My baby, HOBBLE [An Adult Novel], has won an award: Best of Year in Romantic Erotica. Yippee and huzzah!!
What a surprise! Thank you so much. It looks "mahhhvelous," don't you think? Thank you, Dolores Thornton, thank you, BlackRefer.com, for this sehr tres cool honor. -- Neale
"Hobble is a book that you must read."--RAWSistaz Reviews
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"...the narrative style is rather appealing...an interesting story...I would read again...it rather intrigued me. The heroine is unique."--Sensual Romance Reviews
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"When's your next one coming out?"--Several Cleveland, Ohio Readers to the author
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"The numerous sex scenes...show...natural spark."--Absinthe Literary Review
Available as Trade Paperback, Adobe Reader, MS Reader, Palm, MobiPocket, Amazon Kindle
Printed Novel 
eBook
"Dipping into several genres from erotica to mystery, even sprinkling a little comedy into the mix, Sourne created a story like no other. This ... tale had me shaking my head in astonishment and I can honestly say I never read anything like Hobble before. Sourne wrote a novel with such a large supply of twist and turns it'll have you dropping your mouth in shock. But be forewarned, Hobble has a crazy mix of characters.... Some of the sex scenes had me (a person who loves erotica) squirming. Although the book is racy, it was an interesting read and should be picked up by anyone who enjoys reading something different from the norm."
--Joy Farringdon, Nubian Sistas Review
READ Full Review
--Joy Farringdon, Nubian Sistas Review
READ Full Review
"Hobble is a story of lust and obsessive sex...I was so moved...I went back to my (Franklin) dictionary...hobble means to limp along ... to impede ... to tie-up, shackle or leash...all of [which] were used in this steamy story, of sex, ... and betrayal!"--Delores Thornton, www.BlackRefer.com Reviews
READ Delores' full review
[A www.BlackRefer.com Review]
INTERVIEWS for you to HEAR and READ at [A www.BlackRefer.com Review]
PIE: Percept.com
FREE Audio READ Jordan Duke of ScriptCLEVELAND'S written informative
INTERVIEW: Jan 2003, Neale Sourna's HOBBLE
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by
Excerpt 1
I literally fell for her; tripped over and fell on her, on the sunny, gritty beach of Virginia Beach. I wasn't spiritually...emotionally lost, I believe; but, what we "believe" is so very often wrong. I suppose I was inactively, instinctively hunting something...something I almost felt, but couldn't as yet begin to verbalize.
Anyway, because of muggers, mad dogs, and badly driven cars, I'm always very aware of everything and everyone around me, when I take my morning run; but, it was late in the day. So, maybe because my flight'd been delayed or because I'd become strangely out-of-synch or...?
My mind was...fixated on a problem, now entirely forgotten, as I turned my head, toward the frightened, anguished cry of a lone sea bird, who sounded...terribly and despairingly lonely to me...and, somehow, devastatingly lost. And, in gazing aside at the bird, for all of two blind seconds, I knocked her down, onto the sand-a brown woman, in a long, potato sack, calico dress.
What a face!
An American face of excellently blended African and Native American genes, with a healthy little dollop of European blood, a terribly agitated face, as she fetally balled up in great pain and wouldn't let me look at her injured ankle.
I explained that she could "trust me", that I knew what I was doing, when I wasn't "knocking defenseless young women to the ground". She didn't laugh, slightly chuckle, or even crack the tiniest of a smile, and from furtive, dark eyes, she gave me a shaky, cursory once over-at the brown skin over hard-angled facial bones, at my black hair and dimly Asian eyes.
I have a lot more than "a healthy dollop of European blood" myself, from Dad's side, which explains the beard [a recent addition] and the general curliness of my hair, which I've let grow to its own rule for months now. But, despite the Old World genes, I look most like my mother's Peruvian-Incan/Mexican-Mayan, New World genes.
I told my hapless victim my name was Benn, Bennet Gillespie.
She took a more thorough, ill-at-ease view of me into her head, which was covered with tousles of...dark brown ringlets, which in the sunlight had auburn streaks, speckled with very premature silver. The sterling was incongruous with her physical youthfulness; but, the heartrending glance from those eyes hinted that it was well earned. Finally, she stared into my eyes, then nominally stopped cringing and gazed downward-as her ("demure" came oddly to mind)...as her demure signal permitting me to have my way with her, so to speak.
I checked her injury.
She had the shapely legs of an athlete or dancer, and wore battered out, lowheeled ankle boots, that were slightly Victorian or Edwardian or one of those old "-ian" styles, laced over soft, thick socks. The ankle moved stiffly, painfully. The footgear was in the way, so, I began unlacing to better ascertain how bad off it was, because sometimes there are hidden breaks and misleading damage.
She abruptly realized I was actually opening her boot and flinched away, shrieking at me; but, the small boot and sock slipped off into my hand. She fell silent, completely mortified, then started crying, wailing, in fact, lying flat back in the sand.
Besides the swelling I'd caused, her ankle had a deep cut. Not an immediately recent cut, that I might have caused her, but a deep, nicely healing, surgical one-and I know this because my mother was a surgeon and she'd made me take "real" medicine classes and be her assistant, to go with the rest of my training.
This cut was nicely, cosmetically stitched; but, I bet you, and I'd win, that the seam was there to repair something grossly traumatic.
She was lying there sobbing actual tears. I know because I pulled her hands away from her face and checked. However, whether the tears were also actually genuine...? I glanced up and down the beach and saw absolutely no one else around for continents. The nearest anything was a lonely looking, one-story beachhouse behind us, that was showing no life or interest in us, and I had a little insight.
She attempted stopping me, as she sat up and wordlessly defended her secret, until finally allowing me, in mute, humiliated resignation, to unlace the other boot-that stiff and pained ankle was also restitched. Both of them were sewn quite a way around, like a can opener makes a cut around a lid, until it's nearly severed. However the original lacerations had been made, it hadn't been by penknife or train wheel-I've seen the resulting cuts of both of those on the human body; these'd been done by something in between.
I asked if she lived nearby, I suggested I call for an ambulance, or I could carry her to my car at the hotel a mile or so back up the beach, and she obviously hated all my ideas. Noisily so. Who'd think so much mournfully, piercing sound could come out of such a perfect mouth. I began considering that she might be completely inarticulate, then, I had another insight-with her ankles this raw, she had to've come from nearby. I asked her, quite specifically, where she lived.
She clammed up like a petulant child and really didn't want to answer that, so I told her if I couldn't take her home, I'd have to take her to a hospital. I couldn't just leave her there, like a beached wha--.
"What are you doing to her, young man?"...[more Hobble at http://hobble.neale-sourna.com]
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