DP

“It’s Sunday—my grandparent’s favorite day of the week. To them, Sundays are good for three things: church, rest, and fried chicken from Piggly Wiggly.”
― McCaid Paul, Sweet Tea & Snap Peas

“Worryin’ is like sitting in a rockin’ chair. It don’t get you no further down the road.”
― McCaid Paul, Sweet Tea & Snap Peas

“The river speaks a language, something one isn’t born knowing but has to learn. I learned it from my dad. Some of it is wisdom, some of it skill. Some of it is the quirks and tendencies of a natural beast—the ebb and flow, the up and down, the flood draining down to a trickle. It’s all part of the river’s story, which it’s always willing to tell.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“Dead River—the center of some story Grandpa used to tell around the campfire, back when I was foolish enough to believe anything. A tale of a whirlpool, snatching a man under while fishing in the middle of the current, snagging him on a root or treetop, never to be found again. It was the first time I knew the river to be murderous.
As we grow closer, the landscape of clay and muddy water fades to a sandy-white shoreline and waters the color of
black coffee, due to the influence of tannic acid from the leaves. Spanish moss hangs from nearly every branch, casting long, thick shadows across the sand.
The breeze calms to a mere breath of wind, the only movement some water bugs that resemble spiders, darting across the river’s surface. Gone are the splashes of the gar, and the occasional squawk of water fowl.
True to its name, the place is sinister. Dead.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River