Dead River Quotes

“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

“the river was a place of mystery and myth, of freedom and solitude, where one couldn’t help but feel like an orphan in a different world, belonging to everything and nothing all at once.”
― 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

“Less than a mile away, through the dense river jungle of oaks, palmetto, and cypress, lies the Choctawhatchee, a source of comfort and a glimpse of home." (pg. 17)”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“white egrets swarm overhead, pounding up in a whirlwind of wings.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“In a couple hours, the June heat will become unbearable, the water level will begin to recede, and the harsh sun will pound down on the river until its surface glistens like fish scales.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“Delton Cafe--a place with more old men than menu items.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“But there’s also something serene about it all, to the fingers of fog sneaking through the leafy foliage, hovering like damp breath; the sweet and spicy smell of milkweed and traces of pollen coating the calm surface, each breath of wind shedding yellow dust.
We tie off along a clump of cypress knees, our lines swishing over the rusty-brown surface.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“the river never keeps its secrets for long. Secrets always surface, Dad used to say.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“The truth is a slick, writhing fish, impossible to grasp.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“But don’t think for one minute that I can’t fend for myself when that’s all girls are trained to do since the day we’re born.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“Now, I imagine how the place must look to someone like Ms. Judy, the landscape barren and bleak after sixty-five summers without her, trees stunted in growth due to the numerous hurricanes, floods, droughts, and tornadoes over the years. As a result, the overhead limbs now bear the shape of the wind, the bank eroded and boggy, with multiple man-made items caught in the snags along the shore—fishing line, a board or two from an old dock, a piece of rope, an empty beer bottle.
But there’s also something serene about it all, to the fingers of fog sneaking through the leafy foliage, hovering like damp breath; the sweet and spicy smell of milkweed and traces of pollen coating the calm surface, each breath of wind shedding yellow dust.
We tie off along a clump of cypress knees, our lines swishing over the rusty-brown surface. Ms. Judy doesn’t even ask for help, flicking her wrist back and aiming for a narrow spot in between two fallen limbs, the movement like muscle-memory after all this time.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“Right now, I only have one goal, and that's to stop him." Scarlett looks up from her sandals. "I'm going to kill that son of a bitch.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“On the far side of the bank lies a white-skinned creature, caught between tree roots and gnarled limbs like a fish in a net. It’s probably just an animal—a large fish or a bloated deer.
But then I catch sight of what looks like the head of an old mop, twisted around the roots and streaked with mud.
Hair. It’s hair.
I blink, the image sharpening, growing clearer. The pale white of a belly, two sets of fingers extending out, and the gaping hole of an open mouth, caught in a silent scream.
It’s a body.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River

“A few days ago, the river was my bubble from the outside world, edging out everything painful and dark. Now, I realize how foolish I was for believing the river could shield me from danger. I’m nowhere near as safe out here as I thought.”
― McCaid Paul, Dead River