Told in The Garden District
Each sip takes me further out of this house and closer to death. I hate my husband but I’m too afraid to leave him the regular way. The children are so demanding. They are not, as I tell my friends, “Little buckets of love.” So, I will sit here and sip, and sip, and sip until I go away. Suicide by sweet tea.
I thought if I could climb high enough in the tree I could escape the fire. I was right! The tree wasn’t burning! But, it was so hot I guess I got cooked. Climbing up was a pretty good idea. Suppose I would have lived if it wasn’t for the heat.
Told in the Garden District
Christina was my wife. She died in this house, long after I did, of old age. She was ready to move on so she decided she didn’t need to stay here in New Orleans. She said she lived without me for so many years she could manage being dead without me too.
This is Not Going to Turn Out Well
I rise for all Americans
stories heard in new orleans and other ghostly places by Dazz Rose
A place for me to tell you stuff where correct grammar is not guaranteed.
tales from the quarter 