The Good Shepherd 1

Today, December 18, is release day for Jardonn's WWII ebook story, The Good Shepherd, and this is the cover created by its publisher, MLR Press.

As promised, here is the third excerpt. Harold and Frank exit the latrine and walk the yard inside their POW camp, trying to figure reasons for a particular guard dog's unusual behavior.

* * * * *

We didn't talk inside. I peed a little, and the only reason I stayed with Harold was in case other guys started asking him questions about us being singled out. The Nazis frequently put plants amongst us prisoners. Germans acting like Americans hoping to hear useful information, and I didn't want Harold to go it alone if he was accused by the prisoners of being such. Fortunately, nobody said a word to either of us.

"What do you think about that dog?" I pondered as we exited the building. "What confused him?"

We drifted about the yard walking slowly to nowhere in particular. "I don't think he was confused." Harold seemed to have limbered up from his soreness, moved with more ease. "The dog's eyes told me he wants out of here. Like he knows the Nazis's days are numbered."

"His eyes?"

"Sure. Animals have expressions same as we do."

"Hmm. Guess I've never noticed."

"Well, I have. Growing up on a farm, you get to know what animals are thinking. Or at least tell whether they're happy or sad. Or angry, which comes in handy when you're dealing with a thousand pounds of Hereford bull."

"I'll be damned. So, you think this dog's ready to abandon ship?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then, why did he approach us? Any ideas on that?"

"Don't know. Maybe he felt sorry for us. Knew they'd take us into a well-heated room for a search and we could warm up."

I laughed at that one. First time in many a week. "If that's the case, I hope he stops by to see us every day."

"Me, too."

We came to a spot where down a corridor between buildings we could see the kennels. The dogs, all males, had their own fenced yard and wooden houses for shelter. Harold stopped, grabbed my arm. "Do you see what I think I see?"

The Germans had a dog on a leash attacking a man protected by a helmet and face mask, plus padded coverings roped to his limbs and torso. "Looks like a training session."

"Or retraining," Harold knudged me with his elbow. "Can we get closer without getting shot at?"

"Sure, but let's not go between buildings. Follow me." I circled back to an open area where we could view the fenced pen without drawing attention, caddy-corner and about twenty feet away. "Think it's him?"

"I'd put money on it. The Nazis are afraid he's lost his nerve. No longer aggressive."

"Guess they're wrong. He'd eat that man alive if he could get at him."

"If I could get a better look at his tail, I'd know for sure."

I took a few baby steps closer. "His tail?"

"Yep," Harold craned his neck. "His black turns gold on top before ending at the tip. Usually it's black all the way." He inched a bit closer, a few steps ahead of me. "That's him. I guarantee it."

"Good. He's proving himself so he can stay." I grabbed Harold's sleeve, tugged him back. "We better go. Don't want to get him in trouble. I'd hate to lose the only Nazi who's ever been friendly to me."

"Ex-Nazi, Frank."

* * * * *

The Good Shepherd is now available in ebook formats at MLR PRESS.COM

The Good Shepherd 2

What say we start at the beginning of the story? This excerpt nearly leads to yesterday's posted piece.

* * * * *

You belong to me, Harold Tripp, and you are beautiful.

On the day Harold's plane went down, Lady howled all night long. Made sense. Animal sense, you know, like when all the beasts ran for the hills hours before the Indian Ocean tsunami crashed ashore.

Lady was Harold's dog more than mine. He picked her out from a litter of four pups. He named her, and from her puppy years to full-grown, she followed him everywhere. Lady and I got along fine, too, until Harold joined the Air Force and shipped out to Korea. During Harold's tour of duty, Lady had very little to do with me. Kept her distance. Staked herself out a spot in our yard thirty feet from the house where a barbed wire fence bordered our west pasture. At feeding time, she'd stand by the fence watching me while I filled her bowl on the back porch. Calling her did no good. Only after I'd gone back inside would she approach the house and eat.

The dog shelter Harold and I built for her sat near our house, but she never used it after Harold left, and so as winter approached I loaded the damned thing into the pickup's bed and moved it out to her spot. Couldn't bear the thought of her shivering in the Illinois cold, and my gesture worked. She slept in her dog house. Crawled inside when she needed to warm herself or get in from the rain, but otherwise most of her time was spent sitting by the fence and looking west, toward Korea and Harold. Understanding her need, feeling it myself, I turned her house so her doorway faced west.

Through the winter of 1950, I rarely saw Lady. It was almost as though she thought I'd done something to Harold. Taken him away so she could never see him again. I sympathized, because in actuality Harold had taken himself away from me and from her.

After we both returned safely from Europe and our service during World War II, Harold and I enjoyed five years together. Five glorious years, no doubt, but when news broke that the communist north had invaded the south of Korea, I knew he'd be joining in the new fight. Nothing could keep Harold grounded. Not Lady. Not our southern Illinois farm and home. Not me.

Harold Tripp grew up on a farm but was born to soar. After eighty-two missions of piloting B-17's over Nazi-occupied territory, all successful save one, Harold itched to be back in the air for a worthy cause. I needed him to be happy. How could I possibly hold him back and expect our love to be the same as before? Doesn't work. Misery of one partner infects the other until hatred consumes both. Besides, Harold and I had both seen our share of misery.

I like to say Harold was my Christmas gift, delivered to me December 15, 1944.

When the Germans dragged Harold into our seventeen-man Stalag barracks, I took notice like never before. In my three-plus months as a prisoner of the Nazis, I'd seen several downed airmen brought in to join us, but Harold affected me differently. Could have been pity more than infatuation. He'd been roughed up pretty good. Lacerations marred his face, hands and arms. Purple bruises colored his left eye socket.

After his two-man-German-guard escort unceremoniously pushed him through the door and slammed it shut, several airmen rushed to his aid. Guided him to his bed, a two-feet-wide plank of wood with a two-inch-thick mattress recently vacated by a man dead from dysentery. They removed his prison-issued shoes. Laid him down. Tucked him under a thin grey blanket of wool, and then the entire gang, all Americans from downed B-17's, surrounded him.

end excerpt from The Good Shepherd by Jardonn Smith. My MLR Press holiday story is scheduled for release this coming Sunday, December 18.

The Good Shepherd 3

Frank Jenkins says Harold Tripp was his Christmas present, delivered to him December 15, 1944. Unfortunately, both men were in a Nazi POW camp at the time. My fictional U.S. airmen arrived at different times after having survived the downing of their B-17 bombers. Their friendship is instant. Their relationship with a Nazi attack dog is highly unusual.

The Good Shepherd is scheduled for release by MLR Press on December 18th. That's three days away, and so I'm posting one excerpt per day until the ebook's release. I made this cover photo. MLR Press will make their own cover, which I will also post on release day. Here is today's snippet, as Frank and Harold get acquainted.

excerpt:

I strolled to my bed while gazing down at him. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. Arms outside the blanket, hands folded atop his chest.

"Needing a snooze?" I asked, taking a seat on my bed to his left.

"Probably," he sighed, forcing a half-hearted grin. "Doubt if I can, though."

"Yep. I know the feeling. Too much thinking about how things could turn so bad so quick." I stood over him, extended my hand. "Sergeant Frank Jenkins. Turret gunner on the Lucy Lu out of Cheshunt."

His grip was stronger than mine. "Lieutenant Harold Tripp, pilot of the Yankee Pride out of Nuthampstead."

I sat on my bed, scrutinized his cut-up face. "Tell you what, Lieutenant Tripp..."

"Harold," he gave me permission.

"Sure, sure. Call me Frank. Are you thirsty?"

"Very," he gingerly drew back his blanket.

"No. You stay put. I'll get it." I dropped to a knee, reached under his bed, pulled out his washpan with a tin cup, bar of soap, toothpaste and brush, shaving razor, and a towel inside, his one-week supply, courtesy of the Red Cross. "I'll be right back," I said with cup in hand. Upon my return, he greedily gulped while I supported the back of his head with my palm. "Want another?"

He wiped his mouth with his fingers. "No, thank you. That will do."

"All right, Harold," I put his cup into the pan and pushed it under. "Try to rest. That's what I'll be doing right here next to you."

"Can do, Frank. Thanks again."

True to my word, I laid down and kept quiet, but only for a minute or two. That's when Harold rolled onto his side and faced me. "Frank?"

"Yeah."

"Every man here is skinny as a rail. I'm guessing you didn't come in that way."

"True." I turned onto my side so I could see his reaction to what I had to say. "They're starving us, Harold. Slowly but surely. We get water in the morning. Soup and a chunk of black sawdust bread for supper. We call it that because there's more sawdust in it than flour. Most men don't eat it. Those that do get stomach cramps something awful. Soup is a rutabaga boiled in water. Every now and then we get a potato, but either way each man gets about ten swallows of soup, one tiny piece of vegetable."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since September. I'm guessing I've lost thirty pounds or better. There's no man here who's been in camp more than a year. They're all dead. Dysentery or starvation, take your pick." I waited, taking his silence to mean he wanted to hear more. "Some of the officers and enlisted men who were in bad shape got shipped down to Luft 3 last spring. That's Goehring's quality camp for airmen, or so I'm told. The one the Germans show off to the outside world so they'll think all prisoners are in a good place. This camp here, Harold, is not a good place. I don't even know why it's called a Luft. Only Luftwaffe I've seen is the Commandant. Rest are regular Army or SS." I reached for the corner post of my bed. "See this?"

"Yeah."

"Been sawed off. These used to all be tripled-decker bunks. This was once a forty-eight man barrack, according to Jack."

"You mean the barrack's rep?"

"That's him. He's been here since May, and he said that's when the Germans came in and cut off all the top bunks. Chopped them into firewood for their stoves. Officer's quarters and soldier's barracks."

Harold stared blankly toward the floor, and then locked eyes with mine. "Think the guys here can make it another month or two?"

"Yeah. I heard you telling them our men are in Belgium and the east side of France."

"Some are saying we'll be inside Germany by first of the year."

"Well, I know it's getting rough on the Nazis. Our portions of grub shrink every day. I mean, how desperate are they? Can't even spare a few rutabagas for their prisoners. Tell you something else I've noticed."

"What's that?"

"Fewer guards. Like they're taking soldiers out of here to be used somewhere else."

"Maybe east. The Russians are closing in, too."

"Could be. All I know is, if I see a way out of here, I'm running. Hell, before long I'll be too weak to stand. I'd rather take my chances roaming the countryside than to stay here and starve."

"Hmm... I don't know, Frank. This camp might be liberated by New Year's. Can you hold out a few more weeks? No use getting shot when the end is so near."

"Well, Lieutenant, you know more about it than I do, so I'll hang with you for now. All right?"

"Sure, sure. We'll stick together."

Funny how he made it sound as though we needed each other on equal terms. After all, I was the three-month veteran of prison life. Of course, that also meant he was stronger than I by three months. Guess it all evened out.

Suspicious Diagnosis goes E

As in Electronic. Ebook formats include Kindle compatible and sell for $5.99 USD at the publisher's web site, MLR PRESS.

You'll find an excerpt to read there, AND, the ebook has a new cover. See?

Another text excerpt and an audio mp3 from the book can be accessed from my web site here: Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com

Speaking of excerpts, here's a shortie:

I blame him. I thank him. I love him because he makes me secure. Hate him because he makes me vulnerable to my loving him so much. I shudder at the thought of losing him. Tremble with the notion of him leaving me. For upheaval. For a change of scenery. For anything, or another. I recognize fear as the price for keeping him, but I'd prefer to use plastic. A credit card, a pay-as-you-go, a lay-away plan, a time share. Time erodes doubts, but never fully eradicates. My only consolation is my suspicion that he suffers same as I do. I hope he suffers.

Danube Divide is Free

This week's free e-book read at MLR Press is Danube Divide, my homoRoman historical set in the Eastern Empire of 378 CE.

There's an epic battle between Goths and Romans, a mass migration of refugees crossing the Danube, a pretend crucifixion for purpose of mansex, a real crucif... WTH is wrong with me? IT'S FREE! No need to pester you with my sales pitch.

Get Danube Divide now until Sunday June 5th at the MLR PRESS SITE.

Look at top of MLR's page for a small picture of this big picture:

Right click on the little picture, save the file to your hard drive and it's yours forever.

Furlough Bridge and Forrest Barton

Seeing those service banners, that's what made me vulnerable. A blue star banner hanging in the window means somebody from that household is serving overseas in the armed forces. A gold star means somebody gave their life while serving. Either way, it is not possible to look at one of those banners without feeling something.

Back in December of 1944 what I felt was frustration. I couldn't hang one of those blue star banners in my window to honor my Ernie. Never mind that he was somewhere in Europe with the U.S. Third Army. Never mind that one week prior the Germans had launched their offensive in Belgium, known to history as the Battle of the Bulge, and that Ernie soon would be, or for all I knew could have already been, in the middle of that fight -- I could not display a banner to honor him. Jane Doe could hang one for her husband John or son Jim, but Forrest Barton could not do the same for Ernest Surbaugh.

Technically, I suppose I could have, but just think of the questions. "You're a widower with no children, so who's the banner for?"

For the man I love, that's who.

Now, there's a 1944-vintage proclamation made to raise a few eyebrows.

No, all I could do was listen on the radio and read the newspapers for the latest reports. I could fret. I could be proud, and I could honor him in my own way, nice and private.

The first stage was planned. My Christmas tradition, I laid a wreath at the base of the memorial honoring my war, The Great War, or if you wish, World War I. My prayer was for men who served with me -- those who came home; those who didn't -- and because the ongoing German offensive in Belgium so effectively surprised those of us on the homefront as well as Allies on the battlefield, I asked the men who served with me to send their strength to the men currently under siege.

Prayers offered, I strolled to the chest-high wall fronting the memorial. Down below less than half a mile away, the Union Station train depot was a buzz of activity. It was the night before Christmas Eve and trains waiting to depart or having just arrived filled every terminal. From that moment forward, nothing that happened to me was planned.

My bladder needed relief. Union Station was the nearest building with facilities open and available. A soldier in green Army coat standing next to the wall at the last urinal in a row resembled, in profile, Ernest Surbaugh. My Ernie.

Sure, there was no way in hell Ernie could have been in Kansas City that night, but this was one of those "seeing what I wanted to see" things -- one of those "hope against hope" deals, and I had to know for sure. That's why I struck up a conversation with the soldier who turned out to be Vernon Gower. That's why I believed his story that he'd missed his connecting train home. That's why I drove him in my automobile the one hundred miles to get him there. That's why I kept driving even as his story, little by little, fell apart, and despite my faltering faith in him, I continued driving all the way until we were parked in front of his little matchbox house in Lexington, Missouri.

I did it because he looked like Ernie. I was vulnerable. The service banners made me so, but for good purpose.

Pvt. Vernon Gower made it home for Christmas. His corpse was lying frozen in a Belgian field, but his wife and children got his gifts nonetheless, courtesy of me. I bought them. I delivered them, and then I plucked his family from the squalor in which they were living and drove them to Kansas City so they could start their lives anew.

Maybe you don't believe in ghosts. I'm okay with that, and you can call me crazy if you like, but I attest to having seen two spirits in my lifetime. One living under a river bridge in 1938 at the WPA camp where I first met Ernest Surbaugh. The other a victim of the Malmedy Massacre who needed a man of this world to give his family some sort of Christmas.

And what was my reward for my good deed on Pvt. Gower's behalf? Just before leaving for his wherever destination, just after midnight on Christmas Eve, 1944, Vernon Gower assured me that my Ernie was all right. Ernest marched with Patton's Third Army in a dash toward Belgium to break the German lines and relieve the Allied soldiers under seige.

Pvt. Gower's gift to me far outweighed anything I could and did do for his wife and children. Vernon Gower gave me peace. I clinged to what he told me. Believed every word, and around the time Soviet soldiers entered Berlin, May of 1945, I received my first letter from Ernie since Vernon Gower had said what he'd said. All was confirmed, and soon afterward, Ernie came home for good.

My next Christmas, and all those which followed, were spent with a man of this world. One I could touch, hold, breathe in and taste. A man I could keep as mine until the end of my days. My soldier. Ernest Surbaugh.

by

Jardonn Smith

MLR PRESS

Read excerpt HERE.

GRIT Your Teeth

We have our first (known) review of the William Maltese / Jardonn Smith man-on-man novel, GRIT, and it comes from Elisa Rolle at her site,

My Reviews and Ramblings.

Our story is set in the 1933 Dust Bowl of Kansas, where railroaders and freight-train hitchers do battle with bootleggers and other assorted hoodlums while trying to find time for love-making.

As is always the case, Ms. Rolle tells readers exactly what they're in for without giving away plot, plus, as always, she finds traits in our characters even we didn't recognize.

So, with a nod to Elisa and much gratitude, William and I invite you to read her review (Reviews and Ramblings link above) and consider our book. See GRIT at the MLR PRESS web site HERE.

There's an excerpt to read at MLR, plus text and audio excerpt links at my web site HERE.

Thank you, Elisa.

Jardonn

Book Lovers Top Five

With my own horn pressed to my own lips, I must blow about Lambda Literary columnist Dick Smart listing my book, Suspicious Diagnosis, as one of his Top 5 gay romance books of 2010. You can hear him talk about his five picks on KPFK radio here:

KPFK-IMRU RADIO FEBRUARY 7

His segment of the broadcast begins around 7:55 of the audio.

With a face like this, who'd have thought romance could be lurking inside the cover?

My book is at my web site, with links to reviews, audio and text excerpts, and the link to see it on Amazon.com.

http://www.jardonnserotictales.com/jarbooks.htm

So, yes, this startling development does prompt me to froth and blow my horn. Stay out of the way when I release the spit valve.

Thank you, Mr. Smart, for reading and liking my book.

Wheels of Locomotion

By the beginning of the Twentieth Century, steam locomotives on U.S. railroads were huge. We are talking 100 feet long or better, with weights of 400-plus tons and drive train wheels taller than a man, diameters of 70-80 inches.

The types were designated by configurations of their wheels. For example, a 2-8-4 engine had two small guide wheels in front, eight giant drive train wheels middle, and four small support wheels under the cab where engineer and fireman operated the locomotive.

I learned all of this, of course, while researching for my book, GRIT, co-authored by William Maltese. If you read the excerpt which accompanies the book on its publisher's web site, MLR PRESS, you will see that one particular type of engine, a 2-10-2, had some issues when first put into service. The incident is fiction, but the problem and solution was very real.

I found one of these locomotives on display at a museum and snapped a picture of its drive train wheels.

Lo and behold, my character in GRIT, Wilton Zukel, was assigned this same type of steam locomotive when he became engineer pulling drag freight for the Santa Fe Railroad. Unlike his father's 2-10-2, Wilton's machine served faithfully and flawlessly until 1933. This is the only known photo of Wilton with his 1677, one year before "the mishap" that takes place in our story.  

He's on the left near the cab, doing a walk-around inspection before boarding for departure. The accident which occurred on an Edgerton, KS siding would end the 1677's career, but Wilton survived to continue his service with the Santa Fe and fuel his romance with a certain railroad detective. 

It's all documented in our Great Depression-era, fact-meets-fiction, manlove novel, GRIT, and it's available in paperback and ebook formats at MLR PRESS.

Papa Zukel Whispers

by Jardonn Smith


Once upon a midnight clear
I awakened, gently, to something queer

A man of age beside my bed
his flesh aglow in fiery red

His left side scarred, melting, a-boil
and I shuddered with fright, winced in recoil

But through the macabre mass he be
chocolate brown eyes flashed friendly to me

With a rub of my eyes and a slap to my cheek
I steadied myself, gathered courage to speak

I know you, old man, with confidence I claimed
you're the fireman who burned, Zukel's your name

You were shoveling coal on the Santa Fe
when wheels left the rails, shot embers your way

Lava of hell from the firebox did rain
fanned by the wind on a fast-moving train

Your clothing ablaze, you had nowhere to run
when the train finally stopped you were cooked, well and done

The engineer smothered you, did what he could
delayed the inevitable, did you no good

On a hospital bed you laid suffering in wait
prayed for your God to quicken your fate

You summoned your son, coaxed him to near
and with voicebox singed you gasped in his ear

My pain is too much, I can no longer bear
you must stifle my breath, cut off my air

Your boy was a good boy, he did what you said
he covered your holes until you were dead

Your suffering thus ended, his just begun
for yours was an unspeakable task for your son

Your boy, Wilton

He takes your scars with him wherever he goes
his nightmares of struggle, his father's death throes

So now, Papa Zukel, my pitiful man
why have you come here? what is your plan?

His red glow subsided to a comforting hue
shades of serenity, of green and of blue

His flesh calmed its turmoil, shone pinkish rose
reshaped his form proper, nose to his toes

He joined me on the mattress, reached for my hand
his lips pecked my forehead and he told me his plan

Your perceptions are keen so I give you this task
tell of my son, it is not much to ask

You must tell of my Wilton, I hurt him so bad
he must know of my pride, he must never be sad

Papa Zukel's rough hand gave mine a squeeze
his form dissipated as he started to leave

But what, I pondered, a question to ask
answer essential to completing my task

But what of his partner, Gaither Hollis, his flame
do I speak of their love which dare not speak its name?

His chocolate eyes beamed, and he rose from my bed
with a breathy guffaw he tossed back his head

I know what matters, things are not what they were
my world is like your world, so to you I defer

His flesh turned to ether and he soon disappeared
leaving his enlightenment fresh in my ear

I leapt from my bed, and with no time to waste
my fingers set to typing my tale, post-haste

A yarn about steam engines bigger than ships
of railroaders, Dust Bowls, and harrowing trips

Of Depression and hobos riding the rails
of criminals and lawmen tougher than nails

And within this great chaos I type on the page
gentle whispers to guide me, Papa Zukel, my sage



* * * * *



My half-assed attempt at prose is for sinister purpose. I'm promoting a book!

William writes about desperate men riding the rails west in search of employment, while I write about the men who run the trains.

Available in ebook formats at the publisher's web site, MLR PRESS here:

http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=WMJSGRIT

where you can read a text excerpt which expands upon my poem.

Jasper McCutcheon interviews Halsey Pearson

Near the end of October, I sat down with WWII veteran Halsey Pearson, one of two characters in the Jardonn Smith short story, The Caricature. A summer-like day allowed us to chat while on the screened-in porch of Halsey's Appalachian Mountains cabin, where he likes to relax by singing folk tunes.

Jasper: So, Halsey, what made you take up the guitar and singing?

Halsey: Just a late-life hobby for the most part. I wanted to learn songs from the 1930's, my growing up years. Tunes like the Delmore Brothers were doing. The Blue Sky Boys and the Monroe Brothers, you know, Charlie and Bill, before Bill Monroe started up his bluegrass sounds.

J: Are they easy to learn?

H: Some are, some aren't. A lot of them sound simple enough, but they'll throw in an awkward chord to the progression, like a minor third or augmented seventh.

J: Does Floyd enjoy listening to you play?

H: He's usually reading in another room, but if he hears me make a major mistake he'll let me know I hurt his ears. Jokingly, of course.

J: Did the cricket really synchronize its leg rubbing with the tempo of your song?

H: It did, and that's a fact. Exactly on the date of our 25th Anniversary. Next day, he rejoined his other crickets, rubbing legs any old way they liked.

J: You and Floyd first met in 1944, correct?

H: Well, we never met. Never spoke. I just saw him after we rescued him from that Japanese camp, and he was in no condition to be socializing.

J: Did you ever dream it would be forty years before you'd see him again?

H: At the time, I didn't give it a thought. And I sure as hell never entertained any sort of physical attraction to him, just a curiosity as to what the Japanese had done to him during interrogations.

J: What about later?

H: Hmm... well, I suppose it did begin to gnaw at me through the years. Look, homosexuality wasn't part of my thinking. Not overseas. Not when I came home to the States. I got me a job and started ladder climbing. Found me a woman who was beautiful inside and out, and we got down to the business making a home and raising a family.

J: And you never thought about Floyd?

H: All right, you pushy son of a gun. Sure, I thought about Floyd, but in my subconscious. That's where he needed to stay, but then after my wife died, well, I got to thinking that maybe thinking about him wasn't such a bad thing.

J: Still, you never took the initiative to find him?

H: What for? I figured he'd married and done what I'd done. What reason would I have to think that he'd be looking for a boyfriend?

J: And then you saw him at the forty-year reunion?

H: Yep. In 1984.

J: What did you think when you first saw him?

H: I thought, Halsey, you better find out what he's doing here and what his situation is.

J: And what was his situation?

H: Ha! Let's just say he was available, after we worked out a few kinks.

J: And the rest is history.

H: As they say.

J: All right, Halsey, you and Floyd were in your sixties when you hooked up. Right?

H: Correct.

J: Now, you're in your eighties. Do you and Floyd still, you know, do it?

H: Like rabbits.

J: Rabbits in lust?

H: No, rabbits in love. Without that, I doubt either one of us could even get it up.

J: Well, thank you for giving up your guitar-playing time for this little chat.

H: Stay right where you are, mister. The price for this little chat is that you have to suffer through my singing.

J: Gladly.


The full story of Halsey Pearson and Floyd Strick is told by author Jardonn Smith. It's called The Caricature, is available in ebook formats and can be viewed at either the author's web site HERE, or the publisher's web site, MLR PRESS.

Green but not Mean

My contribution to the MLR PRESS ghost anthology, PAST SHADOWS, is a 25,000-worder titled GREEN RIVER, and since Jasper had some music that's somewhat atmospheric, he made a slideshow promoting the book and put it on YouTube.

Rome and Medieval Dungeons

Perceptive reviewer Elisa Rolle has reviewed my book, Let's Get Medieval, Jardonn's Erotic Tales, Two Books in One -- The Bishop of Grunewald, The Tortured Secutor.

Here's a link to the review:
Let's Get Medieval by Jardonn Smith


Those who know I frequently write stories of erotic punishments and interrogations should find the review and comments of interest to them, but for many of Elisa's regular readers, I'm sure this is a different cup of tea.

Fortunately, because of Elisa's careful choice of words, she conveys her likes and dislikes so readers will know exactly what they're getting into if they buy the book, so they can decide for themselves whether or not they're up to the challenge.

Reviews such as this are invaluable to an author, and a great service to book buyers.

In other words, Elisa Rolle is one smart cookie, and the interwebs are far better with people like Elisa posting her Reviews and Ramblings. While you're there, don't miss out on the man candy posts to spice up your day.

Here's my book at Amazon: Let's Get Medieval

Thank you, Elisa!