New Orleans Novel Novels & Stories

It was an odd thing for them to have so much to do after having just arrived, but Alain was willing to see this trip through. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA Port Of New Orlay, New Orleans, Louisiana, The New World (1762)..... The sights and sounds were a welcome change from the silent churning of the ocean waves and the creaking of the wood from the hull of the ship. The smells weren't bad in the least with a thick mix of perfume, strange cuisine, various flowers, and sweets filling the air as Alain moved about the seemingly enchanting city. While he had been no stranger to people of color due to having lived in France for most of his childhood, he

Helen had promised her friend would know what to do, and it’s not like I have any other options. I peer out the passenger side window of the car as Helen pulls into the driveway of an old stately home. We’re in the suburbs of New Orleans, a part I’ve never been before. The houses here are larger and look like they had probably been grand once, but years of harsh weather and lack of upkeep have caught up with many of the buildings. I think about my new house on the edge of the swamp and shudder. Is this what our home will look like soon after years of exposure and neglect?

New Orleans, Louisiana. At the famous Bourbon Street, where people often find men and women celebrating with whiskey in clasped in their hands, clinking glasses can be heard even from the ones living in the second story building. There was this special day were people would walk and dance in the middle of the street with masks filled with purple, gold, and silver glitter, some even wear purple necklaces and carry skulls that ensemble the voodoo that highly represents the city. Those people who lived upstairs would throw purple and silver jewelry at them from their patios and dance along. Those restaurants they used to go to in the afternoons were astounding. Especially when you eat their spe

DAMIEN’S POV Three months had passed since we’d fled New Orleans—since Olivia drove that dagger into Mayor Larry’s chest and we bolted with Alaric, leaving the blood and chaos behind. We’d settled here, a nowhere town in the Tennessee hills, far from the packs and the cops hunting us. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the city’s grit, and I’d grown used to it, to her.

Her father is hardly ever home, working long hours in the city while her mother spends most of her time grading papers from all of her high school students. She opens the door quietly, but there is no need. Her mother is still awake. She's curled up in the living room reading her latest adventure novel wrapped on the comfy (and dare she call ugly) recliner her father just had to have. Her curly auburn hair is up in a bun with a few stray strands spiraling free as her eyes intently scan the new Kindle she received for her birthday only a few weeks ago. It's safe to say she has become a little obsessed with it. Can't say Sera can blame her. She herself escapes to a different world every time s

It’s hard to describe, it’s something you must experience for yourself to truly understand. The story I’m going to tell you begins in New Orleans, on a warm summer evening, many, many years ago. The sun had just set, leaving the sky a luminous blue that only tropic skies ever become. There was a warm breeze blowing in off the river – there usually was – but those breezes didn’t typically reach very far into the Quarter. And in Jackson Square the air was humid and heavy; the floral notes of Queen’s Wreath mingling with the scent of the paints used by the numerous artists that set up along the sidewalks.

New Orleans Mia Cruz jolted awake at the sound of her alarm shrieking through the silence. With a groggy groan, she slapped at her phone, missing twice before finally silencing it. Blinking against the early morning light filtering through her curtains, she forced herself upright. Her body protested, every muscle stiff from the awkward way she had slept. She hadn’t even changed out of yesterday’s clothes. Again. Rubbing her eyes, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and checked the time.

I stuffed the last piece of clothing into the suitcase and snapped it shut, then I looked around the apartment. Having lived here for five years, my presence was everywhere, from the paintings on the walls to the throw pillows on the couch and the plants on the balcony. Now, those very details felt like a cruel joke. I wheeled my suitcase toward the living room and paused to look at the calendar. New Year’s Day was tomorrow. A fresh start and a brand-new year. Without hesitation, I reached for my phone and reserved a seat on the first high-speed train heading to Cedar Hollow, my hometown.

She didn't fight the new authors with violence; she fought them with Style. ​Nora closed her eyes and reached for the "Midnight Blue" essence of Chapter 1. She didn't want the world’s versions of her; she wanted the version that belonged only to the man who first looked at her across a ballroom. ​The Brooklyn bookstore dissolved. The smell of dust and printer ink was replaced by the scent of Oud, Vintage Champagne, and Rain-Slicked Marble. ​The Return to the Penthouse ​When Nora opened her eyes, she was standing in the center of the Grand Ballroom of the Vane Estate in the Hamptons.

The morning sun poured over New Orleans like it was in on a secret. The smell of chicory and powdered sugar floated from St. James Creole Kitchen, and Rory was already in his element—barking orders, stirring gumbo, wiping his brow with the same rag he’d been using since breakfast. It was supposed to be a good day. Then Delphine burst through the front door like a headline with heels. “Rory! Oh my God, turn on your phone!” Rory didn’t even look up from his pot. “If this is about them running outta shrimp again—”