She doesn’t even have shoes on” He was trying to reconcile something in his head while talking to Luke.
“In all the time you spent in that shack, you forgot to pack her shoes?” Luke asked rhetorically, shaking his head in both wonder and disappointment. “Look, we’re in the boonies. I am sure shoes are optional, as are a full set of teeth.
Mots clés paranormal new-orleans young-adult louisiana kidnapping kidnapped
She was evil. Couldn't he, who killed demons with his own hands, realize that? And now I had to run for Mardi Gras Queen because of him. Or her. I didn't know whose fault it was but there was no way I could back down now.
Jenna-Lynne DuncanMots clés romance paranormal new-orleans mardi-gras hurricane teaser young-adult-series
From my friend, Brig. General Ezell Ware, Jr., CA Nat'l Guard, Dec.
Keep on going till you get there, then keep going.
Mots clés new-orleans historical-romance louisiana natchitoches st-maurice
People don't live in New Orleans because it is easy. They live here because they are incapable of living anywhere else in the just same way.
Ian McNultyMots clés truth new-orleans cities hurricane-katrina
Perspective was my secret weapon, and books gave me plenty of ammunition.
Ian McNultyMots clés books perspective new-orleans
She didn’t even know what she’d do when she got back to New Orleans, but inside she felt a yearning to shove her hands in the dirt, to cling to the ground there, forever.
Sarah RaeMots clés new-orleans katrina nola hurricane
America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans.
Everywhere else is Cleveland.
Mots clés new-orleans
I hope to die in my sleep, when the time comes, and I hope it will be in the beautiful big brass bed in my New Orleans apartment, the bed which is associated with so much love.
Tennessee WilliamsMots clés new-orleans
The sun goes down and it's night-time in New Orleans. The moon rises, midnight chimes from St. Louis cathedral, and hardly has the last note died away than a gruesome swampland whistle sounds outside the deathly still house. A fat Negress, basket on arm, comes trudging up the stairs a moment later, opens the door, goes in to the papaloi, closes it again, traces an invisible mark on it with her forefinger and kisses it. Then she turns and her eyes widen with surprise. Papa Benjamin is in bed, covered up to the neck with filthy rags. The familiar candles are all lit, the bowl for the blood, the sacrificial knife, the magic powders, all the paraphernalia of the ritual are laid out in readiness, but they are ranged about the bed instead of at the opposite end of the room as usual.
The old man's head, however, is held high above the encumbering rags, his beady eyes gaze back at her unflinchingly, the familiar semicircle of white wool rings his crown, his ceremonial mask is at his side. 'I am a little tired, my daughter,' he tells her. His eyes stray to the tiny wax image of Eddie Bloch under the candles, hairy with pins, and hers follow them. 'A doomed one, nearing his end, came here last night thinking I could be killed like other men. He shot a bullet from a gun at me. I blew my breath at it, it stopped in the air, turned around, and went back in the gun again. But it tired me to blow so hard, strained my voice a little.'
A revengeful gleam lights up the woman's broad face. 'And he'll die soon, papaloi?'
'Soon,' cackles the weazened figure in the bed. The woman gnashes her teeth and hugs herself delightedly. ("Papa Benjamin" aka "Dark Melody Of Madness")
Mots clés new-orleans voodoo
Going to college don't make you from somewhere, any more than a cat born in an over can call itself a biscuit.
Laura LippmanMots clés college new-orleans tulane transplant
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