#saw some of the damage where it made landfall SO CLOSE to us and felt sick . and it’s all catching up to me i’m so so tired aksjsjdbf

[aturnoftheearth]

i think the 6 hours of sleep over the last 3 days is starting to hit bc uhh the guilt is starting to set in

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Orbital Drop Assault

As the species of the universe began ever expanding from their home world it became increasingly common for different species to meet each other on the galactic stage. Some were met with caution, unsure of the others intentions. Others were met with joy and celebration, confirming that they were not alone in this wide open universe. More often however, these meetings were the prelude to open conflict and war. The last option was unfortunately what resulted in the first contact between the Zigellie and Humanity.  A Zigellie scout ship entered the human controlled system of Lopalla and made their way to the colony world of Hayden 9. Due to the systems numerous asteroid belts a series of asteroid displacement guns had been spread across the planets atmosphere in high orbit which shot down any asteroid that reached close enough to be deemed a threat. Because the weapon system was not programmed to register any other vessel aside from human vessels the weapon emplacements mistook the Zigellie scout vessel as an unnatural asteroid and opened fire destroying the craft after several salvos.

The Zigellie interrupted this as an attack unwarranted as their ship had been merely exploring and had shown no hostile intentions. Before calmer heads could prevail a hastily assembled strike force was dispatched to Hayden 9 and in short order destroyed the orbiting asteroid weapons and then left the system.

Without the orbiting defense weapons a series of asteroids fell upon Hayden 9 and destroyed much of the established colony including the atmosphere generators. Without these terraforming devices the surviving population quickly began to choke and die from the naturally toxic environment. With both sides claiming to be the victim it did not take long for the rousing calls for war in the government buildings to be conveyed into the thunderous roars of the populace and within a year both sides had mustered for war and it was Humanity that made the first opening move by a critical strike on the Zigellie's military rallying world of Havona. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Human fleet holding orbit above us commander." The war room was eerily quiet for such a tense moment and the sensor officers announcement cut through the silence like a thunder clap. In an instant the room began swirling with activity as officers relayed status updates and mobilization orders to all forces stationed on the planet all the while commander Yel's eyes were transfixed on the display monitors.

They had been gathering their military strength here for several months now and by the last count there were one million Zigellie warriors on the planet waiting for transport to human territory. With the exception of the transport vessels the navy had remained in a neighboring system's dockyard facilities making final preparations to escort the transports and begin the campaign. No one had expected the human fleet to arrive so quickly let alone knock out the orbital defenses in such short order. Now the human fleet had taken high orbit over the military headquarters  leaving the Zigellie waiting for the next hammer to fall. Before Yel could even speak the sensor officer cut him off. "Contacts dropping from human fleet!" "On display, now!" At Yel's command the monitor switched to an orbital view of the area just above the military headquarters. A series of red icons were breaking away from the human fleet and from their trajectory were heading straight for the compound.

"Are they firing on us?" "Sensors are reading the objects are a solid mass; no energy signatures." "Fire thermal lances and smash them from our skies!" More commotion as the monitor showed several lance batteries aligning to the targets. Massive columns jutting out of the ground like spikes, the thermal lances focused heat and discharged it in a concentrated arch strong enough to turn stone to lava. "Lances firing." came the gunnery officer, and the screens were filled with searing light. The monitors traced several orange lines that sprouted from the base and were slowly drawing nearer to the descending targets before finally impacting.

"Hits confirmed on all targets." A rousing cheer came from the command staff at the sensor officers remark, but before Yel could join in he saw a flash of disbelief come across the officers face.

"Targets are still closing!" they shouted as the cheers died instantly. "No change in their trajectory."

"That's impossible," one of the nearby officers said, "those guns can melt through anything."

"They must be heat resistant!" one of the nearby officers called out as they examined a data screen. "Fire again!" Yel shouted and once more the monitors were blinded with light from the weapons fire. The searing light once again shot towards the encroaching targets and hit them.

"No change in target!" The sensor officer was panicking now, "Impact in sixty microns!"

Yel grabbed his communicator and practically screamed into it "Attention base, brace for incoming fire!"

The command staff braced and Yel took hold of the nearest console and closed his eyes, expecting his life to finally come to an end after a lifetime of service for his people.

A series of earth shattering impacts rocked the entire base. Lights were ripped from the ceiling and thrown across the room, consoles fizzled and exploded, and the command staff let out collectives wails of despair as the chaos felt like it would never end.

Finally the shaking stopped and Yel opened his eyes. The command center was a mess, with officers scattered around like thrown dolls, but the building still stood. One by one they began steadying themselves to their feet and assessing the situation.

"Status report?" Yel's commanding voice cut through the dim aftershock and officers began resuming their posts.

"Objects have made landfall inside the base and have damaged the vehicle depot and armory."

Before Yel could begin issuing orders when he stopped himself. It was very faint but he could hear something just outside the command bunker; the sound was strange and almost barking in nature.

"Enemy units are in the base!"

"WHAT!?"

Security officers were huddled around their screens as warning alarms began blaring. "Confirmed, enemy units have breached the compound and are engaging our forces."

"On screen!" Yel nearly threw aside one of the security officers so he could take a closer look at the security feeds.

Figures clad in strange black and grey armor were methodically sweeping through corridors and streets gunning down any Zigellie they came across. Yel watched as one of the figures kicked down the door to a barracks block and opened fire on full auto before chucking a strange black device in and moving to the next. Shortly after a crushing explosion ripped through the barracks leaving it a burning husk.

"Where did they come from!?" Yel rounded on his sensor officer and picked him up by the scruff of his uniform. "Did you fail to notice troop transports!??!!!"

"There was nothing!" the officer replied as they wiggled in his grasp, "There was nothing but the mass icons in the skies!"

Yel was contemplating snapping the officers neck for his failure when he heard the loud barking coming from outside the command room.

"They've breached the building!"

"Defend yourselves!" Yel roared as he cast aside the sensor officer and reached for his weapon. He had just enough time to grab it and bring it to bear on the entrance just as the human drop troops blew open the door.

[duraxxor]

Shadowlands: A Prelude

The grand finale of the three-way storyline between the Beast, The son Aiden, and the father Duraxxor has finally come to a close. We find our these individuals converging right into the heart of Northrend itself as the winter seemed to chill the bone more so than the norm. Ritualists were converging together from all across as the agents of this being that were in service to the one we call the Beast's will. Some were even leftovers of the fallen master N'zoth as they worked to preparation of a summons of a greater magnitude. This information alone had made it to the ears of those that it was most important to.

Aiden, along with Sephirrion left with but a note to offer anyone with the family that was still left behind in this time of peace. By sea, they made way, unexpecting of whoever was already on their path to this diabolical individual that would see their end first before all else. An assassination attempt was made just before they made the shoreline with the individual meeting a frigid end at the hands of Sephirrion's frost swordsmanship. But as they made landfall, they would soon realize that there were more allies than they had anticipated. Knights a variety drawn in by the call of someone else that could also hear the cry of the Lich King Bolvar as something was more amiss than what was to happen. 

Valanth Sunscorn, Dra'kaal Deathcleave, and even Gravekeeper Anna were present amongst these individuals along with the Forsaken mage Benjamin Lewinters as they gathered alongside Sephirrion and explained to both he and the living son of Daevara that they were all here to fight the same thing and that they were asked by Mr. Myotis himself. So without any further interruptions, the forced marched over and began to attack these malefic ritualists at the frigid plains of Sindragosa's Fall, close to a one many peaks that surrounded the area. It was a clash of undead for the most part versus the forces of the void and demonic that brought Benjamin, Sephirrion, and Aiden to the face of the being known to them as The Beast alongside the wench, Lindeara Windsorrow who had continued to focus on being the main objective.

The Beast's abilities proved to be formidable as he possessed an keen magical manipulation of a small burst of Time itself, proving that he could use it as offensively as he could defensively. It took the three of them a few attempts before they began to realize what was even going on and all seemed like it was truly at a loss when he had managed to cut Sephirrion down where he stood who had managed to bring himself to take the full force of devastating strength right to the very core of his soul. And the summons proved to be a succession as Benjamin was kept away from Lindeara as the head a creature with rows of teeth began to rise from the depths of the ground when suddenly... a barrage of massive bats began to rain down, screeching and howling as they pelted the creature before reanimated monstrosity of the skies know as Nightterror came down and rushed the behemoth back to the hell it came.

Meanwhile, the young lord himself was doing all he could alone against this formidable foe, managing to learn how to move through his chronomancy to counteract it defensively but was on the ropes from the damage he had suffered. Growing tired of these games, The Beast had a hold of Aiden and began channeling the cursed seal, trying to pull that dreaded link that bound all of the living Daevara right from the depths of their souls with enough force they could kill them. The Beast had finally won, he was going to destroy the infernal family that had meddled in his affairs for over ten thousand years of a broken pact. And soon, he would be able to move forward with his careful plans. Nothing could stop him now.

" Kroanthos! "

A name has power, one lady so sanguine once said. And it was at this point that Kroanthos' eyes turned to that which howled his name into the winds and found himself divebombed by an airborne creature known by many names. Bat wings flayed and flapped as the two beings writhed like two serpents trying to kill the other. It was when Aiden got a glimpse of the white locks of hair that cascaded on his shoulders that he realized it was none other than his father. His father was alive and had changed. He couldn't believe it as he saw this creature bring their most formidable foe down to the drops below and back to the snow covered hillside, stealing something so precious as Duraxxor declared that Kroanthos' reign over the Daevara family had come to an end as he now bore the mark of the progenitor. Kroanthos had lost and just when he thought to try and take back what was his, he was betrayed by his closest ally, Lindeara.

Lindeara used her own pact to him to take away what was left of the miserable husk since he no longer had any power over her and took it upon herself to take flight and escape while she could, declaring that she would be back to destroy them all and take back her child Xanthariel as she had always planned to. That was, until the tethers of soul energy zigzagged across the sky just above Icecrown Citadel and like a mirror, the sky shattered as a dreaded spire took shape within it's epicenter. Lindeara took this opportunity to sprout her demonic wings and take flight in the confusion. With that being said, the reunion of Lord and son was cut short and he told his son to tell the other's he would return one day but he still had a fight to finish. The wings of the Myotis growing wide as he took off after the demonic witch. 

Chaos was consuming the entire landscape of Icecrown as the dead could no longer hear the voice of Bolvar and now they were running rampant below. Dura was now urging everyone to leave this place and retreat to help with what was to be a revolution within the world of Azeroth as he began to slowly realize what had happened. The undead were completely free of that which had jailed them for so long to not go completely apocalyptic upon the world. For one last moment, he told them all this was farewell for now as he followed the wench to the rift above, bursting with a gust of speed as he rushed her with ear-piercing screeching. Claws, teeth, and spells were cast, inflicting devastating amount of pain as the two found it all the more satisfying to continue tearing each other apart. 

When they thought nothing else could end this fight, winged harbingers clad in a sinister black smoke rained into existence, zeroing in on the pair as they rushed with the speed of a reaper. Death's grip weaved directly into their hearth, tethering to their bodies with a sinister chain of purple haze. They began to feel the agonizing pain of death tear at their souls until they both found themselves too weak to fight back. Two of these beings now having a hold of them, they sought to bring them back through this rift between Life and Death. And the moment they passed through, the change in flow suddenly brought the two beings back to their own version of life as they writhed and flailed, forced their imminent release as the Val'kyr's of black smog left them both to fall to their own devices. Separately, Duraxxor fell from his foe as they both appeared to no longer possess the ability to fly. Every single aspect of reality had been inverted as he watched as Azeroth began to fade from his sight, the welcoming blue of the frigid Northrend being consumed overcast of death's storm. The father of bats in that moment felt nothing but the cold embrace of weakness as he slowly began to blackout from the fall. But in that darkness of his the depths of his mind, there was one color that consumed his unconscious thoughts...

" RED. "

[ Tagging for those that it may apply to: @gravekeeper-anna @sanguinesorceress @igniting-the-dawn @viviannamaraschiano @sneakybinch @theblackmourninquire @miah-ambershade and to all else whom it may concern =) ] 

[merinnan]

Nevermore - Part 6

“Shanghai?”

“Honestly, I think the hardest part is going to be flying over it on my way to the Shatterdome.”

Now that he was actually flying over the city, Lan Xichen wasn’t sure if his words earlier in the day were prophetic or a curse. The closer the chopper got, the faster his heart began to beat, until now it felt like it might leap right out of his chest. He leaned back in his seat, placing his clammy palms flat on his knees, and took several deep breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out. Once he felt his heartbeat stablilise and slow to something approximating normal, he felt ready to look out of the window again. He wanted – no, he needed – to see it again. To see how it had also healed over the past four years.

From the direction that they were approaching, many of the buildings looked the same. They would mostly be the same, he knew, since he, Nie Mingjue, and Meng Yao had been able to prevent Malerax from getting far into the city. That it had got into the city at all was still too far, but… He forced the hand that had clenched to relax. Yes, it had got into the city, but it had been contained. Most of the city had been spared. His eyes scanned over the buildings, until they were caught up the decorative logo on one of them.

A purple nine-petalled lotus adorned the side of one building, near the top. He didn’t have to be any closer to know how large the lotus was, or that it was made of steel. He recognised it well.

~~~

The lotus, ripped from the building the kaiju had smashed just before they got to it, was large enough to fit neatly into the creature’s clawed fist. When that fist hammered down on them, it was the lotus that smashed against Purple Lightning’s exterior, right where the CONN-pod was encased inside.

“These fuckers use tools now?!” Nie Mingjue shouted in disbelief as they twisted to avoid another blow.

// It’s probably mimicking us. // Meng Yao’s mental voice through the Drift was much like his physical voice, smooth and reasonable.

~ We did just throw a truck at it to get its attention, ~ Lan Xichen agreed.

Another blow collided with them, rattling them around in the motion-rig. Lan Xichen wondered if the steel lotus, with its pointed petals, did damage anything like the kaiju’s claws.

< Thanks, A-Huan, that’s such a reassuring thought. > Even Nie Mingjue’s mental voice sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

The comm crackled to life. “Tools…? Oh, I see…” Lan Xichen could just imagine the headshake on the other end. “Geiszler’s gonna have a field day with this.”

“He can have a field day after we kill it!” Lan Xichen shouted back as they were hit again. He felt his teeth rattle inside his skill, and could feel the gouge in Purple Lightning from the lotus.

< When the fuck did kaiju get smart? >

“LOCCENT, are you sure this one’s a Category III?”

~~~

Lan Xichen blinked and shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the present. It had been some time since seeing a lotus had brought those memories back so clearly, but then again, this was an identical lotus to the one Malerax had briefly used as a weapon four years ago. The building was further into the city now, though. He supposed that whoever used the purple lotus had decided that moving buildings was a better option than waiting for the original building to be rebuilt.

His gaze wandered towards the harbour. There was a large gap in the buildings that he could see – probably a few blocks of missing buildings, he guessed. The buildings immediately surrounding it looked like a mish-mash of new and of skeletal disrepair. He could still see the claw marks in some of them. Further past it, the buildings were clearly newer ones. That gap must be where they’d finally felled Malerax, and where he imagined its skeleton would still be, much like other fallen kaiju in other cities around the Pacific.

Moments later, when the chopper banked around to adjust its course to go out over the harbour to the Shatterdome, he saw that he was right. Malerax’s skeleton lay in that open area, picked clean by clean-up crews, black-market opportunists, and other scavengers both human and animal. The bones were bleached white after four years’ exposure to the sun, in stark contrast to the darkened and crumbling concrete ground and buildings around them. Now that they were closer, he could see the damage done not just by the battle itself, but by the Kaiju Blue released from Malerax’s corpse, poisoning the area around it. He could see the ribbons and signs marking the Exclusion Zone, and the tiny figures of the many people ignoring them to enter the Zone for reasons as varied as those doing it. Kaiju cultists, street gangs, black market vendors, tourists come to gawk…

Shaking his head, Lan Xichen looked away from the skeleton and past the Kaiju Blue-damaged buildings towards those which have been rebuilt in the past four years. The last time he’d seen the harbour and the buildings that lined the roads from the harbour to where the kaiju’s bones now rested, it had been devastated. Now, with the exception of the Exclusion Zone and the buildings around it, the only thing that gave away the fact that anything had happened was how new all of the buildings looked, and all of them in the latest architecture rather than the mish-mash that they had been. Apart from one, he noted, which looked like…his breath caught.

That building was etched in his memory. He was sure it had been destroyed in the fighting, and yet it looked exactly as he remembered it. Had he misremembered its destruction? Hoped that it had been destroyed, and convinced himself of it? Or had the owners simply decided to reconstruct it exactly as it had been? Whichever it was, he had not expected to see it standing there, a silent reminder of when things had really begun to go so terribly wrong.

~~~

“Lighting,” the voice crackled more than usual over the comms. Purple Lightning had been fighting Malerax for over an hour now, and both jaeger and kaiju had taken a beating. “Lightning, try to pull it further back towards the harbour. The bunkers are all full, but they couldn’t take everyone. Strike Teams are on the ground and setting up an evac zone.”

“Roger, LOCCENT.”

None of the pilots said anything else aloud as they moved in unison to have Purple Lightning catch Malerax’s wrist as it swung at them. They didn’t need to – with the three of them connected in the Drift, spoken words were unnecessary unless they needed, or wanted, LOCCENT to hear what they were saying. They took a step to the side and tried to haul Malerax past them, but the kaiju dug its pointed tail into the ground, anchoring itself in place.

// Damn, if our arm-blade hadn’t snapped, now would be a perfect time to cut that thing off. //

< Is the plasma cannon recharged? >

~ Not yet. ~

They moved closer to the kaiju, raising one giant metal foot and stomping down hard on the tail. The end immediately shot up out of the ground, and lashed around uselessly where it was trapped. The other clawed fist swung towards them, connecting with their chest and sending them staggering back a step, releasing the tail but managing to grab hold of the wrist. With both hands now in their grip, they leaned forward and wrestled the kaiju back step-by-step through the wreckage of cars and buildings.

There were people in that wreckage as well, Lan Xichen knew. He hoped that their slow, hard-fought path back towards the harbour wasn’t taking them through any wreckage where there were people still alive. He hoped that there weren’t many people in the wreckage at all, that they’d managed to evacuate into a bunker or away from danger. He hoped that, but he knew that it wasn’t likely. Malerax had been a lot faster in water than any kaiju before it, and had slipped past them while they were still landing in the water. They’d chased it through the harbour as fast as they could, but it still made landfall before they could reach it, and before the evacuation could get underway.

// Watch out for that tail! //

The warning came a moment too late, as the tail wrapped around one of their ankles and pulled. They stumbled, releasing their grip on one hand as they fell to one knee. Before they could recover and get back up, the kaiju was on their back, biting and clawing at the jaeger beneath it. One claw pierced through the gouge caused by the lotus earlier, and breached the CONN-pod.

< PLASMA CANNON! >

~ Almost there, but I can’t get a clear shot with it on our back! ~

Lan Xichen was sure he wasn’t the only one who gave a grunt of pain as the kaiju’s jaws clamped around their shoulder, but it meant the damn thing stopped wriggling enough for them to struggle to their feet, and from there to slam back into one of the buildings to dislodge the kaiju from their back with a screech of torn metal. As they turned to lay one hand on its chest, the plasma cannon recharge finally hitting green, it plunged one clawed hand through the hole it had made in the CONN-pod, tearing the hole wider and wrapping its claws around Nie Mingjue.

~ A-JUE! ~

// A-JUE! //

Both Lan Xichen and Meng Yao’s eyes flicked to their partner in horror.

< FIRE! >

“FIRE!” Nie Mingjue shouted at them as the kaiju ripped him out of the CONN-pod, cables and wires dangling in its wake. Lan Xichen felt like something was crushing his chest, a feeling which lifted as he felt Nie Mingjue’s presence ripped from his mind.

“A-JUE!” He wasn’t sure if he was the one screaming the name, or if it was Meng Yao, or if it was both of them.

“Lightning!” the crackled voice sounded both frightened and horrified. “We’ve lost Mingjue…neural handshake between Xichen and Yao failing…down to 50%...”

~ A-JUE! ~

Malerax’s fist closed around the ranger and rig it had just torn from the jaeger, then threw it to one side. Nie Mingjue’s crumpled form hit the building across what remained of the street, leaving a red smudge against the white stone as it fell towards the ground.

~ A-Jue… ~

“A…A-Huan…,” Meng Yao rasped out, voice shaking.

// A-Huan… // His mental voice was just as shaky, full of the shock at both the abrupt removal of Nie Mingjue from their Drift, and at the sudden death of their partner and lover. // Plasma cannon…you have to fire. //

Plasma cannon. Right. It was charged, had charged just before…

Lan Xichen clenched his jaw, moving Purple Lightning’s hand back into position from where it had dropped in shock of what had just happened. Nie Mingjue’s death was not going to be in vain. He fired the plasma cannon directly into the kaiju’s chest, and it bellowed in pain, pushing them away.

“Neural handshake at 60% and rising.” The relief in the voice was palpable, but Lan Xichen didn’t feel it. He felt something hollow in his chest, where something – someone – was now missing.

~~~

“…chen? Lan Xichen!”

Someone was waving a hand in front of his face and calling his name, voice full of concern. Lan Xichen blinked, then blinked again, aware of his heart racing and his breath coming far too fast. His hands were clenched into fists on his lap. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked to the young man opposite him with what he hoped was a reassuring smile on his face.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

The young man – what was his name again? Wen Qionglin, that was it. His uncle’s assistant. Wen Qionglin still looked concerned.

“Are…are you sure?”

“Just a bad memory,” Lan Xichen said. He began to smooth out the rumpled cloth of his pants where he’d been gripping them, and focused on bringing his breathing under control. “It’s nothing to worry about, really.”

“Um, okay. We’re about to land.”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, before looking out the window again. The city was now behind them, and they hovered above the Shatterdome landing pad. He could feel them slowly descending. To one side of the landing pad, he could make out a ramrod-straight figure in a dark suit. Lan Xichen didn’t have to be close enough to see his face to recognise his uncle, Marshal Lan Qiren. Almost unconsciously his already straight posture straightened a fraction more, and he checked that his forehead ribbon was properly in place. Once done, he gave Wen Qionglin another smile.

“Well. Let’s do this.”

AO3

Nevermore Masterlist

[crimethinc]

Anarchist Relief Efforts for Hurricane Florence: Three On-the-Ground Accounts

When Hurricane Florence hit North Carolina in September, flooding countless towns and temporarily turning the city of Wilmington into an island, anarchists involved with Mutual Aid Disaster Relief and other grassroots projects swung immediately into action. Dozens of anarchists provided resources and relief work to residents of countless cities, towns, and rural settlements in over a dozen counties, spanning a great deal of the eastern part of the state. In the following accounts, participants describe their experiences and the obstacles they encountered along the way. As Hurricane Michael threatens to hit the same areas impacted by Hurricane Florence and climate change catalyzed by global capitalism generates increasingly destructive “natural” disasters, it’s more important than ever to understand disaster response as part of our collective efforts towards liberation.

I. Disaster Is the Status Quo

Anonymous, October 7

Where I live was mostly spared from the immediate effects of Hurricane Florence. While I was safe in my home, reports began to pour in about the increasing damage out east. Dramatic pictures of historic storm surge plastered the headlines alongside reports of people needing immediate rescue. In 2016, Hurricane Matthew taught us that the damage during the hurricane itself is only the beginning. Some parts of North Carolina received six months of rain in two to four days—historic record-breaking quantities of water. As the storm surge receded, the rain from across the whole state made its way east down the river basins to flood the areas that had already been hit hardest by the initial impact of the hurricane.

If we wanted to intervene, we had only a short window of time. In a few days, the floodwaters and the response from the Department of Transportation would block access to the worst-hit areas. It would take time for the disaster relief organizations to establish control of the effort, and the state needed time to cement control via their apparatuses.

Some friends and I had spoken in advance about what we might do to help out. We got back together the morning after the storm made landfall to discuss our options and lay plans. Other comrades were already in eastern NC on their way to Wilmington, where they had secured a space in which to base their operations.

The hurricane hit some of the poorest counties in North Carolina hard. Some of us had deep connections to those places. We decided to visit the more rural areas. It was likely that these counties would receive less attention than the well-known towns. We talked about what the residents’ needs might be and how we could prepare to help.

Eastern North Carolina has a few features that take newcomers by surprise. First, it’s flat for miles upon miles. The coastal plain was once dominated by the long-leaf pine savanna, an awe-inducing and amazingly diverse ecosystem that capitalist development has reduced to about 2% of its historical range via logging and fire suppression (since these ecosystems require wildfires to sustain themselves). Second, a good portion of eastern North Carolina smells like hog waste. There’s a good reason for this: it’s because there is hog waste everywhere. North Carolina has one of the world’s biggest hog industries. Along with massive chicken, turkey, and tobacco farming and similar enterprises, this has reduced one of the most diverse ecosystems on the continent to hundreds of square miles of industrial agriculture.

It’s estimated that there are approximately three times as many hogs as people in North Carolina. The vast majority of them are concentrated in the eastern and southeastern coastal plain. These hogs are shipped around the state to various processing facilities, including the biggest slaughterhouse in the world. Owned by Smithfield and located in Tar Heel, NC, it kills about 32,000 hogs daily—roughly the same number as the student body of UNC Chapel Hill, an affluent university in the center of the state.

The hogs’ waste is stored in gigantic retention ponds. There are approximately 4000 of these. Through complex capitalist acrobatics, the hog farmers are often trapped in rental contracts to the effect that one of the only aspects of their operations that they own is the hog waste. When the ponds threaten to overflow, the farmers often spray waste over their crop fields in order to avoid violations. This literally covers some of the poorest counties in hog waste. Flash floods, hurricanes, and similar events empty these ponds for the farmers, washing untreated waste downriver and causing massive ecological damage. A breach in one of these ponds is often followed by massive marine life die-offs, closures of water access due to toxicity, and well-water contamination, among other long-term consequences.

As we traveled east, the landscape grew more and more ominous. Gloomy skies gave way to heavy winds and intermittent rains. We followed flooded and closed roads around small towns without electrical power. Fallen trees lay across wrecked houses and power lines. Here and there, an abandoned car hinted at a dire story; out-of-place objects were littered around us. In one dramatic scene, we came upon agricultural storage tanks, some thirty feet high, that had been thrown across the road and rolled into adjacent fields.

When we arrived at the coastal town where we were staying, we saw even more damage. The storm surge had inflicted the highest water level in their history. Standing water crept throughout the streets of town; docks were torn apart; pieces of houses littered the streets. Boats were perched sideways atop the docks, perhaps having experienced a better fate than the boats now only slightly above the water.

After removing a fell tree from a house in the town, we drove around the county to see how we could help. Most of the residents hadn’t yet returned from the mandatory evacuation, so the already sparsely populated county felt even more abandoned. We chatted with some people who were just coming back home to their trailer park and passed along some water and food to them. The floodwaters blocked access to many of the regions we attempted to visit, but we also had many comforting interactions with residents of the county who were going around checking on each other, delivering supplies, and providing aid wherever people needed it.

As was widely reported, police and emergency crews from all around America came to eastern North Carolina as part of the larger relief effort. The relief efforts were staged in central locations, often near courthouses and jails. At first, we hoped that the people at these staging areas could help us learn how to plug into local efforts.

We went to a small town center and presented ourselves to the first person we saw—a cop from New York City, as it turned out. He cut short our introduction, warning us that there was a strict curfew in effect and that we needed to be on the watch for looters. He emphasized how dangerous the area was, insisting that these looters posed a serious threat. We gleaned no useful information about the needs of those who had been hit by the storm; our efforts definitely did not feel welcome. To me, it was clear that his role was to orchestrate the relief effort according to a prescribed agenda, so people in need would remain disempowered and criminalized.

Nevertheless, as the day went on, we found ways to help out. We delivered food to farmworkers whose employer had abandoned them without food or any idea as to when work might resume. We checked on people whose loved ones had not heard from them. We cleared trees from roads in the flooded neighborhoods to which people were beginning to return.

Then we stopped by the disaster relief center in New Bern. New Bern was hit particularly hard by the storm surge, which crested at over ten feet. We asked around for information and direction. Someone pointed us to the police sergeant who was overseeing the effort. When we explained what we were doing and asked if he knew where we could plug into relief efforts, his first question was “What kind of people are you trying to help?” We repeated ourselves, emphasizing that we were there to assist anyone who was in need of help as a consequence of the storm.

He knew were we could plug in, he told us. His wife owned a bar downtown that had experienced some flood damage, and he tried to assign us to help her clean it out. We politely declined. Then he sent us to a neighborhood fifteen minutes away that he said had been hit really hard, with instructions to tell anyone who asked that he had sent us in order that we would be perceived as possessing some legitimacy.

He sent us to a country club. It was true: their golf course, private lake, and large front lawns had taken quite a bit of damage from fallen trees. Yet in this neighborhood, there were many companies that specialized in relief work already clearing trees and working on home repairs. When the sergeant told us to go to this neighborhood fifteen minutes away, streets just three blocks from the relief center were blocked by fallen trees and lined with homes with standing water in them. There were no relief teams there to help them, no companies working overtime. People had just begun to come back to their homes; they were searching for a warm meal before picking up the pieces of their lives.

Some of the ways that the damage from natural disasters impacts poor people are obvious. Poorer neighborhoods are often built in areas that are more susceptible to disaster; the homes of the poor often aren’t in good enough condition to withstand a storm. Other ways that natural disasters impact poor people are subtle. For example, when police are positioned as the ones who conduct disaster relief efforts, this empowers them to utilize natural disasters as opportunities to target the marginalized and vulnerable.

We’ve become accustomed to hearing stories about gigantic amounts of food, water, and supplies not reaching the people who need them most. This is no accident. Rather, it is the completely avoidable consequence of an approach to disaster relief that serves capitalism at every turn. If that were the whole story—a cold and calculated approach to maximizing profit during disaster—it would be a horror, but this is not all there is to say about the ethos of the state. In addition to aiming to facilitate exploitation, representatives of the state also utilize disasters to hatefully eliminate unwanted portions of society. Every interaction we had with the police showcased how their role, as representative of the system they serve, was to ensure that undesired persons did not receive the help they desperately needed and to reinforce the systems and myths that have been constructed to block people from solving their problems without the state. In view of this, the amount of money that has traded hands in the weeks following Hurricane Florence is maddening.

Over the following weeks, we heard story after story about insurance money not coming through due to fine print (such as flood damage being covered, but not in case of a hurricane), or the payouts amounting to a fraction of the costs people were dealing with. As we tore molding insulation and ductwork out from under flooded houses, we heard how people were forced to work extra hours to make up the time they had missed due to the hurricane. We patched a damaged roof belonging to a man whose son was a roofer; the son had been making too much money due to the hurricane to come and patch his own father’s leaking home. A group of people who were accused of looting a store in Wilmington were arrested and displayed as trophies by local police even after the store requested that the police not press charges against them. In South Carolina, police drove a van containing two prisoners into rising floodwaters and lost control. They climbed out to await rescue on the roof while their prisoners drowned beneath their feet.

Many farmworkers, subject to precarious conditions in worker camps, endured considerable suffering. Farm owners, who are legally obligated to feed their workers, abandoned hundreds of them behind flooded roads without food or water.

We delivered supplies to some of these people. They told us stories about how they had been treated. Some had been told that if they weren’t present when the owner returned, they would lose their jobs, which would put their legal status in jeopardy. They were in limbo without food, water, or work, with their legal status tied to absent employers. In one case, we gave aid to a large group of women living in an abandoned building owned by their employer, who had cut off the power and left them with no supplies and no assurance of when he would return. These employers put their workers in incredibly dangerous situations without the basic supplies necessary for survival. When we delivered food and water to people who hadn’t had food for many days, they told us that we needed to be careful to visit only when their employers were away, because their employers didn’t want us helping them.

When one river crested days after the initial storm, a building inhabited by some of these workers flooded dramatically. They called 911 and requested a rescue, but no one came. It turned out that the landowner had called and canceled the emergency response, saying that the workers were fine. They stayed on their roof as the floodwaters overtook their housing, continuing to call for help with no response.

While coal ash full of arsenic, untreated wastewater, and hog sewage seeped down the waterways into the ocean, people were trying to get back on their feet. When farm work resumed, the crops were so damaged that in some cases workers could only make a fraction of their previous earnings on the few days of work they were offered. Farmworkers were pulling rotten sweet potatoes out of knee-deep polluted river mud for 40 cents a bucket, or leave their worksites in search of other opportunities. Residents queued up for home repair work that insurance refused to cover. Temperatures reached 90 degrees in an unseasonable warm spell while the insulation and air conditioning in flooded homes grew deadly black mold. Mosquitoes made the front-page news in many counties due to their massive breeding success, thanks to the record-breaking rainfall. People screamed at each other over how resources were distributed. Radicals were pushed out of relief spaces or ordered to pretend to be apolitical volunteers by organizations that aimed to control the relief narrative. Right-wing militants paraded in heavily armed anti-looting patrols to great patriotic fanfare.

All of this was avoidable. The state deals a death sentence to the people and landscapes it exploits. Massive amounts of wealth are centralized via these disasters. As catastrophes create the illusion of a blank slate for capitalists to reinvent reality according to a more profitable blueprint, the people who are attempting to put their lives back together are dealt a volley of hardships. Many people were still in the process of recovering from hurricane Matthew two years prior when Florence destroyed whatever progress they had managed to make.

This continues as supplies rot, guarded out of reach of those who need them most. These disasters will be in effect for years after their initial impact. Like Katrina and every storm before it, the damage Hurricane Florence caused will be quantified as a dollar amount, leaving out all the other forms of harm inflicted on people and animals. When you see the effects of Florence reduced to a billion-dollar price tag, remember—those billions are exactly what made it such a disaster in the first place.

II. The Anarchists Showed up First

Anonymous, September 27

We were sitting in our driveway in Wilmington, NC when a truck with a kayak strapped to the roof pulled up. The power had come back on just a few minutes earlier; it was the Sunday after the hurricane hit. Someone from the truck walked up and asked if [redacted] was here. I introduced myself and they told me that my friend hadn’t heard from me and was worried; they had stopped by on their way to make sure I was OK. The people in the truck introduced themselves as Mutual Aid Disaster Relief; they gave us a box of food and other supplies and asked if we needed anything else.

I was happy to see new faces after days of isolation without electricity, and even more so to meet people who were comrades as well. Before they left, we planned to meet the following day to start organizing a response to the destruction inflicted by Hurricane Florence. Not long after the truck pulled away, my neighbor came running out to flag down a cop car that was flying down our residential street in order to ask for updates. They learned very little. I pointed out that it was the anarchists who showed up first to check on us, whereas they had to flag down the cop, who had no intention of checking on any of us. Later on, some comrades came back to crash with us and plan for the following weeks.

The next day, we split up into crews. Some of us went to the space we were going to be working out of; others went to scout the neighborhoods to see who needed help with repairs, cleanup, tree removal, and the like. Florence had devastated some of the most already marginalized communities: whole bedroom ceilings had collapsed, leaving everything exposed and soaking wet; roofs had been torn off the tops of the trailers as if by a can opener; trees were impaled through houses; there were loose hanging electrical wires and downed telephone poles all over town.

We saw a considerable number of DHS and Border Patrol vehicles driving around. ICE was sure to be around as well. We notified local residents and distributed the number for the legal hotline, as well as cleaning up and starting to make connections with people throughout the city to learn who needed help and who else would be interested in helping. We regrouped afterwards to talk about the next steps. Our staging space was a small school located in the lower-income part of town, owned by the city but run by liberals. It was out of commission due to the hurricane; in the beginning, they welcomed us gladly.

Later on, another crew joined us, driving a box truck to and from the airport to pick up supplies that were being flown in from Virginia and parts of North Carolina that had not been hit by the worst parts of the hurricane. We were the first group of people—before any government agency or NGO—to arrange for supplies to be flown in and air-dropped for distribution to those who survived the hurricane. This aroused the suspicions of some military and police officials, who were perplexed and embarrassed that a bunch of strange-looking people were already responding to the disaster before anyone even knew when to expect FEMA or other state organizations to show up.

We began distributing supplies throughout the community as soon as our space was open. From the beginning, we ran according to the principles of mutual aid and gift economics: take what you need, offer what you can share, volunteer if you’re able. We shared food, water, medical supplies, hygiene products, soap, household cleaning supplies, clothes, blankets, shoes, baby formula, and diapers; trained first responders and EMTs were there to offer medical assistance. We also set up a table offering zines sent to us by Occupied Southwest Distro, covering topics including anarchism, mutual aid, policing, capitalism, prison abolition, feminism, disaster relief, responding to trauma, police violence, consent, and security culture; some recounted previous Mutual Aid Disaster Response experiences from prior emergencies, such as Hurricane Harvey. In addition to all this, there was also a phone charging station and a lounge area.

The first day our space was open, we distributed food throughout the community, sent crews out to other parts of town, and picked up supplies from the airport. We were already meeting people who offered to volunteer alongside us.

The next day, people from the community who’d visited the day before to get supplies showed up to volunteer. The distribution was already essentially self-managed by members of the community. This enabled us to focus more on the logistics of flying in supplies, and reaching out to other communities that were more isolated or located in the city’s blind spots. Every day added 100-200 people to the previous day’s numbers; by the third day, we served 400 or 500 people at the space, plus the crews traveling out to provide aid to people who were unable to get there. We reached many elderly and disabled folks this way, and brought food, water, and other supplies directly to many families who were unable to find transportation to us. We also had been helping with house repairs, providing tarps for roofs that were exposed, and cleaning up debris and fallen trees from homes.

Already the project was growing and thriving, practically running itself. Every day, I would see people come up unsure of who we were and what was going on at this school that had been turned into a space for the community. Often they were visibly upset, in need of help, dragging their feet towards the door, asking us if we had anything to eat. Of course we did—”Come right on in!” They would leave with bags of supplies and smiles on their faces.

Many members of the mostly Black and Latino/Latina communities were also interested in the zine table. I can still see the huge smile that greeted me as I said, “Those are great choices!” to the elderly woman who had selected titles including “Everybody Hates the Police,” “Life Without Law,” and “Learning From Ferguson.” But by the time the zine table was half empty, some of the liberals had also taken notice of the zines, as well. They didn’t read “What Anarchists Have Been Saying for Years, and What Liberals need to start Hearing” or “Accomplices Not Allies”—they just raised their eyebrows at the critiques of police. I soon noticed them passing the zines around to each other and staring at me; I guessed they were making phone calls to their superiors.

Within a few hours, some of the liberals that had been shadowing us and the community members who were taking the literature asked us not to distribute it, describing it as “divisive” and “too political.” We were asked to “keep politics out of it”—they told us that the facility was on good standing with the local police. We pointed out a strange dynamic that was emerging in the space: liberal, white staff members were the ones asking us to keep politics out of it, while Black community members would converse with us about the zines and talk about their experiences with police and city officials. The staff members were not happy with us pointing out this dynamic and stated that they were not racist. No one had accused them of racism.

This was the first sign of trouble, but we continued to bring in supplies, clean up debris and felled trees, and repair houses. We removed the zines to avoid drama, because we felt it was more important to have the space to be there for the community no matter what. But over the following days, people came up to me to ask for more zines, and we began to discuss other projects we could do in the community on a more long-term basis.

Community members warned us of what was to come. Soon, there would be visits from news crews—even Mayor Bill Saffo finally showed up a week and a half later for a photo shoot. We also started to notice an increase in attention from the local police, who would drive their patrol cars around the space periodically throughout the day and night. This was the same police force responsible for murdering two black men and a young white woman with a mental illness—the same police force that had purchased a brand new L-RAD device for “announcements” and introduced training for “peace officers” that thrilled the local liberal career activists.

For two weeks, the community came together to hold it down. We became good friends and met a lot of wonderful people throughout the city. I had people coming up to me after reading our literature saying, “I never knew I was an anarchist.” Intriguing conversations followed about our experiences, our aspirations, our goals. More and more people showed up to volunteer and help.

But what started with the principle of “everything for everyone” soon turned into rationing, as the liberal staff members peering over the shoulders of the community volunteers endeavored to spread paranoia about potential thieves and parasites who were supposedly coming in and taking way too much. In fact, we were continually getting in more and more supplies—why should we begin rationing when every day we ended up with more stuff than we had started with? We were traveling out to other towns and cities in the more rural parts of the state, like Lumberton, where the large indigenous community was hit hard with severe flooding, while still trying to recover from the previous hurricane, Hurricane Matthew.

As more and more volunteers came, more supplies were air dropped in, and comrades from all over came to help out, we all became both exhausted by and excited about the work we were doing. But one day, unexpectedly, we were informed that we would have to vacate the space by the following morning at 8 am so they could open the school as a daycare for children whose parents were out of work as a result of the disaster. We were all sad to have to leave so soon and without warning, especially since the staff had originally agreed that we would receive at least two days’ notice before we needed to pack up. But we understood that it was important for the kids to have a place to go. Besides, they told us, the school would still be open as a space for people to obtain food and supplies, and the outreach crews would still do supply runs and cleanups and repairs; we just had to vacate the back rooms where volunteers from out of state had been staying and holding meetings.

We packed our things and were gone before morning, seeking another space to use for storage and to house volunteers. However, visiting and conversing with some of the new staff members two days later, we discovered that they never intended to use the space for a daycare; they told us that the back rooms were just occupied by the staff that was doing the “managing.” Now the distribution utilized a ticket system and rationed food; we saw a huge news crew outside, and a trailer belonging to a massive non-profit organization offering medical services to fill the vacuum that opened up when we were told to leave. The staff had become increasingly unfriendly and passive-aggressive. It was clear that the real reason we had been told to leave had nothing to do with offering assistance or a space for children. It was about our physical appearance and political beliefs, and the fact that we were building relationships in the community and that the community was coming together for itself, without the help of outside government or NGO assistance—or the liberal staff members.

Although we lost the first space, we’re still operating, while searching for a new space. We’re still here; we will be here doing Mutual Aid Disaster Relief as long as it’s necessary. We’ll continue proving to people that this is possible—that we don’t have to wait for the state to come to our aid—that we are the ones who keep us safe.

We continue to work together to rebuild and strengthen our communities. We’ve already built lots of valuable relationships in the process.

III. Through the Eye of the Storm

An interview with MouseMouse from Blue Ridge Autonomous Defense, working under the umbrella of Mutual Aid Disaster Relief, September 24.

What have you been doing, and where?

We’ve been doing a lot. Wellness checks in flooded areas using kayaks. Supply scheming and pick up and drop offs as a street team. Bringing supplies directly to impacted folks and communities. Basic first aid and harm reduction. Interfacing with community members and discussing disaster politics. Supply distribution center organizing. Hot food delivery.

We were in Washington, NC when Florence hit. We worked out of there for a day. Then we moved through the eye of the storm, through its back wall, into Wilmington. I was in Wilmington for seven days working in North Wilmington neighborhoods such as Love Grove as well as trailer parks near Military Cutoff Road. Then I moved up to Lumberton, NC along with another member of my group to assist in the indigenous-led relief efforts being organized in that community.

Describe your motivation and past experience with this kind of work.

My motivation for doing this work is multi-faceted. Capitalism’s insatiable desire for profit and new markets means that climate change and its associated extreme weather events will not stop, but only increase. So the need for autonomous, anarchist-led efforts will also increase as we struggle to meet the needs of impacted and devastated communities.

In addition, I recognize that there are very few opportunities in which the state will totally vacate territory, and natural disasters are one of them. This gives us unprecedented opportunity to build new methods of community organization in the ruins of the existing order. We can claim space and show that a new world is possible by reaching people in new ways.

And finally, as an anarchist, I want to practice mutual aid. I want to stand in solidarity with those targeted by the state, against the state.

This was the first time I’ve done anything like this. However, my group has a focus on street medic and community defense work using small teams. This disaster tested all of the skills we have been honing. It demonstrated that through praxis, we can shape the theory that guides us.

Can you share any lessons for the future?

One of the biggest lessons I learned from this experience is that regional networks involving organizations, affinity groups, and individuals can be utilized in emergencies to meet the needs of our communities. The logistical and operational push before and following this storm has been mind-blowing. In the first days following the storm, we were able to do things that even the state was unable, or unwilling, to do—and we did that by never separating our politics from our efforts.

The need for realistic planning and continuous preparation was also important. It would be easy to create a situation in which you too become a person in need in the middle of the disaster. Any sort of complacent act or careless planning could put you there.

Having appropriate supplies and vehicles is necessary, as well as being able to make longer-term commitments. Showing up as a group that can only commit a day or two or three to efforts drains resources and does not allow for the necessary long-term interaction and commitment required to build trust and community.

Looking forward, we can use the lessons from this response, along with other disasters, to refine the theory behind disaster relief and mutual aid in the age of extreme weather, resource exploitation, and mass extinction. We can say with confidence that we do truly keep each other safe, and that with a little bravery, the new world we hold in our hearts can take root in this world, as our collective future.

[loadphilly478]

Arc Strike

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Fifty years ago, I, along with the 5,000 Marines enduring the siege at the Marine forward airbase at Khe Sanh, came to know the power of the B-52 intimately. But not as “intimately” as the NVA who were the targets of these unbelievably powerful bombing runs that were called, “arc lights.” Before I arrived in Vietnam, I spent a week on Okinawa. The Marine base there is right next to the Kadena Air Force base where some of the B-52s who flew over Vietnam were based. They would take off and land over our barracks. Their size and the power of their engines was already deeply tattooed into my memory banks before I saw them in action near Khe Sanh during the siege.

It is hard to describe what one of these arc lights looks like, sounds like, or more importantly, feels like. One comes up against awe, or something that feels otherworldly in the presence of one of these “arc lights.” Depending on your proximity to one, whether you were being protected by it, or were the target of it, you experienced it as a revelation of an almost divine power, or the imposition of a demonic one. The power that they unleash is overwhelming and violent in terms of exponentials. You will get a visual sense of this in this video, but it is nothing like—being there. Nothing at all.

B-52s began almost unlimited operations around the besieged Marine base at Khe Sanh from the beginning of the siege in January of 1968. Those missions were carried out throughout the entire siege in ever increasing numbers. At first these arc lights were being dropped further out from the base at around 3,000 meters. The NVA, though, were smart. Final fantasy type 0 iso. They figured this out and moved closer to the base thinking that the Americans would refrain from dropping their payloads too close to the Marines on the base. But by the end of the siege they were dropping those heavy arc light strikes to within a thousand meters of the base.

You’ll see toward the beginning of this video, the kind of destruction they could unleash. Toward the end of the video you will see what the bomb load looks like leaving the bomb bays and wing pods of a single B-52. It looks like the stream of bombs will never end. Most arc light missions included three B-52s, each one dropping up to 75 huge bombs onto the enemy and the terrain below. These strikes bring destruction to the enemy on a mind-boggling scale.

Toward the end of the siege, we, like the NVA themselves, would become aware of a strike only when the bombs began exploding. You never heard the B-52s. They were flying at 30,000 when they dropped their payloads. Then we would see the clouds of dust and debris rising several hundred feet into the air in the long, progressive lines of exploding 1,000 and 2,000 pound bombs. Then we would hear and feel the heavy impact of the percussion waves rushing over us. Those sound waves were powerful enough still, coming at us from that thousand-meter distance, that you felt them in your chest and they could cause you to take a few steps back. One cannot imagine what it must have been like for the NVA to be directly under one of those arc lights. That kind of encounter would change anybody.

For those of us holding that base, surrounded by three to four times as many NVA than there were of us, who had been enduring 77 days of endless artillery bombardment and mortar fire, wondering when they were going to attack us with their overwhelming manpower, those B-52 arc light missions were seen as one of our greatest defenders. We cheered them every time we heard them. Yet, at the same time, we all secretly within ourselves, thanked heaven that it was not us under that terrible onslaught. It was bad enough enduring the steady, destructive impact of incoming from the NVA’s big guns day and night, but being under an arc light has no conceivable comparison.

The B-52 is still an important element of American air power. The Veterans Site wishes to thank all those who have flown or been crewmembers on B-52s, and those who service them, then and now. You are a force to be reckoned with.

Void Zephyr Strike. Void Agni Strike. Void Poseidon Strike. Void Jeanne d'Arc Strike. Void Nidhogg Strike. Volcanic Chimera Strike. Ebon Chimera Strike. Tempest Chimera Strike. Tidal Chimera Strike. Luminous Chimera Strike. Wyrmprints: Beautiful Nothingness. I can't see a reason to use this ability as it costs too much, and does so little. Burning hands is a cool spell when you can cast it at minimal cost, but for monks, at low levels 2 ki points is a LOT, and by the time you can spend 2 ki points, the foes you're up against are either immune/resistant to fire, are one big foe so the spread doesn't matter, too dexy to get caught by it, or just.

The weather often wreaks havoc on our nation's power grid. From tornadoes to hurricanes to winter storms, the elevated power system is particularly vulnerable to damage from any number of weather-related forces. When damage to power lines occurs, intense arcing and power outages usually result. The highly visible, bright arcing from a damaged power line is often referred to as a 'power flash'. Power flashes can light up the nighttime sky, and as a result sometimes look like lightning. This article will examine the causes of power flashes and how to distinguish them from lightning. Paltalk messenger for mac.

In This Article: - Exploding transformer? The causes of power flashes - Appearance of power arcs - Responsible weather phenomena - Lightning or power flash?

This web site is made possible by support from CIS Internet.

Exploding transformer? The causes of power flashes

Power flashes are almost universally referred to as 'exploding transformers'. However,

'exploding transformer' is an incorrect term, as transformers are rarely the source of these arcs. A 'power flash' is simply an arc caused by a shorted-out power line. These short-circuits can occur anywhere on the power grid where live wires are allowed to contact each other, grounded objects or the earth itself. While power flashes sometimes do occur at an actual transformer, they are typically not associated with one.

Right: Fig. 1 - A small arc occurs above a transformer in Carolina Beach, North Carolina as Tropical Storm Ernesto makes landfall. The presence of the transformer was coincidental, as the arcing was caused by wires above it touching in the high winds.

There are three ways power lines can contact each other or the ground and cause a short circuit and resulting arc:

Damage or collapse of the wires' support system (telephone poles, insulators or crossarms) due to external force (wind, ice).

External forces (such as strong wind) causing wires to move and touch each other.

A conductive foreign object (such as a wet tree branch, bird or squirrel) resting across two live wires.

Below: a tornado produces a power flash as it damages lines near Spearman, Texas

Appearance of power arcs

Power flashes are most visible and dramatic at night. They appear as an intense, sometimes pulsing glow emanating from a source on the ground. The color is usually a combination of blue, green, turquoise and orange - and the colors can change rapidly as the arcing continues. Power flashes can illuminate an entire cloud deck from underneath, which often results in it being mistaken for lightning. The arcing usually lasts for around one second or less, and the sound produced is usually that of a loud gunshot, a loud buzz, or both. Below: Fig. 2 - Video frame sequence of an intense power flash in a St. Louis neighborhood during the major ice storm of December 2006. Note the shifting colors as the arc continues. Watch a video clip

The power distribution system is designed to automatically detect such short circuits, and large breakers will normally cut power to the affected circuit quickly - limiting the duration of the arc. Since the cause of many short circuits are momentary (such as a lightning strike or a squirrel walking across wires) most of these circuit breakers (called reclosers) are designed to re-energize the lines several times before they completely cut power. If the cause of the short circuit remains, this re-energizing of the lines may result in two or three more arcing events before power is cut fully.

Below: A severe thunderstorm causes a power flash in Chesterfield, Missouri as lines touch in the high winds:

Power arcs are extremely bright, hot and intense, involving up to tens of thousands of amperes of current. They are very destructive to power equipment and are able to melt or burn any material they contact, including metal. Wooden telephone poles and trees are frequently ignited by arcing.

Below: Fig. 3 - Power flashes light up the sky in Melbourne, Florida as Hurricane Frances makes landfall. These power flashes ranged in color from blue, green, red and orange. (click images to enlarge) WATCH VIDEO CLIP: Blue/green and red/orange flashes from arcing power lines during Hurricane Frances.

Responsible weather phenomena

While power flashes can result from human-caused incidents (such as a car striking a utility pole), it is the weather that is by far the most prolific producer of damage that results in arcing and power outages.

Tornadoes, Hurricanes & Strong Winds Wind is the most frequent culprit in causing damage to power lines. Wind can damage lines directly or indirectly. Falling trees and branches can easily topple wires and poles. Airborne debris can lodge in wires, causing a short circuit. Power flashes frequently illuminate the funnels and debris clouds of tornadoes, as the intense winds destroy power lines and equipment.

Developing tornado damages power lines near Rozel, Kansas

Lightning Lightning is another frequent trigger of short circuits and arcs, but in an unusual way. Lightning striking an energized power line can cause a flashover, which is simply the breach of an insulator by an arc. The lightning channel itself acts as a 'starter' for a cross-insulator arc, which continues after the lightning flash is over. These flashovers are common during frequent lightning storms in urban areas. More detail can be found in this article on flashovers.

Video clip of lightning-triggered flashover Windows Media, 157KB

Ice Ice storms are very prolific producers of power flashes and widespread outages. The weight of the ice can bring down power lines and poles directly. Ice-laden trees often collapse onto power lines, bringing them down.

VIDEO CLIP: Arcing power lines in St. https://loadphilly478.tumblr.com/post/655925835092639744/dvdfab-93-20. Louis ice storm

Snow Heavy snow can indirectly cause power arcs when snow-laden trees and branches fall on lines. Early-season snowstorms that deposit heavy snow on fully-leafed trees are especially known for their potential to produce tree damage and power outages.

Earthquakes Shaking during an earthquake can cause widespread power line arcing from moving or collapsing power lines. These are contributing to a myth of so-called 'earthquake lights' often seen during larger quakes, particularly ones that occur at night.

Lightning or power flash?

Power flashes can often be very similar in appearance to a lightning flash. Adding to the confusion is that lightning itself can trigger a power flash (flashover), causing both to occur together. The following tips can help the observer visually identify the two.

Observe the color: Color is the most reliable indicator of a power flash vs a lightning strike. Lightning is never green or turquoise in color, so any flash in the sky of that color will indicate a power arc. A flash that changes color is a telltale signature of a power arc.

Observe the duration: Power flashes usually glow and 'linger' while a lightning strike will flicker rapidly.

Observe the location: Power flashes usually eminate from a single point on the ground, while lightning will illuminate the clouds more evenly.

Observe the sound: There will be no thunder associated with a power arc, unless a lightning strike was the cause. A loud buzz or gunshot noise indicates a power arc, although the sound of an arc usually cannot be heard more than a half mile away.

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[pcurrytravels]

Thoughts: New Orleans (Part V)

It was day three in New Orleans, and once again we woke up early for breakfast. We found out that there was a location of Daisy Duke’s in the CBD that was even closer to our hotel so we went there. I decided to just go ahead and get breakfast this time…..with a side of crawfish hushpuppies. I have to say, I actually liked this location of Duke’s better. The service was quicker, the prices were slightly cheaper (might have something to do with how the other location is in the more touristy French Quarter) and the sweet tea was even better. Oh, and they offered crawfish hushpuppies here while the other location didn’t. And yes they were delicious.

After we finished, my mom went back to the room while I took a little morning stroll, exploring the CBD some more before I decided to give PJ’s Coffee on Canal a try. PJ’s Coffee is the ubiquitous coffeehouse in New Orleans (I literally only saw two Starbucks the entire time I was there), and after trying their product I can easily see why. Remember when I said in the Mini-Guide how their blended Granita drinks are like Frappuccinos but better? Well, they are. They’re smoother, sweeter, and likely made with better quality coffee beans (I mean, New Orleans is a port city so I imagine they’d have pretty easy access to a number of things, including coffee beans). So yes, if you visit New Orleans and see a PJ’s Coffee (and you definitely will), be sure to stop by and give them a try.

Going back to the room to chill for a minute, we then set off to the National WWII Museum. We used the St. Charles Streetcar to get there, and I must say, riding this one was a much more pleasant experience than any of our rides on the Canal or Riverwalk streetcars. Although it can still get crowded, this line is rarely ever standing-room only. Unlike Canal, it also has windows that open, which is surprisingly a very effective means of keeping things cool on board (the Riverwalk line has windows that open too, but that line is usually packed with people and, thanks to the resulting heat attracted to human bodies, an open window is not very effective). It felt nice being able to easily grab window seats without having to worry about having to push through people upon reaching our stop.

Down St. Charles Avenue, through the CBD and Warehouse District, we got off at Lee Circle which was, almost appropriately, right next door to the Civil War Museum and a block away from the National WWII Museum. Why am I saying it was appropriate? Because Lee Circle is named after Robert E. Lee; you know, the Confederate general?

Yeah, modern New Orleans may be a fairly liberal, morally loose and open-minded place, but it’s still the South. There’s going to be reminders of the antebellum and Jim Crow eras all over the place, and that includes public “memorials” to the Confederacy. Ugh. Thankfully, last year the local government decided to remove the statue of Lee that sat atop the pillar pictured above. As they should, because reminders of the more shameful parts of American history such as that need to be in museums, not shamelessly displayed in public (now what they need to do is change the name back to Tivoli Circle or something but I guess that’s none of my business).

Speaking of museums, the National WWII Museum is great……if you’re into the topic. I don’t know if it’s because I learned all about it in school (I remember having one history teacher in high school who was particularly passionate about this era for some reason so I already feel like I studied it to death) or what, but it just didn’t do much for me. Aside from the exhibit about servicemen of color in the War, the Japanese internment exhibit, an infographic which detailed the threat of Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy and the Japanese Empire and the C-47 hanging in the lobby, nothing about the museum really caught my attention. I honestly feel like it was just too small as my mom and I were in and out of there in less than thirty minutes, which is weird when considering how highly regarded the museum is (I’m also VERY happy we got in with the power pass as the admission price is WAY too high at face for what you get in my opinion). It’s a shame the Civil War Museum next door wasn’t included in the Power Pass as I always found the Civil War more interesting than World War II to be honest.

Once we were done, we hopped back on the streetcar to Canal and from there made our way to Jackson Square once more. We first stopped inside the PJ’s for a moment to enjoy frozen lemonades and air conditioning. You’d think we would have an easier time getting used to this weather, seeing that our family originates out of Alabama and Mississippi in addition to being the sort of climate our ancestors were forced to do unpaid labor in for hundreds of years but I digress. Upon cooling down, we stopped to listen to the live brass band for a few minutes before heading into The Cabildo.

The Cabildo is one of two twin buildings which flank the St. Louis Cathedral. Originally serving municipal purposes, the two of them as well as the 1850 House have been repurposed into outposts of the Louisiana State Museum. The Cabildo in particular once operated as the city hall, in addition to being the site where the Louisiana Purchase commenced, but it now hosts an exhibit about Louisiana’s history; spanning from its settlement by the French in the 1600’s to the Reconstruction era. Now, it was fairly interesting and all, with paintings, artifacts and templates about the battle of New Orleans, the region’s indigenous peoples, the differences between French and Spanish colonial rule/policy, West African slaves and free people of color, the Louisiana Purchase and the area’s history with pirates, but overall, I didn’t find it as captivating as The Presbytere.

On the other side of the Cathedral, this not-quite identical building (if you pay close attention, you’ll notice it’s painted in a lighter color and has a flatter, more squared-off roof than the Cabildo /architecture nerd) was originally a courthouse, but now serves as a museum for Mardi Gras, Napoleon’s death mask…………and Hurricane Katrina.

I can remember the news reports like it was yesterday. Having been under the impression that hurricanes were just a Florida thing or something, needless to say, I was scratching my head in confusion at the whole ordeal. My fourteen year-old brain was struggling to comprehend how a hurricane could both reach and do that much damage to somewhere so far inland from a coast (I managed to figure it out a few science classes later), but I still just shrugged it off and thought “oh, they’ll be fine, Florida gets through it every time!” However, upon seeing video footage of vast swaths of houses underwater along with thousands of people crowding into the Superdome, that’s when the severity of the situation hit me.

Even more upsetting was how horribly the situation was handled. People were without food and water for DAYS after the storm made landfall (something we’re seeing a repeat of with Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico basically). It definitely should not have taken nearly a week for FEMA to show up. Then again……the overall catastrophe had more to do with the failure of the area’s levee and floodwall system than it did with the storm itself. I have to ask, why were they in such bad shape in the first place? Many theories and conspiracies still abound to this day, but either way, what happened was a tragic mess that could have been avoided in so many ways.

There were a number of pictures on display of the aftermath, as well as video footage of the day the storm made landfall, and it all felt so……..eerie. Sad, but eerie. To think this eerily deserted city, under siege by a raging, violent storm, is the same vibrant, energetic place that we had been walking around in for the past several days. I almost had to look out the door just to make sure everything was alright; even though, in a lot of ways, things aren’t totally alright (…….a whole thirteen years later). Houses and buildings devastated by Katrina can still be spotted all over the city, and although I didn’t go see it for myself, it’s been said that the Lower Ninth Ward (arguably the most devastated neighborhood of all) has more or less been deemed a lost cause and they gave up on rebuilding a long time ago. New Orleans has definitely rebounded, but it’s still heartbreaking to see so many lingering signs of this catastrophe.

After finishing the Katrina exhibit, we walked through a hall that featured tidbits about Hurricane Betsy, another devastating hurricane that took place back in 1965 (although still not as bad as Katrina) before walking past the random sight of Napoleon’s death mask and upstairs to the Mardi Gras exhibit. Granted, it was more or less a retread of Mardi Gras World, aside from focusing less on floats and more on the history of the various krewes, the “throws” (beads, doubloons and the like) and costume design. It was still a lot of fun none the less. Alas, the clock was ticking, and we wanted to cram one more thing in before embarking on our cruise, so it was off to the lower Pontalba building for the 1850 House.

The Pontalba buildings are two, four-story, red-brick twin buildings which flank Jackson Square. Built in the 1840’s by an accomplished businesswoman known as Micaela Pontalba, they were originally designed as Parisian-style luxury rowhomes, with high-end retail and dining establishments being housed on the first floor. Having fallen into disrepair by the 1930’s, they were then extensively repurposed into apartments, which are still in use to this day. The portion now known as the 1850 House remained untouched, however, instead being used by the Louisiana State Museum as a time capsule exhibit. Within, you’ll be given a glimpse into the lives of middle-class New Orleanians in the 1800’s.

Through a small courtyard, and up a rickety and old-fashioned spiral staircase, you’ll be greeted to a template which provides some information about past occupants of the row home which leads to the parlor and dining room. Granted, each room is protected by a glass railing, likely to prevent damage to the various antiques as it is a self-guided tour after all. Basically, all you can really do is look on at the rooms and their vintage furnishings from the hallway. On the third floor, you’ll find the bedrooms and the nursery and going from there (the layout of the place was pretty confusing so I’m not sure what direction we were going in at this point), you’ll see an exterior room which served as the slave and/or servant quarters until you reach the kitchen and storage room at the base of the house. Now, I’m a vintage/antique nerd, so I enjoyed it, but it probably would have been just a bit more enjoyable if they offered a guided tour, thus allowing you to explore the rooms in detail.

Oh wait, what time is it? Oh, time for the Creole Queen Paddlewheel Cruise! We hopped on the Riverwalk line of the streetcar once more and took it to Spanish Plaza (a monument to Spain’s colonial legacy in the area) which is where the boat was docked. The Creole Queen is one of a number of paddlewheel boats in New Orleans which offer old-fashioned river cruises. Once you hop aboard, you’ll be treated to stunning views of the city and the river (provided you can ignore its gross and oily brown hue) while the guide gives you a little history lesson. Granted, most of the stuff he was saying I already found out from the other tour guides and museums I went to, but it was still enjoyable nonetheless. As I looked around and took pictures of the CBD skyline, Jackson Square from afar, Algiers, the New Orleans port, the old Domino sugar factory, the plantations in the distance and even more Hurricane Katrina ruins, we came to a stop at the Chalmette Battlefield and National Cemetery; the site of the Battle of New Orleans in 1815.

We got off the boat and walked towards an old (creepy-looking and probably haunted) plantation home known as the Malus-Beauregard House, where a man dressed in 19th-century military regalia waited for us. From there, he walked us to this spot underneath a very large oak tree, next to a small bayou, where he began to talk about the Battle of New Orleans. And honestly? I don’t know if it was the story itself or if this particular guide was just boring, but he wasn’t able to hold my attention. It was also hot AF and there were mosquitoes and dragonflies swarming all over the place, so I just took a few pictures of the battlefield and the house before making my way back to the air-conditioned, bug free boat; savoring some bread pudding while waiting things out.

Upon arriving back in New Orleans, we rushed over to Audubon Aquarium, seeking to cram in one more attraction before resting up for our ghost tour in the French Quarter. You better leave the lights on for this one.  

[greatmar2]

Landfall

Irikshan, after having flown across the Vernon Sea, crash-lands on a beach near the city of Shormton - in the territory of the Imaaduudin Empire. 

This is the first chapter of Irikshan’s story.

Art by @elektronx

2607 Words

Read on Dragon Press | Elonth | Irikshan

Lonely clouds dotted the sky, fluffy heaps of moisture that hung in the air. The harsh sun beat on his back, his aura siphoning what meagre energy he could salvage. The occasional updraft provided but brief respite for his weary wings. An endless expanse of water stretched beneath him, as far as his eye could see.

Irikshan had heeded most of the council of his seniors. He had trained thoroughly. He had navigated true. He had found the islands and he had taken ample time to rest each opportunity. Still, nothing could compare to the actual journey. And no part of the journey was worse than this final stretch. His wing muscles burnt, his back ached and his tail threatened to disregard its duty and throw him off balance - careening into the sea below.

Yet, at last, he sighted land. While his heart jumped in joy, he could not let himself change his pace. He feared that to break his rhythm would akin to breaking his wings. He could not stop yet. He had only a little further to go. His altitude gradually decreased, drawing him nearer and nearer the waters below - until his claws skimmed the taller waves.

Every moment he neared land seemed to take an eternity longer than the previous. In spite of this, the water below was finally replaced with land. Irikshan tucked in his wings and dropped out of the air - making only a bare minimum effort to break his fall with his legs as he ploughed into the sand. The fresh pain in his legs paled in comparison to the burning in his wings. Right now, all he wished for was slumber. He got his wish, as darkness overtook him.

“That’s enough! We only want it to be able to talk.”

Irikshan felt himself grow cold and hungry as a stream of life-giving energy ceased flowing. Instinctually he reached out, his mind finding the lake that had fed the stream, and began to draw from it again.

“It’s draining our crystals!”

“Block it. I’ll break its concentration.”

The lake became harder to reach, the river of energy getting choked and clogged.

A sudden, sharp kick to the snout brought Irikshan back to reality. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the sharp ends of several polearms.

A weak, “...hello?,” was all that Irikshan offered.

“You are trespassing on Imaaduudinian soil, dragon,” came the brash voice from the other end of the pointy stick, “State the nature and purpose of your presence.”

“My presence is… peaceful and I come... for knowledge…” Irikshan’s half-awake mumbling was soft enough that the human had to lean in.

“Is that so? And why should I believe you?”

“I have papers… in the one bag just... above my left shoulder… They bear the… colonial governor’s seal.”

The man nodded one of the others towards Irikshan, keeping his weapon pointed at the dragon’s face. “You are aware that the colonies hold no jurisdiction here? Any passports from the colonies are dependant on His Eminence’s goodwill upon the holder of the passport.”

“...yes.”

There was an interval of stillness where only the sounds were those of the ocean, the soldier rummaging in the pack and Irikshan’s laboured breathing.

“Sir, the document looks authentic.”

“And?”

The soldier began to read part of the document aloud, “Irikshan Kennissoeker, a dragon of copper orange and evergreen, desires to visit the homeland and its neighbours. So long as it pleases The Emperor and The People’s Council, he shall be granted free passage in and out of The Empire’s territory. His purpose is to study both our and our neighbours’ peoples and culture. He is a citizen of the so-” a hesitation. “Of the sovereign state Tumenzar and travels with the blessings of the Elders of Tumenzar. Having studied at the mage college of Tumenoord, Irikshan is a skilled magician with a significant capacity for illusion-casting. Please endeavour to assist him in his benevolent excursion.”

Irikshan suddenly found his field of vision to have increased considerably. This was chiefly due to the fact that the visible world was no longer being obscured by a dozen polearm blades. Still feeling weak, he managed to lift his head to get a proper look at the officer who was now frantically reading the documents he had snatched from his subordinate.

The officer then glanced to the mages, one of whom nodded.

“Oh please,” Irikshan found himself feeling rather miffed, “I barely have enough energy to stand and you’re worried I’m going to create illusory documents which state I have skill in illusions whilst simply sneaking into your country and hiding myself from your perceptions would have been so much easier if that was what I had desired. Or simply omitting to state that I can create illusions would have been easy had I forged those documents.”

“My apologies, Irikshan. I, lieutenant Emil Scholtz, am honoured to be at your service. Tumenzar is an associate valued by Imaaduudin. I do hope you’ll forgive my discourtesy, but I had not expected a Tumenzarian here. Your state is so very distant, while we do not have the pleasure of courteous relations with all of our more… immediate neighbour states. I would like to escort you to Shormton - the nearby port city - for my commanding officer to sign off on your passport.”

“Good. I had planned to land on their beaches.”

“You were close enough.” The commander then turned and shouted, “Company, move out! We return to Shormton.” Irikshan looked past the man to see a shocking number of humans turning away from him and marching off the beach.

“Uhh, officer?” Irikshan groaned as he sluggishly attempted to lift himself off the ground.

“Lieutenant. Oh. Mages, let him take energy. Irikshan, please don’t take too much - it is hard for them to collect it in the summer. Not enough storms about.”

“I’m afraid I will need a fair amount if I am to heal myself. I can help your mages refill their crystals when we arrive at your city. Do you have any mages skilled in healing? I can mend the worst myself, but a skilled healer is preferable. Four long-distance flights, even if spaced, are not easy. Though I will be able to fly, some long-term damage may come to haunt me later in my life if I do not look after my wings now.”

“Fine. Lucile, you are assigned to accompany Irikshan while he stays at our city. It will not do our citizens’ nerves any good to have a dragon wandering the city unchecked. His purpose being to learn about us, I am also certain he will have many questions for you. Once the colonel has signed his documents, you are to take him to consult Sister Kyra. You two can figure out how you’ll refill your crystal.”

A medley of emotions played across the faces of the five mages. One seemed jealous. Another relieved. The rest held expressions unknown to Irikshan. Yet the face of the mage who stepped forward was a muddle of so many emotions, Irikshan was not sure even the mage knew what she was feeling.

The mage named Lucile did a deep-yet-hurried bow. Her form was hidden by the loose-fitting mage robes, but Irikshan knew she would have to be physically fit to be a competent mage - which he expected she would be, seeing as she was assigned to him. Her face was sharp and determined. Her brown eyes matched her brown hair, bound into a tidy bun at the back of her head.

Her hands darted into the satchel slung over her shoulder and brought out a large shiridite crystal and held it out in both hands. The crystal was as big as the human’s head. It was bigger than the crystal that lay in the right side of Irikshan’s chest. Any natural shiridan crystal of that size would be sitting in some monarch’s treasury, not used by a mere ranked or wealthy magician.

Irikshan reached out with his mind and drained the crystal of most of its energy. Once he was done, he nodded to the mage, who returned it to her satchel. He then turned his attention to his wings, mending muscles and soothing pain so that he need not walk as an injured beast.

He nodded his thanks to the mage. She nodded back, then - along with the other mages and the lieutenant - turned and fast-walked to catch up with the soldiers who’d gotten some distance ahead. Lieutenant Emil began shouting at men who were loitering, staring dumbfounded at Irikshan.

Irikshan stretched cat-like, opening his wings to their full span. A smug smile touched the corners of his lips as he heard some gasps of awe. He then moved to join the march behind the mages.

After a few hours march, the city walls entered sight. Irikshan leaned forward, putting his head over the shoulders of two mages and behind the officer.

“Lieutenant, if you wish, I could create an illusion to make myself appear as one of your men, one of the mages or even a civilian. It would create less of a spectacle than an armoured host parading in with a dragon in tow.”

“That won’t be necessary, thanks. I’m afraid that the fishermen running about town, screaming about a dragon soaring in from the sea and crashing on the beach, already made quite the spectacle.”

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This is better than running drills. I’m sure my men feel the same way. Someday they’re going to be telling their grandchildren about the time they saw a dragon taller than a man, its scales of copper orange and evergreen, wearing travel bags and a purple scarf.”

“You’ve never seen a dragon?”

“No. Neither have most here. Though some who’ve come from up north, such as Colonel Anson, have. There are a few dragon settlements at the edge of our northern border.”

“Yes, the state of Scrivens.”

“That’s them. I hear some of the towns up there have gotten quite familiar with dragons, being built in dragon territory and all.”

“So why the harsh introduction if the nearest state is friendly towards you?”

“Well, you flew in from the east - not the north. Additionally, seeing a dragon here is - I hope you understand - quite startling. As far as I know, dragons usually remain in the lands claimed by their enclaves.”

“That is true. The Elders deemed it would be worthwhile for me to travel here to learn about your empire in a manner more direct manner than hearsay from humans who can sometimes be - I hope you understand - unreliable sources. Dragons from my state barely even visit our direct neighbours, including the imperial lands besides us. As you said, Tumenzar is rather far away from here - the empire’s homeland.” Irikshan paused before adding, “My state seeks to learn and gather knowledge. We focus on internal growth rather than global matters.”“So I have heard. My nation shares its culture and knowledge, and we take an active approach to doing so. Please excuse me, but I am needed ahead.”

Irikshan nodded, raising his head and watching as the man jogged forward, past the other two-legs. He then looked at the city. He had read of Shormton. While it was not at the forefront of the empire’s steadily-expanding borders, it was a strategic location nonetheless. This city served both as the trade hub this side of the sea and as a crucial point for any supply lines for military campaigns on the eastern side.

The city walls were decent… for human architecture. Great towers of stone, firmly built and well-maintained. They did their duty and nothing more, built to be effective for the two-dimensional combat that these poor grounded creatures loved so much. These walls were not as imposing as the depictions that he had seen of the human’s great citadels. Despite this, Irikshan had to fight the urge to take out his journal and begin writing notes straight away. He could update his notes when the healer was seeing to his wings, and whenever he had time after that.

The gate was already open - the forefront of the semi-orderly marching column passing under the great stone arch. Irikshan could see many gawking onlookers gathered to see him. Some soldiers stood with their backs to him, holding their polearms horizontally to keep the crowd from pushing forward.

“Squads seven through nine, help with crowd control. The rest of you, to the barracks!” Lieutenant Emil ordered the marching men. “Irikshan, Lucile, with me.” The two complied. The other mages didn’t follow the soldiers, choosing instead to hover nearby.

They approached a building, in front of which stood a somewhat rotund man. His forehead held worry-lines and his hair was greying. Yet he still maintained a dignified bearing. Irikshan could have sworn that, upon looking up from the passport he had received from the lieutenant and meeting the dragon’s eyes, there was a glint in the man’s eyes and a slight upward turn at the corners of his mouth.

“Greetings, Irikshan Kennissoeker of Tumenzar. It is an honour to welcome you to Shormton. I hear that the lieutenant has assigned Lucile to be your aide. Good. She is knowledgeable and skilled.”

Irikshan glanced at the human besides himself, who was suddenly finding the cobbled ground very interesting.

The colnel looked back down at the papers he held. “I see both outposts and the colony on the three Vernon islands have signed off on your papers. I understand that it’s faster, but I don’t comprehend why you would choose this route. Surely it must have put a lot of strain on you? Wouldn’t a route around the sea have been easier? The few extra months would be a pittance in comparison to your lifespan. Judging by your size, I’d say you’re in your seventies or eighties. Chances are that you’ve already outlived every human that was alive when you hatched. Chances also say you’ll outlive the great-grandchildren of every human currently alive. Probably even their thrice-great-grandchildren. But not if you drown. It may be summer, but mother nature loves to be unpredictable.”

“You are correct. And that was a good guess, I am seventy-three.”

“It may have been a decade since I’ve seen a dragon, but I used to work quite closely with some of the Scrivens.”

“Interesting. Anyways, I took this route because I also wished to learn about the islands in the Vernon Sea. We know plenty about the human kingdoms who have been our long-time neighbours, but not much about our newest neighbour. We dragons cannot fit on your boats, nor have we much need to develop our own boats - outside of proofs-of-concepts in Tumensuid. My journey is the first documented excursion of a Tumenzarian to these islands. Well, the first Tumenzarian dragon. I wish to learn about your empire’s people and culture. As for my wings, I have trained and am able to heal myself - but I would appreciate the attention of a professional specializes in healing magic. You are also correct about the weather, but I had been monitoring it and did have contingencies.”

“Very well. I wish you the best for your stay here and the rest of your journeys. Let me head inside to sign your papers. Once that’s done, Lucile can take you to see Sister Kyra. After that, you can do as you please. If you have any questions that Lucile can’t answer, you are welcome to come see me.”

“Thank you, colonel.”

“You can call me Drew.” With that, the man entered the building.

[contessabrewer]

Hurricanes: It's Personal

No reporter wants to cry over a story, much less, cry publicly. But I’ve done it, recently. Three hurricanes in less than a month have given me more than enough opportunity. I felt myself getting emotional when the top executive for Crowley shipping in Puerto Rico began crying in his interview with me, so incredibly frustrated over the logjam of life-saving supplies stuck at his terminal in the Port of San Juan, with no drivers, no diesel, a shortage of passable roads to move essential goods to the suffering families who needed them most. I felt incredible anxiety riding along with my photographer, Victor Calderin, as we drove across the length of the island and finally began to look for his sister. He didn’t know whether she was alive. No one in the family had heard from her. Hurricane Maria had devastated the landscape. Lush mountainsides were now barren and brown. Street signs no longer stood. We stopped four times for Victor to ask directions to his childhood home. Finally, he exclaimed, “There it is! I see it.” We’ll pulled the Jeep into the driveway, outside a locked gate, and Victor yelled for his sister. We waited. A few seconds of silence seemed to last agonizing minutes. And finally we heard her, “I’m coming.” I cried as she unlocked the gate and embraced her brother. But we left her and Puerto Rico with no power, little running water and disaster, though not insurmountable, a far cry from the situation in Houston or Irma. When I arrived in Houston- I was astonished at the flooding. It took my team hours to find a way past flooded highways into downtown. And my first day reporting was filled with stories that were hard to comprehend. Two minutes away from my live shot for CNBC, I waited, watching a stream of people crowd through the doors at the George R. Brown Convention Center in Houston. Three days after Hurricane Harvey made landfall, the resident population at the mega-shelter downtown was skyrocketing. Lines of volunteers made the chaos at the door seem even more overwhelming. My eye was drawn to two children, boys with bright-red curly hair, about seven years old. Twins. As the mom of twin boys myself, I always watch with curiosity the way other twins interact with each other. These children were accompanied by a woman, presumably their mother, carrying a big bag of clothing. I watched as one of the twins gazed around this noisy, crowded place and his face just crumpled and he began crying. So did I. My photographer watched and said, “Keep it together. Take a deep breath.” So I did. I kept the tears from spilling but felt only a tenuous grasp on my composure. Carl Quintanilla introduced me from the studio and I said only one sentence before my voice broke. I stepped to the side of the camera - directed my photographer to show the scene at the door and tried to explain what I’d seen, why I was reacting so emotionally. But I had to take long pauses, because my voice was quaking and the tears were close to spilling. I made it through the live shot but felt deep chagrin at succumbing to my feelings. My theory is that reporters are there to document reality- to capture stories at a certain moment in time and allow viewers to feel whatever the story sparks in them. But as standard practice, we ignore what the story sparks in us, in part, because our feelings are not the story. In part we ignore our inner turmoil because we have a job to do- more live shots, more interviews, more broll. And even at the end of the day, typically, there’s an early call the next day and fresh assignments. And yet - sometimes the story is so big, even veteran journalists become emotional. That morning, before the incident with the twins and the near-crying on tv, I met a family who had come into the convention center in the wee hours of the morning. They’d been rescued from their home in the outer suburbs of Houston, ridden several hours in the back of a box truck and were soaked to the bone, including the little children. That morning before I came so close to breaking down, I interviewed an 18-year-old woman with four children, all younger than three. She recounted her harrowing tale of water rising… escaping to the attic, being rescued by helicopter. But there was only enough room for her, her one-year-old-son, a seven-month old nephew, two-year-old nephew with a heart condition and a three-year-old niece. So this teenager wrapped her arms around all four children and rode in a swinging helicopter basket to safety and a crowded convention center. She left behind all the other adults in her family, in an attic, with a power saw. As three children slept, I took the baby in my arms and the young woman borrowed a cell phone from other evacuees, hoping to make contact with loved ones. That morning, before I felt myself at the breaking point, I met a man wandering outside the convention center. He told me he was looking for his sister-in-law and her four children. He would take them from the convention center back to his home, to safety. Half an hour later, I noticed little twin toddlers- and their mother who was trying to wrangle two slightly older children too. She was wearing an expression I know all too well. Frustration on the edge of a despair, the sheerest veneer of control. “Can I help you?” I asked. “I’m the mom of twins too.” “Yes, please.” She answered, “My ride’s here but trying to get them outside is like herding cats.” I took the twins each by a hand and she followed with a bag of clothes and the two other children, while a shelter volunteer reprimanded me for leaving the media pen. I ignored the reprimand and walked outside the convention center. Her “ride” was the same man I’d been talking to before. Perhaps it’s not surprising that my own feelings had surfaced. My own heart is first-and-foremost a mother’s heart. I want to solve problems, mend boo-boos and generally fix things. In daily life - I’m a fighter, not a flee-er and frequently intervene in other people’s problems on the streets of New York City. And yet - this was more. Ten thousand people packed into one shelter - each one of them with a story to tell… some with near death experiences, many of them, now homeless. That day ended with a ride-along in antique military vehicles through flooded neighborhoods where I saw homes that looked as though they should’ve been condemned as uninhabitable decades ago. For people who live in that kind of poverty, a flood of this magnitude is a life-altering event. Actually, even for people with means and resources, a flood is a life-altering event. Late that night, when I finally made it back to the safety and comfort of my downtown hotel, I FaceTimed my husband and began telling him about my day. I began sobbing. And so did my husband. And something clicked. I lost my own home in Hurricane Sandy in 2012, which wasn’t even an hurricane when it made landfall. I was anchoring on NBC New York as the storm surge washed through my neighborhood and filled my apartment with five feet of water. While I was on the air for hours-long shifts that week, my husband trekked to Lower Manhattan and didn’t return for 18 hours. When he rejoined me at the midtown hotel serving as our own shelter from the storm, he put his face in his hands and cried. “Everything is gone, Contessa. Everything.” I said what so many people say after natural disasters, “It’s just stuff. We can replace it.” “No…” my husband countered, “All the stuff in those bins… letters from your great-grandfather and your childhood dolls. All your photo albums. They all got ruined.” Five days after the storm hit, I was finally able to visit my apartment. My furniture was piled in a trash heap on the street outside. Inside, the water was gone, but the muck remained. It was overwhelming and discouraging. I did a story on my neighborhood - and included my own loss. As I recorded a standup about what the flooding- the irreplaceable momentos now in a trash heap- I began to say “It’s just stuff…” But I choked up and fought back tears. Because losing your stuff, stuff you think is important, losing your home which represents safety and privacy and the intimacy of family hurts. It’s traumatic and emotional and scary, even if you have resources, a support network and a safety net to help you recover. It took us 16 months to return to our apartment - another year before it stopped being a construction zone. We fought with the insurance company, got pregnant and delivered twins and redesigned our apartment to accommodate babies. Apparently- we’re not over the trauma. I was back from Houston for less than a week before I left for Florida for coverage of Hurricane Irma. My mom and three uncles all live in Florida. Uncle Bob operates a wildlife refuge at the edge of the Everglades. It was decimated in Hurricane Andrew and, watching the track of Irma, I worried about the animals, but especially about my uncle and his very ill wife. At the height of the storm, in a hot, humid hotel with no electricity - I got texts through to check on them. Safe - but with significant property damage. I saw it first hand when I stopped to check in on them on my way to the Florida Keys. Rising rivers forced flooded my Uncle Joe’s neighborhood days after the storm passed- and he refused to evacuate and leave an elderly neighbor and the neighbor’s cats alone. Driving through the Florida Keys was haunting… so much devastation in a place where so many people have made happy memories. Restaurants, hotels, marinas, RV parks, private homes, boats, businesses - wiped out. Cell phones, electricity, sanitation, running water, the basics we all take for granted had taken a big hit on the island chain. Monroe County Sheriff’s deputies manned checkpoints to keep evacuees away from their homes, where the infrastructure couldn’t yet support an onslaught of returning residents. When I talked to them, I mentioned my cousin, Misty, only six months older than me. She was a Monroe County deputy when she was killed in a car crash on Highway 1, on the job, in 2010. The deputy at the checkpoint, reached out to pat my shoulder and tell me, his sergeant knew my cousin well and had taken her death particularly hard. He told me where to look for her highway memorial, to come back to the checkpoint tomorrow and maybe I could get through to Key West to do my job. Just outside Key West- on Stock Island, we stood before a home that had been peeled apart my Irma’s winds. The roof and exterior walls were gone, exposing the kitchen, like a television or movie set. As my photographer tried to get enough cellular bandwidth to set up a liveshot - a man approached me with an aggressive posture and his teal shirt unbuttoned to his beer belly. “Who do you work for?” He demanded. My cap was emblazoned with my employer’s name. “You should not be here. You should not be shooting this. You people are going to make it look like -this- is all of Key West. This is NOT the story!” He was invading my personal space. And I explained that I had seen the roads cleared in Key West… the people sitting on Duval Street enjoying a beer. But this family no longer had a home. “It’s one individual example!” “No sir. It’s up and down throughout the Florida Keys and all over south Florida. There are thousands of families with hurricane damage.” He pulled out his cell phone to begin recording me, and I turned to walk back to my news truck. Just then a woman approached and told me in Spanish, the destroyed home I was standing near was hers… that she’d lost everything, including clothes and shoes. She asked, did I know how to contact FEMA. “Oh great!” Yelled the aggressive man. “Now you really have your story.” No sympathy. No expression of human kindness. Just concern that I might disseminate what he considered fake news. He continued recording me as I flagged down police officers and asked them to help the devastated woman standing with me. “Fake news” has become a commonplace accusation. In that darkened hotel lobby during Hurricane Irma, I overheard two men discussing the news coverage of the storm. “I saw it on CNN,” one insisted. “Well, CNN. That’s fake news” the other countered, with no obvious sign of humor or sarcasm. A Gallup poll conducted last December, after the presidential election, asked respondents “Rate the honesty and ethical standards of people in these different fields”— and then listed the usual nurses, doctors, insurance salespeople, lawyers, car salesmen. 41% of respondents ranked journalists’ honesty and ethical standards as low or very low. Bankers and lawyers scored better. Members of Congress, as a profession, scored worse. And yet- those who ranked journalists’ ethics as very high or high has remained fairly steady over the past decades. Perhaps it’s because some Americans truly believe that we cannot have a functioning democracy without a free press. Perhaps it’s because some Americans have a deep love of current events, of the stories reporters bring them from around the globe and around the corner. Perhaps it’s because some Americans know personally a reporter, know the heartbreak and the drama that reporters encounter on the job. Those experiences enrich journalists, bringing a complexity to our coverage that we rarely explain to our viewers, listeners or readers. Interviewing parents who have lost a child has always been gut-wrenching to me. But now, I too have lost a child, a son who was born too early. That colors my view of bereavement and loss. Being unemployed myself has influenced the way I see the struggle for jobs, adding to my understanding, for instance, why laid-off workers in coal country wouldn’t go through job retraining and switch careers. And, yes, losing my home has affected the way I perceive natural disasters that wipe away entire landscapes. Years ago, when I first began at MSNBC, our nation was engaged in the Iraq war and patriotism was running high. Everyday on our programs we would profile a service member and talk about where that person was stationed. One day, our rundown included the story of a member of the armed forces who was killed in battle. The script included a letter the man had written to his unborn child. In preparing for my newscast, I’d read the script and the letter several times, welling up with tears each time. I thought I was fine. And yet, when it came time to present the story, I choked up again, my voice breaking. I struggled through long pauses before finishing. After the show, I got a call that our editor-in-chief wanted to see me in his office. I was terrified of the scolding I would get for allowing my emotions to cloud the objective presentation of the story. Jerry Nachman, who the New York Times described an old-style newshound in its obituary of the legendary news editor, sat me down and said, I know you probably feel bad about choking up on the air. Don’t. Today you showed our audience a journalist with heart. You’re young. You’re going to cover a lot of stories. Don’t ever lose your heart.

[falkberg]

The Bluejacket III - Landfall

Tales Beyond the Veil X

The fist of God had struck down the Invincible, pushed her decks beneath the sea and released her only seconds after when the falling tower sank to the bottom of the sea from whence it came. Blackness enveloped the stern of the royal battle cruiser, rushing upward, back to the surface. The ship spewed water, steam, and air from all hatches and shook, whilst the frontal batteries were still firing on their own accord. Their flags had been ripped apart and the Heliograph had been extinguished. Aboard the Inflexible, the fires on the sister ship could be seen, but not for long, before the rest of the falling tower hit the water and churned waves so high, that a wall of water was in between the two proud ships. Salvos from the accompanying cruisers had ceased, as their target was now falling and they were busy fleeing the waves, that had been sent outward by the initial crash. They also steered clear of the Invincible, fearing an explosion of her magazine. But the ship stood defiantly, not sinking, not moving back into line. “They are going to tow her.” I do not recall who said it, the words could have been my own or those of a mate by my side. We were all thinking it, knowing, that the officers would not leave an admiral behind, not aboard a ship such as the Invincible. While gas and steam were still bursting from deep below where the tower had fallen, our ship pursued at full steam ahead. The vessel plowed through waves with such force, that the hull was shaking and creaking in protest. Tension within the bulk of the ship let the skeleton sing and crepitate under pressure. We paid it no mind, focusing on our task at hand. Another spot in the clouds was too dark and a single shot confirmed resistance from there. After all, this had been victory, as we had done damage to whatever hunted ships at sea. Where our explosives found a target, they would tear it apart. It was not much of a hope when faced with the natural extend of a storm and fire on our deck, but it was more than fate had granted as before. Laughing at the top of our lungs, we sent another round into the fogs gaping maw and watched more of the riveting black mass being washed away when breakers crashed onto the deck. Chains and smoldering wood broke apart, where the black mass sagged away under a deck, but the crew had not yet given up on the vessel. Further back, massive winches and cables were prepared. Sparked by the image of the sister ship's strife, the crew mobilized a new reserve and all hands were on deck for this operation. All the while, the Inflexible gained on the Invincible's course, approaching the vessel from the rear, where the damage became ever more visible. At least, so our hope, the crew had not fired a final flare-up yet. They were not sinking yet and their guns fired without hesitation.

The Inflexible's engines changed gears with a deep rumble, letting the decks shake once again. On deck, row upon row of crewmen and officers had gathered, ropes and cables, hooks and weapons in force a connection between both ships. Flares and signals were exchanged to coordinate their effort. It was a dangerous, daring maneuver when the helmsman passed the Inflexible as close as he could. Like a shadowy castle on a cold winter morning, the Invincible emerged from fog and clouds, enveloped in smoke and few flames. There too was crew standing at the edge of their decks, raising their arms and shouting in surprise. Their surprise briefly turned into panic, when both ships were raised by a wave and pushed closer together. From my position, I could briefly see the main batteries of our allied ship. Merely a few dozen feet away, another gun crew was firing just the same, and both sides felt the dark, rigorous shudder as the two hulls were pushed into each other. Almost gently, the Inflexible's stern skimmed the outer armor of Invincible and remained just long enough, for shouts and steel cables to be exchanged. Whirring winches and screaming voices underlined the urgent maneuver, where both ships faltered against increasing waves and the fog, that had come close to swallowing them by now. Of the chaos on the aftermost decks, I saw nothing and heard little. But the ship's engines soon resumed their duty, pushing forward and pulling the damaged vessel behind.

…

Two vessels, bound by steel and iron rigging, fled the encroaching gray mist under full steam. Their connection was straining in the midst of surging waves, billowing smoke and occasional flames, where black mass fell from the sky and exploded on broken lanterns. The fires in Inflexible's turbines sent sparks through the smokestacks. Deep below deck, tireless men worked the boilers and shoveled coal, ensuring the continued push of both ships against all odds. The lights on her deck glowed in somber orange, where they were not extinguished by seawater or suffocated in smoke. Many of the crew had fled to the inside and closed all portholes. Others moved about, gas masks on their faces and touched the steaming metal merely with gloves and hooks. But they moved forward, still fighting the black mass and the elements of a sea that had united against them. Our spotter, chained to his outlook post high above, had long given up on providing targets to our batteries. We fired blindly and hit things here and there. But the greater priority had a way out of the mist, back to the line of vessels where Germans and the royal navy had joint forces against the dark. Their salvos and explosive shells still flew overhead, but the shots had been growing increasingly irregular and the spotters had trouble making silhouettes out on the horizon. It should have been impossible, the two battlecruisers had not moved this far from the rest of the formation. Not by their own account, at least. Nevertheless, the other ships and land were nowhere to be seen.

I checked the chronometer overhead my seat, but the delicate mechanical device had stopped. It was as though time itself had given up on this twisted storm. And so, I could only count the salvos we fired every minute or so. Forty times, the cannons bellowed into the dark, before a sign of life reached us from above. The clamor of two vessels running through the waves had been growing ever since their gentle collision and towing maneuvers. Once in motion bot vessels made their way relentlessly forward, against breakers and heavy seas, firing and pushing their engines to the best of their ability. How much of the Invincible's power or crew was left, none could say. The vessel lay silent behind us, a darker shadow, limping towards the safety of closer formations. The waterline was dangerously high on our sister vessel, so I was told by the spotter. The man on the masts had refrained from telling anything more, but his voice was anxious and brittle. Most of the crow on deck had left by now or was washed away by angry waves. Efforts to free our front deck from black pitch had been ceased and pumps were constantly removing the water washing in. One of the anchors had been lost, the foremast was crooked and halfway molten. Despite all this, some hope was to be seen through my tiny leaded window. Lights, high above, on a mountain of waves and spraying water. Searchlights in the dark foretold the line of lighter cruisers, that had formed just straight ahead.

It was the Canopus that first found us, focusing searchlights and flares in our direction. They were probably close to shooting the unknown shadow down, that emerged from the encroaching fog, closely tied to another, identical silhouette close behind. Only a quick flaring of our Heliographs prevented a salvo on our bow. The waves beneath were roiling more than ever, but the heavy sea was the least of its strangeness by now. Something was sending light from underneath. Beams of green and blue jumped between the hulls of our ships. I could barely see the reflections, but they were unmistakably unnatural. Blueish sheen glowed on the Canopus and outlined her hull black against the surging waves. Where the beams of light came from, I could not see. I stared in disbelief at the toiling ship that was surrounded by light, so much so, that it seemed like a ghostly phenomenon rather than a physical thing. It seemed almost to float above the waterfront, and it's accompanying vessels just the same. Nevertheless, our hearts made a jump when we heard the spotter call out to these ships, announcing full of relief that we had found our way out of the mist. But the tendrils were following, slowly but surely keeping close. There was no pause to be had, no victory to be celebrated. Perhaps, only perhaps we would make it to our harbor, with little plans on what was to follow.

The crew was cheering just to see light once more. Their enthusiasm was heard throughout all compartments. Even greater, in contrast, was the shock we felt when behind the Canopus rugged cliffs came into view. The  British ship faltered, suddenly struck by its stern, where the first banks of rough sand and stone tore into its hull. A front of waves crashed into the land, lifting the Canopus up and over the initial waterline, leaving it beached on a reef of broken stones that crumbled under the weight of the heavy vessel. A foghorn sounded from the shore, like a scream when the ship of the line crashed. Even the storm could overpower the noise of tearing metal and escaping steam. Aboard the Inflexible the crew was frozen in place, shocked at the sight of a stranded ship. Officers jumped on deck shouting orders violently pulled the crew away from the railing. They shoved them forward, toward the foremost deck, all the while screaming for the anchors to be cast. One of them knocked hard on our hatch, shouting orders to leave the turret at once. The slow artillery would be longer of use, not if the ship ran ashore. On deck, hands were needed now.  Already were the engines roaring, reversing all thrust and fighting the storm, that pushed towards the land with an unnatural force. Wave upon wave crashed into the ship, washing over decks and crew with such vigor, that the officers were covering against the railing, waiting for the ocean spray to subside. We left the turret quickly, leaving the hot interior behind in favor of the muddy deck. All around, the British cruiser line reeled against the wind. Suddenly realizing how far off course they had been pushed, the captains turned their ships away from the land and against the ocean. It was impossible to make out how many of them were already lost to the cliffs and how many had been swallowed whole by the sea. Squinting through burning salt and sharp blasts of wind, I saw the dark shape of what I assume was the Kent, struggling to stay on course. Behind us, halfway obscured by the superstructure, the Invincible was moving with the waves, bound to our ship with countless ropes and cables. The officer that had brought us out quickly led us towards the forward deck. A dozen or so sailors had already been gathered and given hooks and blanks to make their way through black residue and ashes, where once the forecastle had been. Their task was to release the anchor and secure the chains and we were to ensure their survival. Shouts and orders were exchanged, but the wind stole all words from our lips. Communicating in gestures, the officers finally convinced a few shipmates to make their way to the forward hull. We stood back, pushing planks and material forwards to the brave men that made their way on the volatile deck. On the horizon, I was searching for the lights of Port Stanley. But the city was either dark or had been covered in so much smoke that no lights went through. It was similarly hopeless to look out for the lighthouse. The guiding flames were no longer there. All that was left was dark, rough stone and ridges, waiting to rip apart an armored hull.

A silty mass had been brought by the water. The salty residue, rich in mud and sand, covered all decks and blanks. It stuck to our boots and uniforms and burned where it touched raw skin. Sailors in oilskins were still shoveling black sleech into the sea, but each wave seemed to leave more and more of the horrid material behind. All stairs and ladders were slippery, the railings dark and bent out of shape. In the terrible twilight of this storm, it was as if I looked onto a wreckage rather than a proud and mighty ship. Half blind, half deaf, we moved forward, towards the burning black mass and the anchor's winches. On the utmost bow, the flagpole was still intact and bore a red signal flag that lashed out in the wind. While walking through broken planks and coals, my mind was focused on that simple goal. Whenever harsh waves came, we all hunkered down and grabbed onto anything close by. Each time, the waves threatened to pull my body way, lifting me with the force of Neptune's wrath. At this point, I had no doubt that the ocean itself had risen against us and I did no longer question fate. There was only one reason to go on: To not sink without a fight. The massive anchor irons had been secured on the foremost deck, a place that was now a chaotic mess of broken wood and steel rods, just waiting for a man to be impaled. Nevertheless, brave crewmen went out, secured by lines and swimming vests, to assess the state of the chains. Behind us, the waves were howling. For so long, we had fought against them and now, they were pushing us forward, eager for us to crash helplessly on the wreckage of the Canopus. The steaming hulk of the stranded ship was still firing cannons over our heads in exemplary defiance of the sea. Most of the secondary guns aboard our ship added to this fire, but the shots were irregular and few seemed to hit anything but the waves. It was dangerous too, not to hit a friendly vessel on the chaotic, heavy seas. The shouts of the first sailor were fruitless, so he finally pulled on my uniform and dragged me closer in. “This one is good!”, he screamed out of the top of his lungs and struck the massive metal peace, that was halfway broken through the deck. Heat, unimaginable heat just recently washed away by the wave, had bent the metal out of shape and now the anchor, tons of massive steel, moved dangerously freely forward, then back, with every wave that crashed into the ship. A crew of ten men already operated and fixed up the winches. But now, the anchor had to get into the water.

Armed with crowbars and metal rods, all who made to the bow began throwing their weight against the mass of steel to drop anchor. Quickly, we learned to move with the waves, as to not be crushed under the weight of its head. On the other side of the forecastle, men were turning winches to tighten the loose anchor chain. Once we had found our rhythm, it was like a song, shouting against wind and waves again and again whilst the shore came ever closer. Three times, four times, ten times – at the eleventh, it was finally enough to push the weight over the edge. Immediately, we stumbled backward, away from the gouge where chain links bit into the deck with all their weight. The anchor was falling free and reached the water with a powerful splash. From then on, the chain began to sing, rattle and crack. On the port side, a second anchor dropped, with just as much vigor. The howling winches whirred dangerously and threw debris and dirt into the air. The studs holding them onto the deck vibrated violently and soon sparks rose from the massive mechanism. The sailors pulled back, fleeing over the damaged deck back to the safety of the armored hull. Many expected the turn to come and held on for their dear life. Seconds after they had fallen, the anchors struck the ground and dug into whatever was below. But the chains did not stop. They gave way more chain, link after link in a howling chaotic frenzy. Next to the winches, a bell was struck every ten links by a rod. It sang loudly and came close to burst when suddenly, both chains came to an end. A violent jolt shuddered through the ship and I could feel our curse changing with the current. The waves were now crashing directly at out bow, spraying over the deck and cooling the chains. Unholy sounds of creaking and grinding came from the mechanism, but the chains held strong, not giving way to the forces at hand. However, their strength was not yet being truly tested. A new cacophony from the back soon announced that the Invincible was swinging around.

[kansascityhappenings]

8-year-old boy dead after Hurricane Dorian batters Bahamas and crawls towards United States

https://embed-prod.vemba.io/vemba-embed.js

Hurricane Dorian — the strongest storm anywhere on the planet this year — is leaving “catastrophic damage” in its wake as it makes its way across the Bahamas, where it’s claimed at least one life.

The monster Category 5 storm made landfall on the eastern end of Grand Bahama Island Sunday night and will continue to pound the island for most of Monday as it creeps toward the southeastern US coast.

The death of an 8-year-old boy is being reported by Bahamas news outlets Eyewitness News and Bahamas Press.

The boy’s grandmother, Ingrid McIntosh, told Eyewitness News that her grandson died on Abaco island. She said her 31-year-old daughter found the body of her son, who she believed drowned in the rising waters. McIntosh said her granddaughter is also missing.

“I just saw my grandson about two days ago,” she said. “He told me he loved me. He was going back to Abaco, he turned around and said, ‘Grandma, I love you.’”

CNN has contacted Bahamian authorities, who have not yet confirmed these reports.

TRACK THE STORM

The storm had winds of 165 mph while it was 115 miles east of West Palm Beach early Monday. It is expected to begin trudging toward the mainland US later in the day, the National Hurricane Center said. The massive storm will get “dangerously close” to Florida’s east coast Monday night through Wednesday evening, the center said.

But the state has already begun to feel Dorian’s effects, CNN Meteorologist Robert Shackelford said, and winds will continue to pick up throughout the day Monday as it inches closer.

It will be a slow arrival, as Dorian is trekking along at an average of 3 mph, about walking pace, CNN meteorologist Brandon Miller said.

The Bahamas are taking the brunt now

As it pummeled islands in the Bahamas, the hurricane left behind “catastrophic damage,” Hope Town Volunteer Fire & Rescue said on Facebook. Damage was reported in Elbow Cay, Man-o-War and Marsh Harbour in the Abaco Islands, where buildings were destroyed and many were partially submerged, with water flooding all around them.

The Abaco Islands are a group of islands and barrier cays in the northern Bahamas, east of southern Florida. Dorian made landfall there as a Category 5 hurricane just after noon Sunday.

The northwestern Bahamas will be drenched in up to 24 inches of rain, with some areas expecting up to 30 inches of water, the hurricane center said.

As the storm spun over Grand Bahama Island, the hurricane center said “catastrophic storm surge flooding” was likely.

“This is a life-threatening situation,” the center said. “Residents on Grand Bahama Island should not leave their shelter when the eye passes over, as winds will rapidly increase on the other side of the eye. Residents in the Abacos should continue to stay in their shelter until conditions subside later today.”

Early Monday there was a hurricane warning in effect for Grand Bahama and the Abacos Islands in the northwestern Bahamas and also in Florida, from the Jupiter Inlet to the Brevard and Volusia county line.

Hurricane watches were in effect in Florida north of Deerfield Beach all the way to Jupiter Inlet as well as from the Brevard and Volusia county line to the mouth of the St. Mary’s River on the border with Georgia.

Will it make landfall in the US?

The terrifying storm may be making its way toward the East Coast, but it’s still unclear if Dorian will make landfall and where on the mainland US. The hurricane’s forecasted track shifted east Friday, making a Florida landfall less likely, but not impossible.

Models now show the storm skirting along Florida’s coast Tuesday and then next to Georgia late Tuesday and into Wednesday. But just because the center of the storm may not hit land doesn’t mean there won’t be damage. Early Monday, hurricane-force winds from the storm extended outward up to 45 miles.

“Hurricane conditions are expected within the hurricane warning area in Florida by late tonight or Tuesday,” the hurricane center said. “Hurricane conditions are possible in the hurricane watch area on Wednesday.”

It also said that “life-threatening storm surges and dangerous hurricane-force winds are expected along portions of the Florida east coast through mid-week.”

Heavy rains and life-threatening floods are expected in parts of the southeast and lower mid-Atlantic US later this week. The storm will dump up to 6 inches of rain in Florida through Georgia.

A coastal flood advisory was issued early Monday for South Carolina and Georgia by the National Weather Service, which warned of a high rip current. And the hurricane center warned of an “increasing likelihood” of strong winds and dangerous storm surge along the coasts of Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina later this week.

“The strongest damage is likely to be along the coastlines with beach erosion, flooding from both heavy rain and storm surge and there will be areas that are likely to experience disastrous storm surge which could lead to widespread damage to buildings along the coast,” Shackelford said.

Wilmington, North Carolina, resident Christina Dowe said she bought a new home in November after her home was nearly destroyed by Hurricane Florence.

“We’ve just been trying to get perishables, getting water, getting flashlights. Just trying to get the necessities, things that we need, so we can be better prepared than we were last year,” she told CNN’s Ana Cabrera.

She says she’s planning on buckling down and praying that “everything works out better than it did last year.”

Three coastal states prepare

Evacuation orders were in place for 13 Florida counties as of Monday morning, according to the Florida Division of Emergency Management.

The agency urged residents who were in areas not under mandatory evacuations to “plan for adequate supplies in case you lose power & water for several days.”

“To see a catastrophic Category 5 hurricane closing in our 3rd most populous state is wildly unnerving,” FEMA Strategic Planner Michael Lowry said on Twitter. “Dorian is already a disaster for so many tonight. Please, please heed the warnings of local officials in the hours ahead.”

More than 900 flights were canceled going in and out of Florida airports, according to data from Flightaware.com

The Orlando Melbourne International Airport and Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport will suspend commercial flights and close terminals at noon Monday.

In Georgia, Gov. Brian Kemp ordered mandatory evacuations Sunday night across six coastal counties east of Interstate 95. Possible downed trees, power lines, debris and flooding as well as roads and bridges possibly becoming impassable were reasons behind the evacuations, the order said.

The order will be in place through Monday night, the governor said.

South Carolina Gov. Henry McMaster also ordered the evacuation of coastal South Carolina residents starting at noon on Monday.

Christy Hall, the secretary of South Carolina’s Department of Transportation, said the agency has more than 2,200 employees working on hurricane plans. She said department employees will be on land to assist with lane reversals and are currently working with Florida and Georgia patterns to monitor traffic flows in and through the state.

FOLLOW LIVE UPDATES

‘My house sounds like the ocean,’ Bahamas resident says

This is the first time a Category 5 storm has hit the Bahamas since Hurricane Andrew in 1992.

Category 5 storms have winds exceeding 156 mph and cause a “high percentage of framed homes” to be destroyed with “total roof failure and wall collapse,” the hurricane center says.

“Fallen trees and power poles will isolate residential areas,” according to the center. “Power outages will last for weeks to possibly months. Most of the area will be uninhabitable for weeks or months.”

Dorian, at one point, had sustained winds of almost 185 mph, but the storm has slowed slightly as it moved over land.

Vickareio Adderely, a resident of Marsh Harbour, said his home was filled with water Sunday after Dorian pummeled the area. One of the rooms in his home was “gone,” he said and a hole in his roof kept “getting bigger.”

Adderely said his four family members were huddled on a single mattress in the only room in their home “that didn’t cave in.”

“There are three houses adjacent to mine that also lost their roof,” he said. As he sent messages during intermittent periods of internet connection, he said he was standing in water up to his knees and felt strong wings that were continuing to “wreck the remainder of our roof.”

“There is no way we could have prepared for this,” he said. “My house sounds like the ocean.”

Prime Minister of the Bahamas, Hubert Minnis, said the islands were “facing a hurricane that we have never seen before.”

“Please pray for us,” he said.

from FOX 4 Kansas City WDAF-TV | News, Weather, Sports https://fox4kc.com/2019/09/02/8-year-old-boy-dead-after-hurricane-dorian-batters-bahamas-and-crawls-towards-united-states/

from Kansas City Happenings https://kansascityhappenings.wordpress.com/2019/09/02/8-year-old-boy-dead-after-hurricane-dorian-batters-bahamas-and-crawls-towards-united-states/

[kariekermath]

If the weather prediction is right, the snow falling outside my window right this minute is only the beginning of – ♬ dun-dun-duuuun ♬ – Snowmageddon 2019. Seriously, that’s what they’re calling it, folks, except when they’re calling it Snowpocalypse 2019. I find this so amusing that I’ve been texting my friends and family in Southern California with “official” Snowmageddon updates and photos. So far we’ve got maybe an inch. But I did get to leave work early – on a Friday no less. Slightly-long weekend, here I am!

To be fair, it’s still early – it’s possible this could get ugly by morning. Or not. Keep in mind that Western Washington (WW) isn’t used to major snow events and doesn’t have the ability to clear the roads, especially the steep hills that make up much of this side of the state, like they do in places that get lots of normal snowfall. I read an article yesterday that put the number of snowplows in WW – all the way to the border with Canada – at 100. My tiny little part of Upstate New York had more than that. Then today, I saw a road map that indicated the plowing priority of roads in my county – the ones connected to my townhome complex are slated to be cleared within 36 – 72 hours and the roads within my complex are private so they’re not required to be cleared at all. Oh dear, this could be a very long weekend indeed.

This whole winter storm thing has got me thinking about natural disasters, which happen to be one of the causes of PTSD. It makes sense, right? Random destruction and chaos can result in trauma. Earthquakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, blizzards, floods, wildfires, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions – like the one that took out the entire city of Pompeii, which – as you can see from today’s photos – we visited on our Italian holiday.

I’ve moved around the country a fair bit during my adulthood and, whenever I’ve lived east of the Mississippi, people always ask how I can live with earthquakes. Frankly, they are terrified by the very idea that tectonic plates move around and sometimes smash into one another. When I’ve pointed out that there are other disasters that are just as destructive but a lot more common to their region, my friends have said that they prefer the natural disasters they can see coming – the ones they can prepare for.

What about you? Do you like to know the unthinkable is barreling your way or do you prefer the gift of surprise?

Growing up in San Diego, earthquakes weren’t just a possibility but a given. And that didn’t change when I moved to the greater Seattle area. If anything, the predictions are even more dire up here. Keep in mind that while I do have some experience with minor natural disasters, I am seriously untested, so you should take my thoughts about the matter with a grain of salt – maybe the kind they use to keep the roads clear. I’ve never been in a “Big One”, fled a wildfire, or been close enough to the landfall of a hurricane to feel the full fury. But I have come close.

I’ve felt earthquakes that you can hear coming, like a truck gunning its engine as you cross the street. The kind that shuffle the contents of your closet until all of your childhood games come crashing down in one big jumble. Some of these temblors were large enough that they would cause mass casualties if they occurred in other parts of the world. But in Southern California, where they’re expected and there’s money enough to prepare, building codes help mitigate their ferocity.

I’ve had tornado warnings flash onto the screen of my phone and have lost power during a hurricane that made landfall forty miles away. I even had a tree in my very own yard crack in half during Hurricane Sandy, despite the fact that I lived more than four hours from the coast. Holy shit – how massive is a storm if it impacts that wide of an area?

I’ve had firefighters knock on my door to warn of potential evacuation and have friends who lost everything to a wildfire. I live in a state that will suffer massive casualties when its largest remaining mountain, one of my very favorite places on earth, vomits its ash to the surface and its resultant mud and pyroclastic flows will turn nearby towns and cities into places less habitable than the surface of the moon. I’ve read what happened the last time it did this and it is terrifying – even more so because Mt. Rainier is on the short list for volcanic eruptions.

Honestly, for most of my adult life, I’ve voted for disaster à la surprise. I have argued that it’s better not to know it’s coming – to simply react once the unthinkable hits. But now, after experiencing a severe trauma that I didn’t see coming, I’m no longer so sure. I wish I’d known what was coming. I wish I could have done something to prevent it. I wish we’d run far, far away before disaster struck. I wish I’d had the chance to react AND plan instead of simply to react.

But that’s not the way life works. Most of the time, we don’t get to know what’s just ahead. We don’t get to plan. And maybe that really is best. Maybe dealing with the result is easier than coping with the stress of impending doom and the aftermath of destruction.

I hope that any of you who are actually suffering from this weekend’s snowstorm, or any other disasters around the world, are safe and warm. I realize that just because it’s not happening as predicted here, doesn’t mean it’s not happening elsewhere. I hope that when it comes time to dig out and assess the damage, you have help. Let me know if there’s something I can do to make it a little easier. Be safe.

Pompeii was humbling. It was bigger than we’d imagined and so achingly beautiful. I don’t think either of us were prepared for how much it would remind us of a modern city – or how much its technology and architecture and art would make us uneasy. As we walked those streets and compared the way they lived 2,000 years ago to our lives today, we understood the truth about natural disasters. If it happened to them, it could happen to us.

My own Barnaby at kick off for Snowmageddon 2019.

Shake, shiver, swirl If the weather prediction is right, the snow falling outside my window right this minute is only the beginning of – ♬ …

[blogparadiseisland]

Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover

Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover http://www.nature-business.com/nature-a-year-after-hurricane-harvey-houstons-poorest-neighborhoods-are-slowest-to-recover/

Nature

HOUSTON — Hurricane Harvey ruined the little house on Lufkin Street. And ruined it remains, one year later.

Vertical wooden beams for walls. Hard concrete for floors. Lawn mowers where furniture used to be. Holes where the ceiling used to be. Light from a lamp on a stool, and a barricaded window to keep out thieves. Even the twig-and-string angel decoration on the front door — “Home is where you rest your wings” — was askew.

Monika Houston walked around her family’s home and said nothing for a long time. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She and her relatives have been unable, in the wake of the powerful storm that drenched Texas last summer, to completely restore both their house and their lives. Ms. Houston, 43, has been living alternately in a trailer on the front lawn, at her family’s other Harvey-damaged house down the block, with friends and elsewhere. Outside the trailer were barrels for campfires, set not to stay warm but to keep the mosquitoes away.

What help Ms. Houston’s family received from the government, nonprofit groups and volunteers was not enough, and she remains in a state of quasi-homelessness. She pointed to the dusty water-cooler jug by the open front door; inside were rolls of pennies, loose change and a crumpled $2 bill.

“That’s our savings,” she said as she picked up the jug and slammed it down. “We’ve never been in a position to save. We’ve been struggling, trying to hold onto what we have. This is horrible, a year later. I’m not happy. I’m broken. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’ve lost my way. I’m just as crooked as that angel on that door.”

Image

Monika Houston, 43, has been living in a trailer in front of her flooded and gutted home.

Houston and other Texas cities hit hard by Harvey a year ago have made significant progress recuperating from the worst rainstorm in United States history. The piles of debris — nearly 13 million cubic yards of it — are long gone, and many residents are back in their refurbished homes. Billions of dollars in federal aid and donations have helped Texans repair, rebuild and recover.

But this is not uniformly the case, and the exceptions trace a disturbing path of income and race across a state where those dividing lines are often easy to see.

A survey last month showed that 27 percent of Hispanic Texans whose homes were badly damaged reported that those homes remained unsafe to live in, compared to 20 percent of blacks and 11 percent of whites. There were similar disparities with income: 50 percent of lower-income respondents said they weren’t getting the help they needed, compared to 32 percent of those with higher incomes, according to the survey by the Kaiser Family Foundation and the Episcopal Health Foundation.

In many low-income neighborhoods around Houston, it feels like Harvey struck not last year but last month. Some of Houston’s most vulnerable and impoverished residents remain in the early stages of their rebuilding effort and live in the shadows of the widespread perception that Texas has successfully rebounded from the historic flooding.

In the poorest communities, some residents are still living with relatives or friends because their homes remain under repair. Others are living in their flood-damaged or half-repaired homes, struggling in squalid and mold-infested conditions. Still others have moved into trailers and other structures on their property.

One 84-year-old veteran, Henry Heileman, lived until recently in a shipping container while his home was being worked on. The container, which had been transformed into a mini-apartment with a bathroom, bed and lattice-lined foundation, was roughly 42 feet long and 6 feet wide.

The recovery has been problematic for the African-American and Hispanic families who live in some of the city’s poorest neighborhoods for several reasons. The scale of Harvey’s devastation and the depths of the social ills that existed in the Houston area before the storm played a role. So did a scattershot recovery that saw some people get the government aid and charity assistance they needed, when they needed it, while others had more difficulty or became entangled in disputes and complications with the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

“Everything always hits the poor harder than it does everybody else,” said John Sharp, the head of the Governor’s Commission to Rebuild Texas, which is helping to coordinate the state response to Harvey and to assist local officials and nonprofit groups.

These residents have not struggled in isolation. They have been assisted in the past year by officials and volunteers, but their repairs and recovery stalled for different reasons. Some of them no longer seek out help and suffer privately, ashamed of their living conditions but unable to move forward with their lives. Their housing issues are one of many problems they are confronting post-Harvey. Some are disabled, ill, unemployed or caring for older relatives. Some said they or their relatives are taking medication or undergoing counseling to cope with post-Harvey stress.

“In New Orleans, you could see the remnants of Katrina by the markings of FEMA spray paint on people’s homes, and you could see those waterlines,” said Amanda K. Edwards, a Houston city councilwoman who has led an effort to identify and knock on the doors of low-income flood victims who have stopped answering phone calls from those trying to assist them. “Those types of visuals are not present here. So it is difficult for people to really appreciate how difficult of a time people are having.”

Image

Amanda Edwards, 36, a Houston city councilwoman, drives through neighborhoods that were badly hit during Hurricane Harvey.

Days after the one-year anniversary of Harvey’s Texas landfall on Aug. 25, Ms. Edwards drove to the home of a victim in the Houston Gardens neighborhood. She parked in the driveway of a flood-damaged home that, from the outside, appeared in good condition. Ms. Edwards was told that the African-American man inside lives in his home without electricity. As Ms. Edwards stood on the man’s doorstep, he called out to her with the door closed, telling her he did not want any visitors.

Nearby, Ms. Edwards was given a tour of Kaverna Moore’s gutted home. Ms. Moore, 67, lived in her home for months after Harvey and finally moved in with her son in March. Her repairs stalled after she was denied disaster assistance by FEMA.

She sorted through her papers and pulled out the FEMA denial letter. It was dated September 23, 2017, and stated that she was ineligible because “the damage to your essential personal property was not caused by the disaster.” The letter baffles her. She lost her furniture, her carpet, her shoes and her appliances when about 2 feet of floodwater inundated her home. A contractor’s estimate to repair the damage to the physical structure, including replacing the sheet rock and installing new doors, was $18,605. She appealed the FEMA denial but never heard back.

She said she has no idea when she will be back in her home. She was waiting for Habitat for Humanity to work on the house.

“I miss my house,” Ms. Moore said. “I miss it a whole lot. I come by every day. Check my mail. Sometimes I come and sit on the porch.”

Image

Kaverna Moore, 67, was living in her gutted and moldy house until March, when she had to have surgery and moved in with her son.

Image

Patricia Crawford waits, too.

Ms. Crawford’s house remains under repair while she undergoes cancer treatment. Ms. Crawford, 74, went to live with a friend after Harvey. She moved back into her house — the house she grew up in — in June, before it was ready, then moved out after a few days. Her house remains a work in progress, with unpainted walls and construction padding on the floors, the rooms strewn with power tools. Her bed is still tightly wrapped in plastic.

She received some money from FEMA but was denied other assistance. So she waits, living with another friend and counting on help from relatives and nonprofit groups like the Fifth Ward Community Redevelopment Corporation.

“It’s been hard,” Ms. Crawford said one afternoon as she sat on a sofa at her half-finished house. “Have you ever felt like you were just lost? Well, that’s the way I feel. I feel lost. My doctor told me that if I didn’t stop grieving, she was going to put me in the hospital. But I’m doing better.”

Image

Patricia Crawford, 74, visits her home in the Kashmere Gardens neighborhood of Houston.

No local, state or federal agency has been tracking how many people remain displaced after Harvey. It is unclear how many residents are struggling to complete repairs or have had their recovery stall. In the Kashmere Gardens section of northeast Houston — the low-income, predominantly African-American neighborhood along Interstate 610 where Ms. Houston and Ms. Crawford live — Keith Downey, a community leader, estimated that at least 1,500 Harvey victims in the area were not back in their homes.

In the Kaiser and Episcopal survey, based on phone interviews with more than 1,600 adults in 24 Harvey-damaged counties in June and July, three out of 10 residents said their lives were still “very” or “somewhat” disrupted from the storm.

The race and income disparities identified in the survey are likely a result of what existed before the storm, said Elena Marks, president and chief executive of the Episcopal Health Foundation and a former health policy director for the city of Houston. “If you went into the storm with relatively few resources, and then you lost resources, be it income or property or car, it’s going to be harder for you to replace it,” she said. “The farther behind you were before the storm, the less likely you are to bounce back after the storm.”

Local, state and federal officials expressed concern for low-income Harvey victims, but they were unable to explain why so many of them continue to struggle. City officials say there has been no shortage of resources and services for poor residents affected by the storm, including the 14 neighborhood restoration centers the city opened, mostly in low-income areas. FEMA said it has put $4.3 billion into the hands of affected Houstonians.

“There are thousands of families who live in low-income communities, who already were operating at the margins before Harvey, and the storm pushed them down even further,” the mayor of Houston, Sylvester Turner, said in an interview. “We want to reassure them that they have not been forgotten.”

Mr. Turner, who visited Kashmere Gardens and other neighborhoods to mark the anniversary of Harvey, described the problem as a federal and state issue, citing the $5 billion in federal Community Development Block Grant disaster-recovery funds that were approved for Texas, but that Houston has yet to receive.

“We know that the city is going to receive $1.14 billion dollars in C.D.B.G. funding for housing,” Mr. Turner said. “But you can’t disperse what you don’t have.”

Kurt H. Pickering, a spokesman for FEMA in Texas, said the agency had seen no evidence that low-income areas were receiving less support from the agency. He said that federal assistance was designed not to make a person whole after a disaster, but to help start the recovery process. “FEMA does everything possible to assist every family in every way,” within the bounds of its regulations, Mr. Pickering said.

In Kashmere Gardens, Ms. Houston ended the tour of her house on Lufkin Street after a few minutes.

“I can’t stay in here too long because I start coughing,” she said.

She spoke of the past 12 months as a series of disputes and broken promises. She said she felt abandoned by FEMA, contractors, reporters and celebrities who visited the neighborhood and failed to follow up on repairs. “We’re no more than 15 minutes from River Oaks,” she said, referring to one of the wealthiest areas of Houston. “It’s not just the government. Don’t nobody care.”

Ms. Houston, a former truck driver, walked to the middle of Lufkin and turned around to face the house. The yard with the trailer was cluttered, but the house appeared normal.

“When you stand here, you would never know what lies behind those walls,” she said. “Look at it. You don’t even know how broken it is. That’s the sad part.”

Image

A portrait of Patricia Crawford’s parents still hangs in her home, although she is unable to move back.

Michelle O’Donnell contributed reporting from Houston.

Manny Fernandez is the Houston bureau chief, covering Texas and Oklahoma. He joined The Times as a Metro reporter in 2005, covering the Bronx and housing. He previously worked for The Washington Post and The San Francisco Chronicle. @mannyNYT

A version of this article appears in print on

, on Page

A

9

of the New York edition

with the headline:

1 Year Later, Relief Stalls For Poorest In Houston

. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

Read More | https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/03/us/hurricane-harvey-houston.html | http://www.nytimes.com/by/manny-fernandez

Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover, in 2018-09-03 14:40:36

[internetbasic9]

Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover

Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover https://ift.tt/2PsaEO0

Nature

HOUSTON — Hurricane Harvey ruined the little house on Lufkin Street. And ruined it remains, one year later.

Vertical wooden beams for walls. Hard concrete for floors. Lawn mowers where furniture used to be. Holes where the ceiling used to be. Light from a lamp on a stool, and a barricaded window to keep out thieves. Even the twig-and-string angel decoration on the front door — “Home is where you rest your wings” — was askew.

Monika Houston walked around her family’s home and said nothing for a long time. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She and her relatives have been unable, in the wake of the powerful storm that drenched Texas last summer, to completely restore both their house and their lives. Ms. Houston, 43, has been living alternately in a trailer on the front lawn, at her family’s other Harvey-damaged house down the block, with friends and elsewhere. Outside the trailer were barrels for campfires, set not to stay warm but to keep the mosquitoes away.

What help Ms. Houston’s family received from the government, nonprofit groups and volunteers was not enough, and she remains in a state of quasi-homelessness. She pointed to the dusty water-cooler jug by the open front door; inside were rolls of pennies, loose change and a crumpled $2 bill.

“That’s our savings,” she said as she picked up the jug and slammed it down. “We’ve never been in a position to save. We’ve been struggling, trying to hold onto what we have. This is horrible, a year later. I’m not happy. I’m broken. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’ve lost my way. I’m just as crooked as that angel on that door.”

Image

Monika Houston, 43, has been living in a trailer in front of her flooded and gutted home.

Houston and other Texas cities hit hard by Harvey a year ago have made significant progress recuperating from the worst rainstorm in United States history. The piles of debris — nearly 13 million cubic yards of it — are long gone, and many residents are back in their refurbished homes. Billions of dollars in federal aid and donations have helped Texans repair, rebuild and recover.

But this is not uniformly the case, and the exceptions trace a disturbing path of income and race across a state where those dividing lines are often easy to see.

A survey last month showed that 27 percent of Hispanic Texans whose homes were badly damaged reported that those homes remained unsafe to live in, compared to 20 percent of blacks and 11 percent of whites. There were similar disparities with income: 50 percent of lower-income respondents said they weren’t getting the help they needed, compared to 32 percent of those with higher incomes, according to the survey by the Kaiser Family Foundation and the Episcopal Health Foundation.

In many low-income neighborhoods around Houston, it feels like Harvey struck not last year but last month. Some of Houston’s most vulnerable and impoverished residents remain in the early stages of their rebuilding effort and live in the shadows of the widespread perception that Texas has successfully rebounded from the historic flooding.

In the poorest communities, some residents are still living with relatives or friends because their homes remain under repair. Others are living in their flood-damaged or half-repaired homes, struggling in squalid and mold-infested conditions. Still others have moved into trailers and other structures on their property.

One 84-year-old veteran, Henry Heileman, lived until recently in a shipping container while his home was being worked on. The container, which had been transformed into a mini-apartment with a bathroom, bed and lattice-lined foundation, was roughly 42 feet long and 6 feet wide.

The recovery has been problematic for the African-American and Hispanic families who live in some of the city’s poorest neighborhoods for several reasons. The scale of Harvey’s devastation and the depths of the social ills that existed in the Houston area before the storm played a role. So did a scattershot recovery that saw some people get the government aid and charity assistance they needed, when they needed it, while others had more difficulty or became entangled in disputes and complications with the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

“Everything always hits the poor harder than it does everybody else,” said John Sharp, the head of the Governor’s Commission to Rebuild Texas, which is helping to coordinate the state response to Harvey and to assist local officials and nonprofit groups.

These residents have not struggled in isolation. They have been assisted in the past year by officials and volunteers, but their repairs and recovery stalled for different reasons. Some of them no longer seek out help and suffer privately, ashamed of their living conditions but unable to move forward with their lives. Their housing issues are one of many problems they are confronting post-Harvey. Some are disabled, ill, unemployed or caring for older relatives. Some said they or their relatives are taking medication or undergoing counseling to cope with post-Harvey stress.

“In New Orleans, you could see the remnants of Katrina by the markings of FEMA spray paint on people’s homes, and you could see those waterlines,” said Amanda K. Edwards, a Houston city councilwoman who has led an effort to identify and knock on the doors of low-income flood victims who have stopped answering phone calls from those trying to assist them. “Those types of visuals are not present here. So it is difficult for people to really appreciate how difficult of a time people are having.”

Image

Amanda Edwards, 36, a Houston city councilwoman, drives through neighborhoods that were badly hit during Hurricane Harvey.

Days after the one-year anniversary of Harvey’s Texas landfall on Aug. 25, Ms. Edwards drove to the home of a victim in the Houston Gardens neighborhood. She parked in the driveway of a flood-damaged home that, from the outside, appeared in good condition. Ms. Edwards was told that the African-American man inside lives in his home without electricity. As Ms. Edwards stood on the man’s doorstep, he called out to her with the door closed, telling her he did not want any visitors.

Nearby, Ms. Edwards was given a tour of Kaverna Moore’s gutted home. Ms. Moore, 67, lived in her home for months after Harvey and finally moved in with her son in March. Her repairs stalled after she was denied disaster assistance by FEMA.

She sorted through her papers and pulled out the FEMA denial letter. It was dated September 23, 2017, and stated that she was ineligible because “the damage to your essential personal property was not caused by the disaster.” The letter baffles her. She lost her furniture, her carpet, her shoes and her appliances when about 2 feet of floodwater inundated her home. A contractor’s estimate to repair the damage to the physical structure, including replacing the sheet rock and installing new doors, was $18,605. She appealed the FEMA denial but never heard back.

She said she has no idea when she will be back in her home. She was waiting for Habitat for Humanity to work on the house.

“I miss my house,” Ms. Moore said. “I miss it a whole lot. I come by every day. Check my mail. Sometimes I come and sit on the porch.”

Image

Kaverna Moore, 67, was living in her gutted and moldy house until March, when she had to have surgery and moved in with her son.

Image

Patricia Crawford waits, too.

Ms. Crawford’s house remains under repair while she undergoes cancer treatment. Ms. Crawford, 74, went to live with a friend after Harvey. She moved back into her house — the house she grew up in — in June, before it was ready, then moved out after a few days. Her house remains a work in progress, with unpainted walls and construction padding on the floors, the rooms strewn with power tools. Her bed is still tightly wrapped in plastic.

She received some money from FEMA but was denied other assistance. So she waits, living with another friend and counting on help from relatives and nonprofit groups like the Fifth Ward Community Redevelopment Corporation.

“It’s been hard,” Ms. Crawford said one afternoon as she sat on a sofa at her half-finished house. “Have you ever felt like you were just lost? Well, that’s the way I feel. I feel lost. My doctor told me that if I didn’t stop grieving, she was going to put me in the hospital. But I’m doing better.”

Image

Patricia Crawford, 74, visits her home in the Kashmere Gardens neighborhood of Houston.

No local, state or federal agency has been tracking how many people remain displaced after Harvey. It is unclear how many residents are struggling to complete repairs or have had their recovery stall. In the Kashmere Gardens section of northeast Houston — the low-income, predominantly African-American neighborhood along Interstate 610 where Ms. Houston and Ms. Crawford live — Keith Downey, a community leader, estimated that at least 1,500 Harvey victims in the area were not back in their homes.

In the Kaiser and Episcopal survey, based on phone interviews with more than 1,600 adults in 24 Harvey-damaged counties in June and July, three out of 10 residents said their lives were still “very” or “somewhat” disrupted from the storm.

The race and income disparities identified in the survey are likely a result of what existed before the storm, said Elena Marks, president and chief executive of the Episcopal Health Foundation and a former health policy director for the city of Houston. “If you went into the storm with relatively few resources, and then you lost resources, be it income or property or car, it’s going to be harder for you to replace it,” she said. “The farther behind you were before the storm, the less likely you are to bounce back after the storm.”

Local, state and federal officials expressed concern for low-income Harvey victims, but they were unable to explain why so many of them continue to struggle. City officials say there has been no shortage of resources and services for poor residents affected by the storm, including the 14 neighborhood restoration centers the city opened, mostly in low-income areas. FEMA said it has put $4.3 billion into the hands of affected Houstonians.

“There are thousands of families who live in low-income communities, who already were operating at the margins before Harvey, and the storm pushed them down even further,” the mayor of Houston, Sylvester Turner, said in an interview. “We want to reassure them that they have not been forgotten.”

Mr. Turner, who visited Kashmere Gardens and other neighborhoods to mark the anniversary of Harvey, described the problem as a federal and state issue, citing the $5 billion in federal Community Development Block Grant disaster-recovery funds that were approved for Texas, but that Houston has yet to receive.

“We know that the city is going to receive $1.14 billion dollars in C.D.B.G. funding for housing,” Mr. Turner said. “But you can’t disperse what you don’t have.”

Kurt H. Pickering, a spokesman for FEMA in Texas, said the agency had seen no evidence that low-income areas were receiving less support from the agency. He said that federal assistance was designed not to make a person whole after a disaster, but to help start the recovery process. “FEMA does everything possible to assist every family in every way,” within the bounds of its regulations, Mr. Pickering said.

In Kashmere Gardens, Ms. Houston ended the tour of her house on Lufkin Street after a few minutes.

“I can’t stay in here too long because I start coughing,” she said.

She spoke of the past 12 months as a series of disputes and broken promises. She said she felt abandoned by FEMA, contractors, reporters and celebrities who visited the neighborhood and failed to follow up on repairs. “We’re no more than 15 minutes from River Oaks,” she said, referring to one of the wealthiest areas of Houston. “It’s not just the government. Don’t nobody care.”

Ms. Houston, a former truck driver, walked to the middle of Lufkin and turned around to face the house. The yard with the trailer was cluttered, but the house appeared normal.

“When you stand here, you would never know what lies behind those walls,” she said. “Look at it. You don’t even know how broken it is. That’s the sad part.”

Image

A portrait of Patricia Crawford’s parents still hangs in her home, although she is unable to move back.

Michelle O’Donnell contributed reporting from Houston.

Manny Fernandez is the Houston bureau chief, covering Texas and Oklahoma. He joined The Times as a Metro reporter in 2005, covering the Bronx and housing. He previously worked for The Washington Post and The San Francisco Chronicle. @mannyNYT

A version of this article appears in print on

, on Page

A

9

of the New York edition

with the headline:

1 Year Later, Relief Stalls For Poorest In Houston

. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

Read More | https://ift.tt/2wz3ctK | https://ift.tt/2wFyRtg

Nature A Year After Hurricane Harvey, Houston’s Poorest Neighborhoods Are Slowest to Recover, in 2018-09-03 14:40:36