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“Everybody who comes to New Orleans is runnin’ away from something, cher.” His voice was smooth and mellow, like a long, slow pull on an expensive cigar. I liked the easy way he had of dropping consonants and hanging onto vowels, drawing them out as if savoring the taste. “What are you running from?” I countered. “Nah, not me. I’m Creole. I was born here. My dead are here. I’ll be here ’til I join them.”
I wondered what that must be like, to simply know with certainty where you will always be.
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Great snippet!
ReplyDeleteThank you so much Krystal!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful writing! I love the description of his accent!
ReplyDeleteThank you! You've made my day. :)
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