The Neon God by Ben D’Alessio

The Neon God

The Neon God by Ben D’Alessio
English | 2019 | Fantasy | ePUB | 315 Kb

The Neon God : In the suffocating bosom of August, Dionysus arrives in New Orleans. For too long, the Greek God of Revelry and Wine has endured the incessant bickering atop Mt. Olympus, and so he descends to be with the mortals and indulge himself in the city’s reputed decadence and vice.

When Dionysus is parched and aching for even a drop of the vine, he mistakenly stumbles into a bookstore and begs an employee who reminds him of the last pharaoh of Egypt—Cleopatra—to point him in the direction of wine. Zibby Dufossat, on the cusp of her first year of law school and desperate for a distraction, sets aside her anxieties to peel back the layers of the esoteric, anachronistic, and often offensive beautiful stranger, only to find heartache and pain. But before she can decipher this enigma, he disappears into the French Quarter fray of sweaty, gyrating lovers.

With grapevines sprouting from the path he walks and an unexplainable, addictive libido placing the city under his spell, the god deflects his retinue of Olympians and fantastical creatures attempting to deliver him back home. But it soon becomes clear that Dionysus alone can determine his fate, and the fates of Zibby and New Orleans with it.

“Oh, just let him go,” said Apollo, revealing himself from the darkness, glowing gold from hair to sandal. “It will be good for him.” “Oh, yes, sure you would say that, Apollo. This is all your doing after all,” Athena snapped. “Listen, if Dionysus desires to go to that blighted, infested excuse for a city,” started Hermes, “and Zeus is not here to tell me otherwise, I have to take him.” Dionysus dodged the waves of lime green and tan anoles, some as tiny as olives, that seemed to wait until the last possible moment to dart across the sidewalk along South Carrollton Avenue. Giant oak trees, like guardians of the city, provided pools of shade on an otherwise merciless afternoon. Dionysus, unaccustomed to tropical humidity atop Mt. Olympus, sought refuge before making it a single block. Up ahead, the familiar ivory of Doric columns supported the façade of a building that appeared out of place nestled on the American sidewalk. A sign for the Camellia Grill, lit up in neon-pink cursive, greeted the flocking entrants that moved as if summoned by a magnetic pull spooling out from the restaurant. So as not to get trampled, Dionysus followed through the pair of doors and was greeted by a skinny Nubian behind the counter who proffered a most thought-provoking inquiry: “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleeeeeanz?”


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