2. Deathstar’s Mud Pit

The next spot on our tour is the most recent Wonder to be lost: the mud pit out the front of Deathstar. Like California’s La Brea Tar Pits, this cesspool was once home to a remarkable diversity of microorganisms. By slurping up broken glass and remnants of couches, it has preserved the physical record of Castle Street culture from the harmful effects of solar radiation and weekly recycling.

In its prime, the mud pit covered about ten square metres. An area of this size could support a thriving population of bacteria which, in turn, provided a balancing effect on local populations of Breatha sapiens. It became a sort of figurehead for the filth of Castle Street culture, waded through by all walks of life. Unfortunately, human development and expansion spelled doom for this unique environment.

Following a chemical train derailment (AKA sewage spill) in 2022, the fragile ecosystem was thrown into disarray. Like the Amazon Rainforest, Deathstar’s mud pit was razed and paved over in the summer of 2022. Unwilling to risk the health of local B. sapiens, the property managers sealed the mud pit forever in an asphalt sarcophagus. Algae and sludge was replaced by asphalt and, well, more sludge. There’s still plenty of sludge.

The site now serves as a memorial to all we’ve lost in the name of human expansion, and pays homage to all the crazy bacteria we never got to experiment with. Who knows, maybe there was a cure for cancer brewing in there somewhere. Probably not, though. It was mostly cholera.

3. Tides of Glass

The third Wonder on our walk can be seen all throughout the street, but the areas outside Deathstar are where it’s visible in its prime. Every evening, tidal forces sweep forth massive amounts of broken glass, which is then deposited in laminar sheets across Castle Street. This pattern follows a seasonal cycle, with heavier deposits on weekends, and lower average deposit rates over the summer.

These glass tides are much like a clownfish’s anemone: hazardous to most, save for the few local residents who have evolved an immunity. By surrounding themselves with sharp shards of glass, residents of Castle Street are able to ward off intrusion from outside predators, namely police (Sus domesticus) and cyclists (Celermotus dirotae). However, in recent years, locals have been experimenting with a new form of defence, recognizing that they are not completely immune to the hazards posed by tidal waves of glass.

While the remarkable natural cycles of glass tides will never entirely disappear from Castle Street, their prominence may be in decline. This decline is natural, forced not by overhunting but by the organic evolution of the environment. As these local “clownfish” become more and more self-aware and self-governing, their need for their “anemone” decreases. The loss of this Wonder ought not to be mourned, as it has been eroded not by outside pressures, but by the natural course of evolution.