you show me?” I said.

“I have a boubou,” François interjected. “It’s hanging in the closet inside my hotel room right now. I could have worn it today, and I should have worn it.” He looked at Madeline. “It’s black,” he added. “You’ll see when I wear it tonight. I put it on several times a week when I’m in Senegal, mainly in Thies or Dakar.”

“What’s tonight?” Madeline asked, glancing at François before looking off into the blue sky above the Atlantic Ocean. Then she looked at me and glanced back to François again before removing her sunglasses and examining their lenses for dirt. She took a small cloth from her bag and carefully wiped her lenses. Then she placed the glasses back on her face.

“I thought I would meet you and Sylvie at the bar of the Siki Hotel after you finish your business with Ismael,” François replied. “What time do you think you’ll be done with him and his partners?”

“I don’t know,” Madeline said after a few moments. She started examining the lenses of her glasses again, forgetting she had just cleaned them. It occurred to me that she was tired after walking in the heat for almost two hours and now couldn’t remember what she had planned for the evening. “You’re welcome to join us if you want,” she added. She turned to me, “You too,” she said. “It will be more fun with more people present. We can drink some of the local beer. Or have a cocktail.”

François shifted his attention.

“I’ll have to talk with Ismael,” I replied to Madeline. “I thought I was going to meet with him and a few of his contacts at 7:00 this evening at a restaurant called Flamingo.” I glanced at François, who was watching me closely. “Last night, I met Ismael and another of his contacts, a professor, at the same place.” I looked at Madeline. “But now it appears you and Sylvie will be meeting with Ismael and his partners at the Siki Hotel.” I paused again, still looking at Madeline. “Ismael can’t be in two places at the same time. He’ll have to clear up the confusion.”

Mini-City, La Langue de Barbarie

Madeline turned to Sylvie, who approached from the opposite side of the street.

“Instead of a business meeting we’ll just have a party tonight,” Madeline said in French to her friend.

“Why? What’s going on?” Sylvie replied in French.

“Everybody, let’s go,” Lomax said, approaching from the end of the block. “Ismael is waiting on the corner of Avenue Dodds.” We joined Ismael in front of the doorway of a small store where he was holding his cell phone up to his face.

“We’re turning down Avenue Dodds now,” Ismael announced, pulling his phone away from his mouth but not placing it back in his pocket. “We’ll start walking into Guet N’Dar and go down to end of Avenue Dodds.”

It seemed like Ismael thought he was still talking on his phone, describing what we were doing to someone listening on the other end of a live connection. It was clear he was trying to carry off several tasks at once and, as a result, confusing everyone.

To my left, through the doorway of the small store, I could see bags of rice which were stacked just inside the doorway to one side. But also, noticing a small banner posted above the doorframe, I deduced the store sold SIM cards and credits for mobile telephones. To my right, on the dusty street, another small wooden cart pulled by a horse was moving through the intersection with two men, both of whom wore soccer jerseys in the colors—green, yellow, and red—of the Senegalese national team.

Lomax took a photo of the horse and the two men.

In the middle of the intersection was a large pile of melons which surrounded a woman who sat under a red umbrella and waited for customers. I heard a noise to my right, looked up, and saw a raven walking across a concrete wall on the second level of a building in the first block of Avenue Dodds. Either the upper story of the building had been abandoned in one of the phases of its construction when its owners ran out of money or it had been destroyed by a powerful storm off the Atlantic. I had read that all of La Langue de Barbarie would be under water within 10 years. I looked at the big black bird; it looked back at me. I wondered when it, too, would be forced to leave an area growing smaller with each storm.

Colorful Woman

Avenue Dodds

As Ismael walked south down the street, Sylvie walked with him while François, Lomax, and Madeline followed. I stopped for a moment to look at my iPhone. I wondered if my boss in Washington, D.C., had provided any guidance for a new project regarding the Sahel. When I didn’t see any messages from anyone in the U.S., I put away my phone and rushed to catch up with the others, looking to the right toward the ocean, now less than 200 yards away. Although it was almost 3:00pm, the rays of the sun beat down hard, and I felt a wind coming off the ocean, picking up strength, providing some relief.

My companions had passed through the intersection of Avenue Dodds and a smaller street, Rue Camille Guy, as I re-joined them on the west side of Avenue Dodds.

Sylvie approached a small girl and much smaller boy who were digging in the sand with a blue plastic shovel in front of an open doorway.

“Give some candy to these two,” Sylvie said to Ismael in French.

Ismael moved forward and reached into his plastic bag. When the girl, who was about 4 years old, and the boy, about 3 years old, looked up, Ismael gave each child a large piece of chocolate in a wrapper. The candy looked like Snickers bars. Sylvie squatted down next to the boy and girl, smiling and talking in French for a few moments before standing up again. Madeline approached and put her arm around Sylvie, and the two spoke for a moment.

I stopped on one side of the doorway of the apartment building, which was painted a light shade of blue and which extended up three levels. Each of the second and third stories featured a narrow balcony with a dusty view of Avenue Dodds.

When I shifted my gaze back to Sylvie, she appeared emotional. I knew that she was from Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon, and still had family members in Africa. I also knew she had started her studies at one of Yaoundé’s most prestigious schools, Université de Dschang. I wondered what kind of influence her African relatives had on her, whether she kept in touch with them or had seen them recently. I also considered her relationship with her brother, Yves, who lived in Paris and played tennis professionally. I had read about him in the sporting news. I understood Yves and Sylvie had been close before moving to France from Cameroon.

The day before, Friday, Madeline had told me that Sylvie’s younger brother, the tennis player, had not been the first in her family to be recruited by the French Tennis Association and its coaches. Sylvie had been their initial target. When she moved to Paris, her younger brother had accompanied her, but Sylvie, who had been studying biology in Yaoundé, gave up tennis in Paris and began studying biology and anatomy full time and later enrolled in medical school. Sylvie was 6 feet, 2 inches tall, but her brother later grew to 6 feet, 5 inches tall. He became the star athlete, not her.

Lomax and François took photos of the two children. Lomax asked Sylvie to pose with the children digging in the sand.

Suddenly, a woman carrying a child in her arms passed through the doorway, exiting the apartment building and stopping in front of us. I could detect vague shapes in the dimly lit room behind the woman. To the left of the doorway, attached to a one-story structure occupying an adjacent lot, was a long, wooden bench on which four men sat. All of them were staring at us. They appeared to be disapproving, and distracted me.

Sylvie reached into the plastic bag in Ismael’s hand, grasped a caramel wrapped in red wax paper, and placed the candy in the small hand of the child, who was a girl of 5 or 6 years with sunken features around her eyes and a pained expression in the lines on her face. It was clear the girl was ill.

“She is sick, isn’t she?” Sylvie asked the woman in French as the small girl put the caramel in her mouth. Sylvie turned to Ismael and in French said, “Ask her in Wolof if the girl is sick.” Another figure, at that moment, emerged from the doorway and made a straight line toward Sylvie. It was a tall girl, an adolescent, who was 12 or 13 years old and whose hair was arranged in corn rows. She held out her hand. She appeared to be another daughter of the woman.

Girl with Braids

Madeline removed a lollipop from Ismael’s bag and put it in the palm of the tall girl’s hand.

Lomax inched forward and took a photo of the mother with her daughter and then one of the tall girl. I knew Lomax wanted images of the woman and all of her children. At the same time, François started speaking in French to one of the men sitting on the bench, although it wasn’t clear how well the man understood what François was saying. The man didn’t reply, and his three companions wore blank expressions on their faces.

The mother holding the small girl, still smiling, apparently was happy with the attentions of Sylvie, and nodded her head at Sylvie but did not speak to her.

“What are her symptoms?” Sylvie asked in French, cupping the small girl’s face in her left hand and examining the girl’s eyes. The mother replied, addressing Ismael and speaking in Wolof.

“The girl has a fever and diarrhea,” Ismael translated from Wolof to French for Sylvie. “Also the girl is not eating, and she is weak.” He paused. “The mother worries about her daughter, but she doesn’t have money to take her to the hospital on the mainland or even to a local clinic. The mother doesn’t know what to do.”

“How long has your daughter been sick?” asked Sylvie in French, shifting her gaze from the girl to the woman, who evidently understood French but did not speak it. Madeline stroked the girl’s cheek, and then put her hand on the girl’s forehead.

The woman spoke in Wolof to Ismael, who replied in French to Sylvie.

“Three days,” Ismael said.

“Mon Deu,” Sylvie said. “The little girl is much too hot,” Sylvie continued, now speaking in English. “She has a high temperature.” Sylvie paused. “I think she has E. coli.” Looking at the mother, Sylvie added in French, “I am a doctor.” Ismael translated again, even if it wasn’t necessary, and added several sentences of his own.

Sylvie reached into the bag hanging from her shoulder and removed a plastic container with pills. “She needs to be treated immediately,” Sylvie continued in English, giving the container to the woman. “Here is an anti-biotic medicine which will help your daughter,” Sylvie said, switching to French while glancing from the woman to Ismael. “But you need to take the child to see a doctor,” Sylvie added in French, looking at the woman and then nodding at Ismael to prompt him to translate her words into Wolof. Ismael repeated Sylvie’s words in Wolof. “Here is some money,” Sylvie continued in French, pressing some bills into the woman’s hand. “Can you go today? This afternoon?”

Children Eating Candy

Sylvie, after she had finished talking with the mother, expressed optimism to Madeline that the girl would recover, but, as Sylvie walked with Lomax and me behind Ismael in a southerly direction on the 3rd block of Avenue Dodds, she promised she would check on the girl the following week. We would return from Podor in 5 days. Sylvie said she’d read about the incidents of E. coli in West Africa in a medical journal before traveling to Mali and Senegal, and already doctors in Dakar and St. Louis were fighting epidemics.

I removed the water bottle from my pack and drank while I surveyed the scene along Avenue Dodds. It was at once interesting and disturbing. On both sides of the street, extending north and south as far as the eye could see, were lines of towering wooden poles, probably supporting exposed electrical wires connected to other poles which passed by tightly packed, crumbling clusters of buildings, some with one or two levels and others with as many as three levels. Among the clusters of partially destroyed or half-constructed structures baking in the heat were heaps of garbage strewn across sand-covered and very small front yards and other larger or full-sized lots.

On one side of me, Madeline and Sylvie were talking in French between themselves as they walked side by side. On the other side, François was posing questions to Ismael about the effects of rising seawater on La Langue de Barbarie.

Lomax was nowhere to be seen.

François commented loudly. “It’s just one long, narrow bank of sand,” he continued. “In certain places, it’s no more than 300 feet from one side to the other.” He paused. “How can people continue to live here?”

Ismael was blunt. “They can’t,” he replied. “Every day more sand disappears from under their feet.” He paused. “The rapid erosion of the peninsula started about 5 years ago, when we had a big storm. The heavy rain fall lasted for days and caused flooding and changed the land, making it smaller and smaller.” He stuttered and looked westward. “At least one community already is gone for good.”

Ismael referred to a community I had heard about called Doune Baba Dieye located south of Guet N’Dar near the mouth of the river. When flood waters forced the people from their homes, the deluge never receded, leaving behind a lagoon where none existed before. The result was that, after the residents of Doune Baba Dieye fled to higher ground on the eastern side of the Senegal River, they couldn’t return. They had to move into tents at a migrant camp called Khar Yalla 5 miles inland, not far from the small airport serving St. Louis.

Abruptly, Ismael came to a halt. François stopped next to him, and Madeline and Sylvie crossed over from the opposite side of Avenue Dodds. I arrived a few moments later. We faced toward the ocean, standing in the middle of an intersection, where a narrow, sand-covered street, not much bigger than a path, cut through Avenue Dodds and extended to the beach. I didn’t know where we were, since I hadn’t studied my map for this part of La Langue de Barbarie in my hotel room.

Then, in the background, a thin blue line—it was the Atlantic—became visible. But the view of the ocean was then interrupted. A large building, about four stories high with two towers or minarets reaching even higher toward the sky, sat on the edge of the beach. Not only was the building recently and completely constructed; also, it appeared to be well, even meticulously, maintained.

Lomax materialized once again.

“Ismael,” Lomax called out from a distance of 20 feet, removing an oversized black baseball cap with an image of a raven on it and exposing his blond hair. “That building is a mosque, isn’t it?” He paused, running his hand across his forehead. “I want us to walk over to it so I can photograph it up close and talk with people standing around the entrance.”

“Yes,” Ismael replied, looking at Lomax but not hiding his irritation. “That was my idea.” He pointed toward the structure, painted white but also featuring a green trim on the wooden slats covering the windows of its main body and covering the windows on its towers. “The building is sacred,” Ismael shouted out. “It’s the mosque for Guet N’Dar.” He paused. “I’ll show it to you,” he said in a reduced voice. I detected an almost reverential quality in his voice.

Exposed Electrical Wires

Mosque

It was obvious Ismael was Muslim, although the idea that he was religious seemed preposterous given his habit of drinking beer continuously.

Ismael started toward Lomax, but Lomax, replacing the baseball cap, turned around and proceeded down the sandy path toward the mosque. Ismael was upset.

François quickly followed Lomax, giving the impression he didn’t want to waste time taking photos of the mosque from a distance. Sylvie and Madeline also started toward the people standing in front of the building.

As I shifted my gaze from Ismael, I stared at a clothes line stretching from the side of a house to a metal pole with many articles of clothing and bed linens on it flopping in the wind. I also saw the faded words, Rue Justin Devest, on a small street sign partially dislodged from its bolts on a one-story building. The street sign hung upside down.

After a few moments, Ismael followed the two Parisian women and François and Lomax. I stayed behind at the intersection for a couple of moments, not moving until I saw Ismael catch up with Lomax.

Once in motion, I moved swiftly, seeing the beach and the waves of the Atlantic clearly as I drew closer.

Reaching the end of Rue Justin Devest, I looked across the yellow sand of the sunlit beach. I saw a gurgling foam on a surf which didn’t cease. I looked into an unmoving blue void of ocean on the horizon. I felt a mild wind blowing against me, free of any man-made or natural obstructions, causing me to shiver in spite of the sun’s rays. Finally, I heard the sound of voices on a sunny afternoon, and I thought about the fishermen of La Langue de Barbarie who suffered the full force of powerful winds in the middle of the sea as their boats capsized in towering waves and their bodies sank in the depths. They had no hopes of escaping.

But I sensed a more immediate presence. Directly in front of the mosque, I saw people passing through the main doors on the south side of the building, facing Rue Justin Devest. I knew about Islam’s daily five calls to prayer and assumed the fourth one of the day, called salat al-‘asr, held during the middle of the afternoon, was about to start. I had not heard the call itself from loudspeakers on the minarets. But I knew that not all mosques broadcasted their calls to prayer into nearby neighborhoods.

“My father and my older brother pray here,” a teen-age girl was saying in French to Madeline. “They can’t come every day when they are at sea, but my father, who is sick right now, usually can make it to the fourth call.”

The girl looked like she was 16 years old. Next to her was another teen-age girl, possibly a year younger. It was obvious the two were sisters. They looked alike, and in addition, the younger girl held the hand of a small boy, possibly 4 years old, who closely resembled his sisters. He was a much younger brother.

“Do you live close to the mosque?” Sylvie asked in French, looking at the younger girl.

“Yes, not far from here,” the girl replied, proceeding to launch into an elaborate description in French of the route from her family’s home to the mosque. She lifted the small boy into a position on her hip.

The two teen-age girls and their younger brother stood in front of a motorcycle which was propped up against a short wall directly across Rue Justin Devest.

“The motorcycle belongs to my older brother,” the youngest girl said, noticing Sylvie looking at the bike. “He is proud of it,” she added, “and sometimes takes one of us on the back with him.”

Madeline and Sylvie stood at the end of the sandy street, just off the sunlit beach stretching out 100 yards behind them.

Not far away, Lomax and François huddled together peering into the small LCD at the back of Lomax’ big camera, each of them eating a chocolate bar. Ismael stood behind them, also eating candy. Lomax had taken a series of images of the mosque and the people arriving for prayer.

“Hey, what are you doing? Don’t eat that candy,” Madeline shouted upon noticing Lomax, Ismael, and François holding chocolate bars. A frown appeared on her face. “Bring the rest of the candy over here,” she instructed. When she turned around and spotted me, she shouted again, “You have to meet Awa, Khady, and Moussa.” She shouted again, “Bring the bag to Sylvie and me. We’ll look after it.”

I had noticed the girls and the little boy when they greeted Madeline and Sylvie a few minutes before. Now, as I walked toward them, I thought they’d be good subjects for Lomax and his photography.

Sisters with Little Brother

The two sisters, Awa and Khady, spoke skillfully in French. The girls seemed intelligent, but also they had gone to school for a number of years. Their teachers not only taught a curriculum exclusively in French. They also drilled the students in French grammar. The words which Awa and Khady used and the manner in which they pronounced words were sophisticated, according to Sylvie.

The little boy, Moussa, initially focused on Madeline and Sylvie. Since he had two older sisters, he was accustomed to seeing females telling males what to do. Sylvie, especially, who was tall and assertive, commanded his attention.

Within a few minutes, though, Moussa had shifted his attention to Lomax and François. He was fascinated by the candy they were eating.

When Lomax started taking photos of Awa and Khady, they started laughing. They placed Moussa in different positions in front of them, tickling him to make him laugh. After Madeline took the bag of candy out of Ismael’s hands, she held it open for the siblings. Moussa looked at the plastic sack and plunged a hand down into it.

“Your French is excellent,” Sylvie commented to Awa, 16, the older of the two sisters, who watched Moussa grab a caramel wrapped in red wax paper and, in his excitement, fall over in the sand. “Not many people in Africa who go to school ever learn French as well as you have,” Sylvie added, glancing at the boy, who jumped up from the sand. He couldn’t remove the red wax paper around the caramel.

“Do you still go to school?” Sylvie asked Awa.

Awa shook her head.

“No,” Awa said, “I quit school last year to help my mother clean fish.”

Watching Moussa as he struggled to release the candy from the wax paper, Madeline exclaimed in French, “Oh, how dirty your hands are,” and squatted next to the boy. Moussa, thinking Madeline wanted to take away his candy, jerked the caramel free of the wax paper and shoved it in his mouth.

Madeline, examining Moussa’s hands, removed a cleansing wipe from her bag and rubbed his hands with it. When Madeline finished, Sylvie took over and cleaned his hands a second time more thoroughly.

Moussa squirmed. Sylvie was too strong.

“There,” Sylvie said, “Isn’t that better?”

“No,” Moussa said. Both Awa and Khady laughed and mimicked Moussa. “You are not my mother,” he said in French to Sylvie.

“Little boys like you,” Sylvie said, “are always dirty. You always need a bath.”

Awa and Khady couldn’t stop giggling. They locked their hands and danced in a circle as the tide crept up the beach, drawing ever closer.

**

#Africa, #Travelogue #Africa, #Art, #Beauty, #ClimateChange, #Culture, #Environment

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 9: The Devil on the Roof (Transcript) - 28th June 2015

tw: animal death

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

In March of 2014, a hiker in Lithuania stumbled upon a warm spring that was melting the ice on a frozen pond. It’s not unusual to find things like this, but he was curious. I would be too – the pond was frozen over, but there was a nice window into the still waters beneath. I have to think any one of us would have leaned in for a closer look. When he did, though, he witnessed something that his mind had trouble processing. It appeared to be a living creature, but it was unlike anything he had ever seen. Thankfully we live in a very connected, very digital age, and he used his phone to take a short video. I have no idea what the creature was, or if it even was a living thing at all, and I’m not going to discuss it today, or tell you more stories about similar sightings, because there aren’t any. It was a one off, a random occurrence that had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. Some stories are like that – sometimes we bump into something new, with no history or record of events to lend it pedigree or validity, and those stories frustrate me. Other stories, though, go deep. Some legends have been told for centuries. Some creatures have been sighted by hundreds of people over the years, and each new sighting lends credence to its story. And even if it’s all made up, or just one big misunderstanding, these layers upon layers of story seem to somehow give life to the creatures they describe. When we find these deep wells of folklore, our minds are presented with a challenge. Do the centuries of first-hand accounts serve as a proof, or do they highlight our incredible, cross-cultural, nearly genetic predisposition toward gullibility? Few places challenge us to such a degree as the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey. Inside that wooded expanse, mystery runs far and wide. Mystery, and some say, the devil. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

When we think of the east coast of the United States, we think of urban sprawl, of endless strings of bedroom communities, looping around massive metropolitan centres. New York City. Boston. Philadelphia. Washington DC. All of these places are symbols of humanity’s inability to leave an undeveloped area untouched. What most people don’t know, however, is that there is a huge expanse of forested land cutting through the southern part of New Jersey that simply boggles the mind. It’s called the Pine Barrens, and it’s the largest undeveloped area of land in the mid-Atlantic Seaboard. Seriously, this place is massive. There are 1.1 million acres of forest, and beneath it all are underground aquifers that are estimated to contain over 17 trillion gallons of the purest drinking water in the country. As you might imagine, such a massive area of untouched land comes with its own treasure chest of mythical creatures and frightening folklore. The local Lenape tribe of Native Americans tell stories of the Manetutetak, the wood dwarves who live in the forest, a local version of the global “little people” legend. There are other creatures rumoured to exist in the pines, including “Big Red Eye”, the “Hoboken Monkey Man”, undocumented species of large cats, the “Cape May Sea Serpent”, the “Lizard Man of Great Meadows”, and something called a Kim Kardashian. New Jersey, you see, is full of monsters.

But hovering over them all like a patriarch, perched at the top of an ornate family tree, is something that has haunted the Pines for nearly 300 years. The original story goes something like this: in 1735, one Mrs. Shroud of Leeds Point, New Jersey, became pregnant with her 13th child. According to the legend, Mrs. Shroud secretly wished that this child would be a devil or demon child. Sure enough, when the child was born, it was misshapen and malformed. Mrs. Shroud kept the deformed child in her home, sheltered from the curious eyes of the community. But on a dark and stormy night, because bad things only ever happen on dark and stormy nights, of course, the child’s arms turned to wings and it escaped, flying up and out through the chimney. Mrs Shroud never saw her devil child again. That’s the story - or at least one version of it. A more prominent version of the legend identifies the mother as Mrs. Leeds, not a Mrs. Shroud from Leeds, who was from the Burlington area of New Jersey. Mrs. Leeds, according to the legend, had dabbled in witchcraft despite her Quaker beliefs, and this hobby of hers made the old women attending her birth more than a little uneasy. To their relief, though, a handsome baby boy was born that stormy night, and he was quickly delivered to Mrs. Leeds’ arms. That’s when he transformed. His human features vanished, his body elongated and even his skin changed. The baby’s head became horse-like, and hooves replaced his feet. Bat-like wings sprouted from his shoulders and he grew to the size of a man. Other stories have persisted through the centuries as well. One claimed that the monster was the result of a treasonous relationship between a colonial Leeds Point girl and a British soldier, while another story tells of a gypsy curse. There seems to have been no town or county in the Pines area without its own version of the story. Many of them vary wildly. But one thing united them all: the description of the creature. In all the stories it was some sort of hybrid or mutation of a normal animal. Most of the stories describe it in the same terms: head like a horse, wings like a bat, clawed hands, long serpent tail, and legs like a deer. In some accounts, the creature is almost dragon-like. Coincidentally, the Lenape tribe refers to the Pines area as Popuessing which means “the place of the dragon”. Swedish explorers even named the area “Drake Kill”, kill being the Dutch word for river and drake meaning dragon. Whatever the truth is behind the origins behind this legend, and whatever its core features really are, the people of the Pines were united in what they called it: The Jersey Devil. And this devil was more than just a story that was passed from person to person. Over the centuries that followed, countless eyewitness reports surfaced that seemed to point to one overwhelming conclusion. The Jersey Devil… was real.

What makes the Jersey Devil so special is the quality of many of the sightings. Individuals with no need to make up stories, whether for political or professional reasons, all seem to have found the courage to report incidents that would normally be laughable. Stephen Decatur was a United States naval officer who was known for his many victories in the early 1800s. Decatur was, and still is today, a very well-respected figure in American history. There have been five warships named after him, he’s had his own stamp through the US postal service, and in the late 1800s, it was his face that graced the $20 bill rather than Andrew Jackson’s. According to the legend, Decatur visited the Hannover ironworks in Burlington, New Jersey in the early 1800s. The facility there manufactured cannonballs, something Decatur was very familiar with, and he had arrived to test some of the product. On this occasion, Decatur was said to have been on the firing range, operating the cannon. While there, he witnessed a strange creature flying overhead. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before and, like a true American, he aimed a cannon at it. He fired, and the shot was said to be true, striking the creature in mid-air. Mysteriously though, nothing happened. The creature continued on uninterrupted. Another early resident of New Jersey was Joseph Bonaparte, the brother of none other than Napoleon Bonaparte. Napoleon had appointed his brother King of Spain in 1808, but Joseph abdicated just five years later, before moving to the United States. He took up residence in a large estate called Breeze Point, near the Pine Barrens, and lived there for nearly two decades. One of his favourite past times was to go hunting in the Pines. On one of those hunting trips, the former King of Spain was in the woods near his home when he discovered some strange tracks in the snow. They looked like the tracks of a donkey but there were only two feet present, not four. Bonaparte commented on how one of the feet appeared slightly larger than the other, as if deformed in some way. He followed the tracks to a clearing, but stopped when the prints vanished. It was as if the animal had simply taken flight. As he was turning to leave, Bonaparte heard a strange hissing sound. He glanced back, only to find himself standing face to face with a large creature. He described it as having bat-like wings, the head of a horse, and it stood on thin hind legs. Before he could remember to use his rifle, the creature hissed one final time, flapped its wings, and flew off into the sky. He later described the events to a local friend, who simply smiled and congratulated the man. “You’ve just seen the famous Jersey Devil”, his friend told him.

The following decades were filled with more and more sightings and reports. In the early 1840s, a handful of farmers began to report the death of livestock on their land. In most cases, tracks were found but they could not be identified. Others claimed to have heard high-pitched screams in the Pines, a sound that would forever be connected with the Jersey Devil. By 1900, belief in the Jersey Devil was widespread and stronger than ever. Nearly everyone in the area believed that something otherworldly lived inside the Pines. Anytime disaster or death entered their lives, they cast blame on this creature, but some had also begun to do the math. If this creature really was the child of Mrs. Shroud and was born in 1735, then it was very, very old. Folklorist Charles B. Skinner commented on this in a 1903 publication. “It is said that its life has nearly run its course”, he wrote, “and with the advent of the new century many worshipful commoners of Jersey have dismissed, for good and all, the fear of the monster from their mind”. Skinner, you see, thought that it was gone - that the Jersey Devil was too old to carry on terrorising the people of the Pines. But when the events of 1909 unfolded, just six years later, one thing became very clear: Skinner couldn’t have been more wrong.

January 1909 was a busy month for thpe Jersey Devil. In the early morning hours of January 16th, a man named Thack Cozzens was out for a walk under the stars in Woodbury, New Jersey. A sound caught his attention, and he glanced up, only to see a large, dark shape fly past. Cozzens recalled noticing that the creature’s eye glowed bright red. 26 miles away that same early morning, in the town of Bristol, Pennsylvania, a number of people reported seeing a similar creature. One eyewitness, a police officer named James Sackville, actually fired his handgun at it, without effect. E. W. Minster, the town postmaster, also saw the flying thing, and according to him, it also unleashed a high-pitched scream. When the sun rose that morning, several people reported finding strange hoof prints in the snow. No one could identify the kind of creature who would leave such tracks. And just one day later, on the 17th, unusual hoof prints were found in the snow outside the home of the Lowdens in Burlington, New Jersey. The tracks surrounded their trashcan, which had been knocked over and rummaged through. Other people found tracks on their rooftops. Trails were followed into streets, where the tracks would simply vanish. The Burlington police tried tracking the creature with the help of hunting dogs, but the dogs refused to follow the trails. At 2:30 in the morning on Tuesday the 19th, a Mr. and Mrs. Evans were asleep in bed in Gloucester, New Jersey, when a scream awoke them. They both climbed out of bed and approached their window, and then stopped, paralysed by fear. There on the roof of their shed stood a creature unlike anything they had ever laid eyes on. According to Mr. Evans, it was roughly 3ft tall and had the head of a horse. It walked on two legs and held smaller, claw-like hands against its chest. The leathery wings were still present, as was the long, serpentine tail. The couple managed to frighten the creature away after watching it for nearly 10 minutes. Later that day, professional hunters were called in to attempt to track the creature, but they had no success. The following day brought more of the same. A Burlington police officer was the first to see the creature, followed by a local minister. A hunting party that was formed to track the beast claimed they watched it fly towards Moorestown, and in Moorestown, it was seen at Mount Carmel Cemetery. From there, it was seen to fly toward Riverside, and there, hoof prints were found in a cluster around a dead puppy. A day later, an entire trolley full of passengers in Clementon watched a winged creature circle above them. The Black Hawk Social Club reported their own sighting, and when a Collingswood fireman saw one up close, he turned his hose on the creature, chasing it off. Later that night, a woman named Mrs. Sorbinski of Camden heard a noise outside in the dark. She grabbed her broom and stepped out, only to find the mysterious beast trying to catch her dog. Mrs. Sorbinski beat at the creature with her broom until it released the dog and flew away. When a crowd gathered as a result of her screaming, they all claimed to see the creature off in the distance. The mob charged toward the thing, then a police officer even fired shots, but whatever the creature was, it had managed to escape into the sky. The creature made a few more random appearances across New Jersey during late January of that year, but it was one final sighting in February that leaves many questions to be answered. An employee of a local electric railroad was out working on the tracks when he saw what he later described as the Jersey Devil flying overhead. He claimed to have watched the creature fly into one of the overhead electrical wires, generating an explosion large enough to melt the metal tracks directly underneath. A search was made, but no body was found.

Maybe the stories of the Jersey Devil are about something else. Maybe they’re really about fear - fear of the unknown, fear of the dark, a fear of what might be lurking out there in the trees. Humanity has feared these things for millennia, but perhaps the people of the Pines feared something more basic, more fundamental than whatever might be waiting for them in the darkness. Perhaps they simply feared being alone. There’s nothing worse than experiencing a loss you can’t seem to explain, or noises you can’t identify, especially if you are in a new and strange place. The sources might very well be real and normal, but in the setting and culture of their day, the unexplainable only served to highlight the loneliness of the early settlers of New Jersey. The Barrens had a way of giving permission to fear the unknown. They still do to this day. When settlers discovered rare or unusual plants and animals inside these woods, it became easy to take it one step further. Demon children, creatures dancing on rooftops, livestock and pets being attacked – we explain our existence with fantasy, because sometimes that’s the only thing that can help us cope. In 1957, some employees from the New Jersey Department of Conservation found a partial animal corpse in the Pines. It was a mangled collection of feathers, mammal bones ad long hind legs that appeared to have been burnt or scorched. It might be logical to assume that the creature that flew into the electrical wires in 1909 had literally crashed and burnt, only to be discovered decades later. It might, in fact, sound like the creature was gone for good. But in 1987, an unidentified woman in Vinland, New Jersey, reported that her German Shepherd had been killed during the night. The dog had been torn to pieces and dragged over 25ft from the end of its chain. The only evidence the authorities could find around the body were hoof prints.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. Learn more about me and the show over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along on Twitter and Facebook @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, our amazing listeners, [insert sponsor break here]. To find out how you can support Lore, visit lorepodcast.com/support. You’ll find links to help you leave a review on iTunes, support Lore on Patreon for some awesome rewards, and find a list of my supernatural thrillers, available in both paperback and ebook formats. I couldn’t do this show without you, and I’m thankful to each and every one of you. Thanks for listening.

Notes

Most of the sightings mentioned by Aaron seem to come from Monsters of New Jersey by Loren Coleman, which has no public access

[debmerriam]

SOLARPUNK, designed and hand-hooked by Deborah Merriam

currently part of Focus On Fibre Art Association’s 'Climate Change' exhibit in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada (until 3 July 2018)

Artist’s statement:

"Solarpunk is an emerging branch of environmental science fiction, art, and activism. I'm drawn to its do-it-yourself philosophy and its ideals of inclusiveness, adaptability, and hope in the face of climate change. My design imagines a near-future solarpunk city powered by renewable energy and built to withstand climate extremes.*

Inspiration: SUNVAULT, the first English-language anthology of solarpunk short fiction and poetry, was published in August 2017 by Upper Rubber Boot Press. "The oceans are rising and so must we," first appeared on a Science March protest sign in Washington on 22 April 2017.

Techniques: hand-hooked running loop stitch

Materials: wool flannel reclaimed from vintage clothing and new hand-dyed wool flannel on linen backing;wool yarn; solar panel and LED fairy lights

Dimensions: circular, 14 inches in diameter

Completed: April 2018″

*Since I have more room here, allow me to elaborate. Pre-existing concrete towers in this coastal city were retrofitted with green roofs and facades for growing food and sequestering carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, in addition to solar photovoltaic and hot water systems. Asphalt roads destroyed by extreme weather were replaced with multifunctional communal greenspaces  with fully-accessible paths shared by solawheelers, pedelec and bike users, and walkers alike. Some former-freeway greenspaces feature geodesic-domed community gardens, algae bioreactors, and forested pocket neighbourhoods of treehouses and cottages like those shown here; others include public transit hubs, marketplaces, performance spaces, and weather shelters. All are designed to collect a portion of monsoon rains into hidden cisterns for purification while absorbing the rest. The land reclaimed from the sea by dikes is being used to grow crops, but also acts as a buffer to protect the city from future floods, and salt marshes are also being carefully replanted on the new coast. The red buoy marks a massive tidal power turbine on the seabed, placed in the old university’s quad, and doubles as a navigation marker to help boats avoid hitting the few submerged buildings still standing. The floating greenhouse is Acorn Aquaponics, a cooperative who produce tropical crops and a variety of seafood inside the dome while cultivating a nearby open-ocean kelp forest. Acorn also provides housing for seaplastic scavenge-build artisans and the marine biologists replanting the coral reef. An offshore wind farm built before seaswell still provides electricity to the city’s batteries when storms crater the light levels. Most new construction has rounded forms and uses new materials to minimize damage and protect residents from extreme winds, monsoon rains, polar vortexes, and heatwaves.

more photos here

This will be first in a series. The PV in this one is purely decorative; next time, I’ll install all the electronics before completing the hooking to ensure everything works.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

THE ‘CAMERA THAT SAVED HUBBLE’ TURNS 25 Twenty-five years ago this week, NASA held its collective breath as seven astronauts on space shuttle Endeavour caught up with the Hubble Space Telescope 353 miles (568 kilometers) above Earth. Their mission: to fix a devastating flaw in the telescope’s primary mirror. About the size of a school bus, the Hubble Space Telescope has an 8-foot (2.4-meter) primary mirror. The largest optical telescope ever launched into space, where it could observe the universe free from the distorting effects of Earth’s atmosphere, Hubble had a lot riding on it. But after the first images were obtained and carefully analyzed following the telescope’s deployment on April 25, 1990, it was clear that something was wrong: The images were blurry. Astronomers and engineers rallied to study a variety of solutions to the problem, and NASA convened an independent committee to find the source. They all came to the same conclusion: Hubble’s primary mirror, which looks like a very shallow bowl, had been polished into the wrong shape. The error was smaller than the width of a human hair, but the effect was significant. If the error went uncorrected, Hubble would never reach its full potential. During the week of Dec. 6, 1993, the astronaut crew installed two pieces of hardware intended to fix the error. The Corrective Optics Space Telescope Axial Replacement (COSTAR) was designed and built by a team at NASA’s Goddard Spaceflight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland, and would correct for the mirror error in three of the five instruments on Hubble. The second instrument was the Wide Field and Planetary Camera 2 (WFPC2), designed and built at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, California. WFPC2, which actually contains four cameras, would go on to produce many of Hubble’s breathtaking images, helping transform our view of the cosmos. The size of baby grand piano, the instrument imaged objects and events that occurred in our own solar system -- such as comet Shoemaker-Levy 9’s crash into Jupiter -- to the most distant cosmological images that had ever been taken in visible light. It generated breathtaking snapshots of galaxies, exploded stars and nebulae where new stars are born. During the instrument’s tenure, Hubble managers pointed the telescope at a single, black patch of sky for more than a week and found thousands of previously unseen galaxies. But WFPC2’s success was far from guaranteed. The instrument was built on an incredibly tight timeline, and designing it to correct the flaw was something JPL’s John Trauger, principal investigator for WFPC2, would later describe as being akin to “trying to play baseball on the side of a hill.” “There’s a lot of pressure when you’re building a space instrument even under normal circumstances,” said Dave Gallagher, JPL’s associate director for strategic integration, who served as integration and test manager for WFPC2. “But when you’re fixing something that will essentially make or break the reputation of the entire agency, the pressure goes through the roof.” A Mirror Image In June 1990, NASA announced that the Hubble telescope was not working as expected. WFPC2 team members say they remember that the reaction from the public and the media was often pessimistic or even incredulous. Trauger watched network news anchor Tom Brokaw begin his program that evening by saying, “The Hubble Telescope you’ve heard so much about -- it’s broken.” “The promise of the Hubble program, the application of our best technology to push back the frontiers of astronomy, had been instantly transformed in the public eye to an icon of technical failure,” Trauger wrote in an essay in 2007. Trauger brought his team together to work the problem. The telescope’s primary and secondary mirrors collected light and fed it to the five onboard science instruments. The primary mirror could not be replaced and could not be returned to Earth for repairs. A solution would have to be found for each of Hubble’s instruments. The COSTAR device provided corrective optics for three of them, eliminating the need to fully replace those instruments. But the same approach wouldn’t work for the telescope’s Wide Field and Planetary Camera (WFPC), the predecessor of WFPC2. Trauger and his team came up with a potential solution. The primary mirror error caused light striking different parts of the mirror to come into focus at different locations, so the team had to figure out how to redirect it to the appropriate focal point. Their solution was to reverse-engineer the problem: They would place four identical nickel-sized mirrors inside the instrument -- one for each of the four cameras inside WFPC2 -- with the same error as the flawed primary mirror, but where the primary mirror was too flat, the new mirrors would be curved too deeply. Together, these two errors would cancel each other, producing the equivalent of a single mirror with the correct shape. NASA accepted JPL’s proposal to build a WFPC replacement. The agency had planned to carry out Hubble repair missions every three years and decided to maintain this schedule. The first repair mission was set for the fall of 1993. JPL would need to deliver the replacement by the winter of 1992 -- just over 2 years away. The race to repair Hubble was on. Under Pressure Two years was nowhere near enough time to build a new camera instrument from scratch. Thankfully, WFPC2 was already under construction at JPL; NASA had intended to eventually use it as an upgrade for WFPC or a replacement if the instrument ever failed. Even with work on WFPC2 already under way, the deadline required an accelerated schedule. Dave Rodgers and Larry Simmons, the WFPC2 project managers, held daily meetings with the leaders of each of WFPC2’s several components to help stay on target. “The daily meetings kept the pressure on all of us, all the time,” said Simmons, who retired from JPL in 2005. “We knew we only had a few years, and we had to get it done.” While the corrective mirrors were small, they affected nearly every step of the building process and created “an endless string of novel problems,” according to Trauger. To minimize the chance for error during WFPC2’s installation in low-Earth orbit, the seven astronauts who were scheduled to execute the repair mission traveled to JPL to learn about the instrument and be trained on how to install it. They would be inserting WFPC2 into a cavity in the telescope’s body, as if sliding it in a drawer. And although they would need to make sure that the electrical connections at the back of the instrument were secure, they had no way of reaching those connections; they could control only how they inserted the instrument. Complicating matters further was the weight of WFPC2: At more than 600 pounds (272 kilograms), it was unwieldy even in the microgravity of low-Earth orbit. One of the instrument’s mirrors, called the pickoff mirror, was mounted on a short arm located outside the protective casing. Merely bumping the mirror would misalign the system and essentially ruin the entire instrument. During WFPC2’s construction, Trauger and colleagues showed a model of the instrument to an astronaut, who bumped the pickoff mirror. Trauger couldn’t help but wonder, “Is this an omen?” Time to Fly The leaders of the WFPC2 team traveled to NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida for the early morning launch on Dec. 2, 1993. After departing Kennedy and seeking out an early breakfast, Gallagher remembers looking up at the predawn sky to see the space shuttle passing overhead and nearing Hubble; the objects appeared as two faint points of light in the sky as they orbited Earth. On the sixth day of the mission, astronauts Jeffrey Hoffman and Story Musgrave conducted a spacewalk to remove WFPC from Hubble and install WFPC2. Everything seemed to go as planned, but the real test was yet to come. The astronauts returned to Earth on Dec. 13, and the first raw data from WFPC2 came back on Dec. 18. The team put the data through the image-processing software and watched anxiously as the pictures began to ratchet across the screen. There was instant relief. “They were sharp,” Trauger said of the images. “And it wasn’t just that we had pictures that looked amazing, it was that we were making new discoveries right away. There were things in the images that we’d never seen before.” NASA released those first images to the public on Jan. 13, 1994. The next day, the WFPC2 team presented the results to an overflow audience at the winter meeting of the American Astronomical Society. “When we showed the first images, the room erupted; we got a standing ovation,” Trauger said. “You don’t usually see that at an astronomy meeting!” The WFPC2 instrument operated on Hubble for over 15 years and took more than 135,000 observations of the universe. More than 3,500 science papers were written based on that data before the instrument was retired in 2009, and over 2,000 more have been published since. “WFPC2 didn’t succeed by magic or luck; it succeeded because we had a competent and hardworking group of people who understood what was at stake and stepped up to the challenge,” Gallagher said. “And just like with every project, I wish I could have transported that team with me to the next mission.” In May of 2009, astronauts removed WFPC2 from Hubble and replaced it with the Wide Field Camera 3 (WFC3), which continues to operate today -- 28 years after Hubble first switched on. WFPC2 was later placed on public display at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.

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