Mindborn — An Excerpt

Early in the morning, Marcus, Sophia, and young Elle were awakened by the familiar chime of the bell ringing from the center of the square. Its sound echoed across La Nuvo Mo, mingling with the first rays of sunlight breaking through the ruins.

Jackson Square, once a hub of life and luxury, has become one of the few refuges where people still cling to existence. This place is now called La Nuvo Mo—a distorted French name meaning “New World.” The elders tell stories of a time when one of the first survivors sought shelter here, escaping chaos and destruction. Gradually, others began to gather around, turning the square into a new home and naming it “La Nouveau Monde,” just as the first settlers once christened these lands upon arriving from across the ocean.

The bell tolled again, its deep chime rolling over the square like a slow breath. For the survivors, it was more than just a morning signal—it was a call to life itself, a stubborn reminder that the city still stood. In its chime was not only a hint of sorrow but also a spark of hope, fortifying those who had chosen to fight for their future.

At the center of the square, where the statue of Andrew Jackson once stood, now lies the settlement’s exchange yard. The statue has long since fallen, its fragments scattered across the area like silent witnesses of a bygone era. In its place, a large bell has been mounted, ringing every morning to mark the start of a new day and serving as a signal for gatherings and trade. This bell, like a voice from the past, continues to resonate, filling the ruined city with the rhythm of a new life.

As the echo faded, the family gathered for a modest breakfast in the kitchen of their assigned shelter—a brief moment of peace before the challenges of the day ahead.

Along St. Peter and St. Annette Streets, survivors-built shelters from debris and weathered planks. Eighteen such dwellings, each accommodating between three and seven people, now surround partially ruined buildings, whose skeletal frames stand as the last reminders of a once-grand past.
These shelters were more than just places of refuge—they became warm hearths for those who had grown accustomed to calling them home. At the end of St. Annette Street, just a few yards from where it meets the old Decatur Street, settlers constructed a communal bathhouse. This modest structure completes the chain of shelters, serving as a rare symbol of privacy and renewal in this new world, where even simple comforts feel like luxuries.

Marcus, as always, prepared for his patrol with meticulous care, checking every detail of his gear—from his knife and pistol to the straps holding it all together. This was more than a routine; it was a ritual, reminding him of his duty as a Guardian.
Sophia, standing on the porch of their home, sorted through items gathered the day before from the city’s ruins. These finds, carefully selected with the expertise of a Gatherer, were being prepared for trade in the square.
Elle, brimming with curiosity and energy, made her way to the small garden on the rooftop—a tiny oasis amid the devastation. This garden was more than just a source of food and inspiration; it had become a place where they could cling to the shadow of normalcy, an illusion that life continued, even among the ruins.

The square itself has been transformed into a network of gardens and orchards. Former lawns and flowerbeds are now replaced by raised beds and fruit trees, which have adapted to the new, humid conditions and become a source of food and medicinal herbs for the survivors. These green spaces not only sustain the settlement but also provide healing plants, offering a faint echo of the Old World and maintaining hope amid the chaos.
In the early decades after the fall of the Old World, the settlers of the Bayou Covenant attempted to preserve elements of their former way of life by moving livestock from nearby pastures to new locations.
Cows, goats, and chickens were meant to form the foundation of their survival, but the harsh conditions of the swamp soon brought challenges. Grazing grass, now scarce in the waterlogged terrain, could no longer sustain the herds. Diseases, spreading rapidly in the humid environment, decimated the remaining animals, while local predators turned every night into a battle for survival.
Chickens, though more resilient, attracted wild beasts with their presence. The damp climate, frequent downpours, and lack of feed made keeping them impractical. Gradually, livestock farming caused more losses than benefits.
The settlers made the difficult but necessary decision to abandon it, focusing instead on agriculture, fishing, and hunting. Gardens and orchards became the heart of their livelihood, providing everything they needed to survive, as new habits reshaped the foundation of their daily lives.

Joshua, a young man whose determination and cheerful nature had a contagious effect on Elle, helped her care for the seedlings growing in makeshift pots and crates. Despite the rusty crutches that always tapped against the ground with a faint metallic clink, he moved with a grace that brought a unique ease to his lessons.
Working alongside him, Elle occasionally glanced at Sophia, who was busy sorting through their gathered items. Their eyes would sometimes meet, and without words, they exchanged smiles. It was a bond not forged by blood but by choice and circumstance—a connection that had drawn them together. For Elle, Sophia had become almost a real mother, despite the loss of her biological mother during the ‘Day of Those Who Rose from the Swamps.’
Marcus, patrolling the perimeter with his team, observed the scene with his usual stern vigilance. He knew the silence around them was deceptive, like the calm before a storm. The world they so carefully maintained was as fragile as the tiny plants growing in Elle’s Garden.
Pastor John stepped out into the damp morning, his faded cassock brushing against overgrown roots. The cathedral loomed behind him, a shadow of its former grandeur—its crumbling walls swallowed by vines, its stained glass long shattered.

St. Louis Cathedral, once majestic and proud, now stands silent, like an abandoned relic. Its spires have long since crumbled, and its empty stained-glass windows no longer let light through. Massive walls, overgrown with roots and moss, conceal traces of its former patterns and details. Even in its ruined state, the cathedral radiates something eternal, unyielding. Once a place of prayer, it has become a refuge for those seeking healing for their bodies and solace for their souls. On the stone altar near the entrance, the stubs of candles still burn—a symbol of remembrance for the past. Beneath its arches live the names of those who are gone but not forgotten.
By the massive doors of the cathedral, on one of its ancient walls, hangs a board known as the “Mark of Memory”. Upon it, survivors have desperately etched marks to count the passing of lunar phases, seasons, and years, clinging to a fragile connection with slipping time. Yet days, hours, and weeks have long since lost their meaning. The grand clock that once adorned the cathedral’s façade has collapsed, leaving only a faded base—a silent reminder of a bygone order.
When the settlers gaze at the board, they are reminded that eight years, seven months and fifteen days have passed since the first mark was made—the day of the great tragedy now called “The Day of Those Who Rose from the Swamps,” when only a small fraction of the population survived, and their numbers dwindled to a fraction of what they once were. Among the grass and soil at the foot of the wall lie old, splintered planks—mute witnesses to time, flowing here in its endless silence.
Behind the cathedral, in the overgrown Armstrong Park, the survivors have established a cemetery. Narrow paths wind their way to the graves, their twisting lines disappearing into dense foliage, eventually connecting with Pirate Alley, which leads wanderers deeper into the shadows.
Each wooden cross and every plant seem immersed in an endless slumber, holding a silent grief and preserving the memory of those who couldn’t endure the harsh and brutal years of this new world. Every cross is more than just a symbol of loss—it is a story of a life cut short but not forgotten. Here, they find rest, like sounds fading into ashes, leaving behind a quiet imprint of their destinies.

Over the years, the graves had multiplied, their wooden crosses now moss-covered and leaning. Amid the older plots, a few newer crosses stood out, not yet swallowed by the rampant greenery. The pastor paused at one of these newer graves, ran his hand over the damp wood, and quietly offered a prayer for the departed soul—a reminder of the fragility of life that he witnessed every day.
Vivienne, the settlement’s leader, a woman whose wisdom and steady confidence had saved the community from countless perils, oversaw the morning’s activities. Her decisions were difficult but fair, and the settlement respected her deeply. Each morning, she walked the square, speaking with the settlers, organizing efforts to reinforce the barricades, and assigning tasks for the day. La Nuvo Mo gradually stirred to life, like a small “town” waking up to greet the day.
At the dock, fishermen checked their nets, their laughter carried by the morning breeze.

The Washington Artillery Park, once adjacent to Decatur Street, now rises above the water like a tiny island. A rusting cannon, left on its grounds, stands as a reminder of its former strength, even though its marble fixtures have long crumbled to dust.
The entire park has become overgrown with moss and wild greenery, transforming into a dock from which boats now depart. A wooden bridge, cobbled together from old planks and debris, connects the square to the dock, stretching over the murky waters.
Over time, the asphalt began to break apart, succumbing to the relentless forces of nature and time. In its place, exposed underground drains and canals, now flooded with muddy water, have taken over. Once-busy roads have become submerged channels where silt and dirt mingle with remnants of urban life. Even the legendary Decatur Street, once the heart of the city, has disappeared under the weight of oblivion, as if it had never existed.

Elderly settlers shared stories of the past with the younger generation, weaving legends of life in the Old World. In the center of the settlement, an improvised exchange yard had sprung up, where people exchanged essential items. The ringing of the bell echoed above it all, a solemn reminder of time’s relentless march.Once, at the height of the Old World’s golden age, this land was home to over half a million people. Now, the Bayou Covenant’s communities, numbering a mere five hundred thirty-seven individuals across five settlements, told a starkly different story. Of these, just over seventy resided directly in La Nuvo Mo. The rest were scattered across surrounding settlements, which had not grown into full-fledged villages but had risen from the remnants of temporary camps. These places became the lifeblood of an extended community, sustaining life amid the ruins of the Old World.
Each settlement was connected to the central square of La Nuvo Mo not only by footpaths but also by water routes. These flooded passages, navigable by boats, wound through the overgrown city—a city slowly reclaimed by nature.
As twilight descended, the heart of La Nuvo Mo pulsed with life, stirring energy into those gathered. It was one of those rare evenings when settlers from the surrounding communities came together to mark a turning point in the year.
Mid-autumn had arrived—a time when nature slowed its rhythm, preparing for the quiet descent into winter.
For those who lived here, the concept of seasons had long since lost its meaning, and most were unaware that, by the old calendar, it was October 22, 2237.
Once every season, a fair would take place, bringing together all the communities—a tradition that began during the early decades of life in La Nuvo Mo. Originally, it was called the General Gathering at Jackson’s Statue, which had remained from the Old World as a symbol of stability. Over time, however, the statue crumbled, its name was forgotten, and the fair became known as Jackson’s Seasonal Gathering.
With the arrival of each season, the name would change: Jackson’s Spring Gathering, Jackson’s Summer Gathering, Jackson’s Autumn Gathering, and Jackson’s Winter Gathering. For the settlers of the modern Bayou Covenant, “Jackson” had become a nearly mythical figure, severed from real history. Everyone had their own interpretation of its meaning.
Children often asked the elders who Jackson was. Each time, imagination triumphed over facts. Some, smiling, claimed that Jackson was the spirit of the harvest, blessing their labor and bringing peaceful days. Others, more practical, said he was the first survivor to gather people from the chaos of the Old World.
Each of these stories took on a life of its own, turning into either legends or beliefs, while the real history of Andrew Jackson, once a president of the Old World, was lost in the thick veil of oblivion, giving way to myth.
During the days of Jackson’s Seasonal Gatherings, groups of people converged from all corners of their small network of settlements, bringing with them everything they had to offer. Fishermen arrived with smoked fish, dried crawfish, and even small swamp crabs caught from the waters of the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain. Hunters contributed game meat from the forests of the Bayou Covenant, occasionally offering hides or bones for further use. Farmers shared roasted root vegetables and other crops grown in gardens carved out among the ruins.
Some brought rare items—old tools discovered in forgotten corners, still usable for work. Others offered souvenirs such as books, coins, photographs, and jewelry—trinkets that once filled the shops of the French Quarter. These objects had lost their old-world value but now served as symbols of the past, pieces of history to be traded or passed on, preserving a connection to the times that had faded away.
It all came together as an improvised fair, where the value of items was determined not only by their practicality but also by the memories or inspiration they could evoke.
On Chartres Street, within the remnants of the Cabildo building—where a few intact walls and part of the roof still stand—lives a family of five. On the same street, under the open sky, a communal kitchen has been set up, complete with a fire pit and logs arranged around it. This space has become a gathering place for conversations and rare celebrations, where people come together by the fire to remember the departed and share plans for the future.
Near the ruins of the Presbytère, on the wide stretch of Chartres Street, the settlers have established a makeshift clinic. It operates in the open air, sheltered by the remaining walls of the old building, serving as a haven for the injured and the sick. Tents are pitched in front of the skeletal structure, each one a testament to the resilience of people who continue to support one another, even in this harsh world. Here, aid is given not just to ease pain but to share hope for recovery, preserving the warmth of humanity amid the ruins.
The aromas of food filled the evening air, mingling with hushed voices and the sounds of instruments. On this small square, among the remnants of the past, life found its fragile harmony once again—a reminder that even in the midst of ruin, moments of peace and unity could still be discovered.

Once, at the height of the Old World’s golden age, this land was home to over half a million people. Now, the Bayou Covenant’s communities, numbering a mere five hundred thirty-seven individuals across five settlements, told a starkly different story. Of these, just over seventy resided directly in La Nuvo Mo. The rest were scattered across surrounding settlements, which had not grown into full-fledged villages but had risen from the remnants of temporary camps. These places became the lifeblood of an extended community, sustaining life amid the ruins of the Old World.
Each settlement was connected to the central square of La Nuvo Mo not only by footpaths but also by water routes. These flooded passages, navigable by boats, wound through the overgrown city—a city slowly reclaimed by nature.

As twilight descended, the heart of La Nuvo Mo pulsed with life, stirring energy into those gathered. It was one of those rare evenings when settlers from the surrounding communities came together to mark a turning point in the year.
Mid-autumn had arrived—a time when nature slowed its rhythm, preparing for the quiet descent into winter.

For those who lived here, the concept of seasons had long since lost its meaning, and most were unaware that, by the old calendar, it was October 22, 2237.
Once every season, a fair would take place, bringing together all the communities—a tradition that began during the early decades of life in La Nuvo Mo. Originally, it was called the General Gathering at Jackson’s Statue, which had remained from the Old World as a symbol of stability. Over time, however, the statue crumbled, its name was forgotten, and the fair became known as Jackson’s Seasonal Gathering.
With the arrival of each season, the name would change: Jackson’s Spring Gathering, Jackson’s Summer Gathering, Jackson’s Autumn Gathering, and Jackson’s Winter Gathering. For the settlers of the modern Bayou Covenant, “Jackson” had become a nearly mythical figure, severed from real history. Everyone had their own interpretation of its meaning.
Children often asked the elders who Jackson was. Each time, imagination triumphed over facts. Some, smiling, claimed that Jackson was the spirit of the harvest, blessing their labor and bringing peaceful days. Others, more practical, said he was the first survivor to gather people from the chaos of the Old World.
Each of these stories took on a life of its own, turning into either legends or beliefs, while the real history of Andrew Jackson, once a president of the Old World, was lost in the thick veil of oblivion, giving way to myth.

During the days of Jackson’s Seasonal Gatherings, groups of people converged from all corners of their small network of settlements, bringing with them everything they had to offer. Fishermen arrived with smoked fish, dried crawfish, and even small swamp crabs caught from the waters of the Mississippi and Lake Pontchartrain. Hunters contributed game meat from the forests of the Bayou Covenant, occasionally offering hides or bones for further use. Farmers shared roasted root vegetables and other crops grown in gardens carved out among the ruins.
Some brought rare items—old tools discovered in forgotten corners, still usable for work. Others offered souvenirs such as books, coins, photographs, and jewelry—trinkets that once filled the shops of the French Quarter. These objects had lost their old-world value but now served as symbols of the past, pieces of history to be traded or passed on, preserving a connection to the times that had faded away.
It all came together as an improvised fair, where the value of items was determined not only by their practicality but also by the memories or inspiration they could evoke.

On Chartres Street, within the remnants of the Cabildo building—where a few intact walls and part of the roof still stand—lives a family of five. On the same street, under the open sky, a communal kitchen has been set up, complete with a fire pit and logs arranged around it. This space has become a gathering place for conversations and rare celebrations, where people come together by the fire to remember the departed and share plans for the future.
Near the ruins of the Presbytère, on the wide stretch of Chartres Street, the settlers have established a makeshift clinic. It operates in the open air, sheltered by the remaining walls of the old building, serving as a haven for the injured and the sick. Tents are pitched in front of the skeletal structure, each one a testament to the resilience of people who continue to support one another, even in this harsh world. Here, aid is given not just to ease pain but to share hope for recovery, preserving the warmth of humanity amid the ruins.

The aromas of food filled the evening air, mingling with hushed voices and the sounds of instruments. On this small square, among the remnants of the past, life found its fragile harmony once again—a reminder that even in the midst of ruin, moments of peace and unity could still be discovered.