Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Laura DeLuca: Interview with Author Hunter S. Jones

Laura DeLuca: Interview with Author Hunter S. Jones: ABLL would like to welcome author Hunter S. Jones. Sit back with a comforting drink and enjoy. What made you decide to write a book? ...

Monday, February 25, 2013

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

A Little Bit Of Tracey Edges - Short Stories and Poems: Pain

A Little Bit Of Tracey Edges - Short Stories and Poems: Pain: A beautiful short story for Valentine's Day. Enjoy! She had felt fragile all day but never expected... This. It hurt. Hurt bad. Her wasted desire dripped off in hardened sh...

Sympathy For The Devil - Bloody Valentine Day Blog Hop


Atlanta Georgia, 2013

You wonder - is it ever going to change? You hate to ask - is it ever going to change because change does not always mean for the better. The more things change the more they stay the same. Mon dieu, as he would say. How long can you endure some things and still have the courage to hope, to dream of a better time? Or, is it easier to sink into the cesspool of despair and acceptance?

It’s the moment you fall – head first into the abyss. You never fully understand why - do you merely stumble or does someone or something push you? You only know that you are headed for that area of blackness and despondency where no one can reach you. Your only hope, even if it is a small distant dream, is that one spark - one person, one idea - will pull you back and somehow bring you back from the depths of misery. Once in the abyss - that place - it feels as if even God is wet with rain. There is no salvation for your soul and no one can save you, except yourself, so they say. 

Sadly, I am in that place now. I take my coat from the closet and put it on; making sure it is buttoned before I go out tonight. I pick up the scarf on the table underneath the entry way mirror and glance at my pale face in the mirror.

Oh lord, I look horrible. My hair is too long and it’s been a long time since  since I ate. I placed pale makeup carefully on my face and hands to hide the decomposition of my skin. Of course, hands can always be covered by gloves at this time of year. One thing – at least I’m blonde and blue eyed, so my skin is pale by nature. Once I eat, I will return to my normal look. This is all part of the sorcery that damned, son of a bitch Pierre von Minzle did to me. I was lucky to get away from him after he was in Atlanta a few months ago. Tonight will be the first time I’ve been out since that night.

I place the scarf around my neck and walk out the door, locking it behind me. Why, I wonder? The monster lives in the condo. Why should I worry about someone getting inside?  

That asshole did this to me. I can’t believe I fell for his sweet talk and let him get to me with all that past life talk and all that ultra-terrestrial existentialism. Damn him and that accent, those expensive clothes, that long, black hair and that frigging guitar. Since when do I believe anything a guitar player says?

Maybe it really was voodoo.

Good lord. What was I thinking?

Finally, the elevator arrives and takes me to the lobby of the high rise. It’s been four months since I have been outside. Four months. I’ve been in that condo attempting to adjust to this new reality. Hard to believe that it’s taken this long just to learn how to walk. But, it’s given me time to study and get prepared to enter my new life with this damned disease or affliction or whatever it is. If no one can save me but myself, then so be it. I am prepared.

As I walk onto Peachtree Street, actually I’m so weak I practically stagger into the street in the still of the night. I pull the collar of my black wool coat around my neck to keep the frigid, damp air from my icy skin. Atlanta can be so cold in February.

The Pomba Gira doll Pierre gave me - or whoever he will be this time - is still in the pocket of the coat. He said I could use this doll to call for him if I ever needed him. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve been reading about Pomba Gira and I know just what to do now.

Oh, I am so hungry that I have forgotten my manners. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mary Montague. We will see each other again soon, I’m sure.

Actually, you know, I am just like you. Well, we are somewhat similar, except my soul is owned by another person and don’t get me on that tangent again. I will explain more to you the next time we meet. Tonight, I must get something to eat so that I can get my strength back.  

Once I am stronger, I will look for that mother fucker Pierre. I know I can lure him back. Once I get him, I may slowly torment him or maybe just get it done and over with – a swift painless death. Even if I decide to fuck him to death, maybe I can at least find a way to get my soul back before his demise.

He will at least tell me how to get my soul back before he dies, whichever way I choose. He does talk too much…  

You better wish him luck because he is going to need it. 



(c) Voodoo Lounge Publishing 2013

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

R.J. Askew Reviews Fables of the Reconstruction



R.J. Askew's Blog

January 30, 2013

Life being so beautifully tiresome, we read to be free to be the more .. alive. And when to read is not enough we write, o how we write and write and write, because the tyranny of instincts insists we create to reconstruct its universal dream o fwhat it is to be anew within this primacy of primes .. alive.

Hunter S. Jones' Fables of the Reconstruction bit my neck and ate my brains.

I shall be reading it again.

A gone wrong honey badger of a novella, FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION MAKES no apology for not wiping its feet when it dances into your life because - I tweet you not - your life exists for it to be.

Brilliant writing does not mimic life at its best because it is life at its best, being, as it is, at the core of that medium through which life perceives itself to be language.

On the face of it, FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION is about four frotting zombies frotting and feasting their ravenous way through the hirsute fistula that was steampunk London's Whitechapel, circa 1890.

Perhaps life makes zombies of us all with its incessant BDSM demands for more, more, always MORE!

What are we to do? Become aesthetes? Poets? Loggoffs?

No. We obey, drain ourselves in the quest for more, become .. zombies. Take a look at th the 07:38 train from St.Albans into London's St.Pancras station: zombies, planning, craving, pursuing their next feast of whatever, success, sex, success, succsex. I tweet you not.

FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION is an exhaustingly refreshing read. The wording is sweetly seductive, especially in the teasing early graphs, the undead characters live with startling vigour, and the structure, with it varied voices and mischievous ending cap-W-works.

I would have read it all without blinking save my wimpish Kindle swooned at the sheer sexual potency of the Huntress's locked and loaded life force.

This, for this reader, was the ultimate joy in all this: the sense of playing host to a supersexuality at the height of her creative powers, climaxing repeatedly through my synapses with a wink and a smirk.

To quote from another of The Hun's stories the read for me was a 'comustive coupling'. And - I tweet you not - this graph perfectly captures how it felt for me when I was done: 'My legs were still entwined around him as we dreamily returned from that place to which your mind retreats after your body is satisfied.' Metaphysically speaking of course.

More? You want more? Over to the story .. a few of my fave dabs:

'Minzle quite suddenly and beautifully danced into my life. He was really something. Full of life and mischief was he. And gorgeous; he was gorgeous.'

'..a body built for pleasure..'

'The demon tongue wrapped around my *li* .. like two delicate, small, wet fingers.'

'We exchanged this knowingness without saying one word.'

I commend FABLES OF THE RECONSTRUCTION to you. Some will fine it far too alive, stronger minds will be enlivened by it and crave more, amore, amore. *bows*