The Concrete Aerie

The Gallier Hotel had been abandoned longer than Nia had been alive; it simply hadn’t been torn down yet. It still sat hunched in the Tremé like an old woman wrapped in memory. Its bones brick, its lacework balconies rusting under decades of soot and vine. Most folks passed by without noticing it, which made it perfect for what Nia wanted to do.

She parked her bike in the alley behind the corner po’ boy shop, slung her pack over one shoulder, and took the back fire escape up four stories of groaning metal. It had the feel of something that wanted to fall but couldn’t quite let go.

At the top, the flat rooftop stretched wide, tar-cracked, gravel-lined, littered with old pigeon feathers and cigarette butts. On the far side stood the old rooftop billboard, a rusted steel frame with warped plywood panels still bolted to it. The advertisement had long faded into a pale, ghost-like text: Pontchartrain Beach – Fun for the Whole Family! The rest was buried under decades of mildew and bird droppings.

That was her canvas.

She dropped her pack and stretched her arms as the gulf breeze flowed around her. Across the rooftops, New Orleans exhaled jazz, diesel, and the sweet scent of magnolias. Somewhere, a trumpet was arguing with a tuba. In the distance, a car backfired in a three-four rhythm.

“All right,” she said aloud, mostly to herself. “Let’s create something worth being haunted by.”

She unzipped her pack and arranged her spray cans and jars of paint by color: smoke gray, ochre, rust-red, the deep metallic blue she only used for eyes. With a glance at the sketch, she picked up the first can and began painting. The griffin had come to her again in her dreams, clearer this time: wings arched, eyes burning blue.

She was grateful. The last mural she’d painted, under the overpass near Bayou Road, hadn’t sat right. The lines had felt off. Heavy. She’d blamed fatigue or bad lighting, but even now, thinking of it made her stomach twist. This one felt different. Cleaner. The air didn’t bristle around her neck. The shapes weren’t pulling sideways. Maybe this was her way of doing it right. A way of answering whatever question she’d left unfinished.

She glanced again at the sketch: a rough design made the previous night at 2 a.m., insomnia-etched and half-formed in her memory. A lion’s haunch. An eagle’s beak. Wings that stretched like storm clouds. It was the same creature she kept dreaming about.

Mémère Joëlle would’ve said it was a sky-walker, one of the old spirits who used to live above the city. Guardians. Messengers. Not quite gods. Not quite animals. She’d tell the stories while crushing herbs or pouring candle wax into old jars—her voice low and syrup-slow, sweet with a blend of Creole French and gospel steel.

Nia loved the stories. But that didn’t mean she believed them.

“You said they watched from rooftops,” she murmured, aiming the first can. “Well. Let’s see if they’re still watching.”

The paint hissed to life.

She worked quickly, her back foot planted, lines flowing smoothly, the beast emerging stroke by stroke from the old, faded, warped wood. A hind leg coiled as if ready to launch. A sweep of wings edged in shadow-gold. Clawed forepaws, curved and tense. She was no longer copying the sketch; she was channeling something, her hands moving faster than her thoughts.

She switched cans. Black for detail, blue for the eyes. The eyes came last.

The moment she sprayed the left iris, one firm circle of shimmering blue, the wind gusted hard from the east, catching her hoodie and nearly knocking the can from her hand.

She froze. The rooftops around her were still.

One feather drifted down, too long for a pigeon, too dark to shine like it was, and landed by her boot.

Behind her, the old cistern groaned.

“Probably settling,” she muttered, heart thudding. She capped the can, shoved everything back in the pack with more speed than care, and took one last look at the mural.

The griffin watched her from the billboard, its wings raised as if it were ready to take flight. She paused and pulled the jar of rust-red paint back out and uncapped one of her brushes. Just needs a few more quick highlights and details, she thought.

When she finished, Nia snapped a quick photo with her phone and smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s gonna piss somebody off.”

She half-jogged to the fire escape. The wind followed her down.