"A thing incredible, if ever, only after it is told—returned to the world it came out of. For their different reasons, he thought, neither of them would tell this (unless something was dragged out of them): that, strangers, they had ridden down into a strange land together and were getting back—by a slight margin, perhaps, but margin enough. Over the levee wall now, like an aurora borealis, the sky of New Orleans, across the river, was flickering gently, This time they crossed by bridge, high above everything, merging into a long light-stream of cars turned cityward."

-Eudora Welty, "No Place For You, My Love"

"He wanted to tell her, from the greater perspective he had, that to own only a little talent, like his, was an awful, plaguing thing; that being only a little special meant you expected too much, most of the time, and like yourself too little. He wanted to assure her that she had missed nothing."

-Mary Robison "Yours"

(The photo above is of “Chomps II,” a variation of the same jack-o-lantern I’ve been carving for years.)

If you’re in the mood for a creepy novel, read Doris Lessing’s The Fifth Child

“While she strode rapidly through the ward to the door at the other end, she was able to see that every bed or cot held an infant or a small child in whom the human template had been wrenched out of pattern, sometimes horribly, sometimes slightly. A baby like a comma, great lolling head on a stalk of a body.”

If you want to go somewhere creepy/amazing, head to St. Roch Cemetery in New Orleans (see photo).

If creepy saints are your thing, read the “Tributes” section of SaintExpedite.org.

Comments: Dear St Expedite, Thank you thank you!! I am so happy, we finally not only bought the cv axle but yesterday I received help with paying to put it on. It cost 133.26 at a shop. I am so grateful. And I went to casino, and won 45.00 (not too much) but enough to buy gas for my car, and the things I needed to get  rid of the rat we have in our house. hopefully, he will leave now. 

(If you accomplish all three, you’ll know what it’s like to be me on a Sunday.)

"On what turned out to be the last day, a very cold morning in February, she stepped out onto the roof to drink the last of her cocoa. At first she sipped, then she took one final swallow, and in the time it took her to raise the cup to her lips and lower it, the pigeon had taken a step and dropped from the ledge. He caught an upwind that took him nearly as high as the tops of the empty K Street houses. He flew farther into Northeast, into the colors and sounds of the city’s morning. She did nothing, aside from following him, with her eyes, with her heart, as far as she could."

-Edward P. Jones, "The Girl Who Raised Pigeons"

Painting: Anton van Dalen, Pigeon Coop At Sunset, 1985

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