So this was what I sent to the group on Sunday.

Each Monday the group moderator releases four text prompts, one photo prompt and one competition and you have until Sunday night to chose at least one to write about. If you don’t submit at least one post in four weeks, you’re out of the group. I’d already missed three weeks and was up against the deadline, so I wrote this pretty quickly to get in under the wire- sent in at 11:15pm. Obviously, I didn’t have a chance to edit it, so it ain’t great, but it’s not awful. Probably.

This was inspired by my new work at the PRC, but isn’t about a specific case. The protagonist isn’t anyone in particular- my friend Michelle’s job is basically to go to these hearings and argue for preservation, but that’s as close as it gets. She does a hell of a job and fights as hard as if she really did have family and friends inside those houses, but you just can’t win ‘em all.

EDIT: forgot to insert the photos of the house I had in mind while writing this.

Della had already lost one of her cases today, a cute cottage on Piety Street, and the sheaf of papers on her lap was showing the strain of her agitation. She clutched and crinkled, shredding their corners a bit at a time until there was nothing left as she fumed and waited for the next demolition hearing to begin so she could bang her head against the wall a while longer.

Almost four years after Katrina and there seemed to be no more answers then there were at the start. All she could do was show up at these meetings and fight, over and over, hearing the same arguments until she thought she?d scream. Over six thousand, five hundred houses had been knocked down, each one ripping out a thread of the city?s fabric, altering the feel of the neighborhood and leaving yet another gaping hole in the streetscape. Now, within 48 hours, there would be another empty lot on Piety.

And at each hearing, the same phrases, the same condescension toward those who wanted to preserve New Orleans? history. Property does not contribute to the neighborhood or cost prohibitive, or her new personal favorite: Of little consequence.

The inspector had included that last gem his report on the house at 1755 Jackson, and that was a house she was determined to save, come hell or? well, the hurricane had already brought the high water. It was only hell she had to face, then. Good. After everything Alavada had done for Della in that house, she figured a little Hell was a small price to pay.

It might be hard to see now, but 1755 Jackson had once been an oasis.

When her parents were fighting, or her dad was drunk, or her mother had blown the grocery money, Miss Alavada was Della?s savior. Every day her huge slobbery mutts had trampled through the palms and vines and roses, happily knocking Della down in welcome, making her forget the shame of coming over for yet another handout. There was always something that smelled wonderful on the stove and open arms to smother you in. Alavada had listened, consoled, advised, cajoled and fed three generations of Jackson Avenue residents out of that house.

She?d long been the soul of an entire neighborhood, and now she was still sitting in a formaldehyde poisoned FEMA trailer outside of town, frail and unable to do for herself.

To Della, the maddening irony was that Alavada?s house sat just three blocks outside of the Garden District, where it would have enjoyed protected Historic District status. Instead, the city was so sure they?d get approval to demolish that the house was already flagged with big, red Fire Department ?do not enter? warnings- ?Let it burn,? they meant. ?Save us the trouble of knocking it down.”

6500 houses demolished, not including the ones completely flattened by the storm. How many Alavedas did that represent, Della wondered? She glared again at the inspector?s phrase, recognizing herself in its mirror. She?d been ?of little consequence? once herself, until Miss A had found her.

Della was determined to return the favor.

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