Slot 8 has a winner and new collection of covers is posted for your voting pleasure.
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Friday, June 24, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Gladiator Cheated
This from LiveScience via Yahoo News: Just goes to show that referees on the take is nothing new and that history is constantly being modified.
Roman Gladiator's Gravestone Describes Fatal Foul
An enigmatic message on a Roman gladiator's 1,800-year-old tombstone has finally been decoded, telling a treacherous tale.
The epitaph and art on the tombstone suggest the gladiator, named Diodorus, lost the battle (and his life) due to a referee's error, according to Michael Carter, a professor at Brock University in St. Catharines, Canada. Carter studies gladiator contests and other spectacles in the eastern part of the Roman Empire.
He examined the stone, which was discovered a century ago in Turkey, trying to determine what the drawing and inscription meant. [Top 10 Weird Ways We Deal With the Dead]
His results will be published in the most recently released issue of the Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik(Journal for Papyrology and Ancient Epigraphics).
Tombstones talk
The tombstone was donated to the Musee du Cinquanternaire in Brussels, Belgium, shortly before World War I. It shows an image of a gladiator holding what appear to be two swords, standing above his opponent who is signalling his surrender. The inscription says that the stone marks the spot where a man named Diodorus is buried.
"After breaking my opponent Demetrius I did not kill him immediately," reads the epitaph. "Fate and the cunning treachery of the summa rudis killed me."
The summa rudis is a referee, who may have had past experience as a gladiator.
The inscription also indicates Diodorus was born in and fought in Amisus, on the south coast of the Black Sea in Turkey.
Though Carter has examined hundreds of gladiator tombstones, this "epitaph is completely different from anything else; it's telling a story," he told LiveScience.
The final fight
The story the tombstone tells took place about 1,800 years ago when the empire was at its height, its borders stretching from Hadrian's Wall in England to the Euphrates River in Syria.
Gladiator games were popular spectacles, many of them pitting two men against each other. Although deaths from wounds were common, the battles were not the no-holds-barred fights to the death depicted by Hollywood, said Carter.
"I believe that there are a number of very detailed rules involved in regulating gladiatorial combat," Carter said.
Though the exact rules are not well understood, some information can be gleaned from references in surviving texts and art.
For starters, most, if not all, of the fights were overseen by the summa rudis.
Among the rules he enforced was one in which a defeated gladiator could request submission, and if submission was approved by the munerarius (the wealthy individual paying for the show), the contestant could leave the arena without further harm.
Another rule that appears to have been in place was that a gladiator who fell by accident (without the help of his opponent) would be allowed to get back up, pick up his equipment and resume combat.
Death of Diodorus
It's this last rule that appears to have done in Diodorus. Carter interprets the picture of the gladiator holding two swords to be a moment in his final fight, when Demetrius had been knocked down and Diodorus had grabbed a hold of his sword.
"Demetrius signals surrender, Diodorus doesn't kill him; he backs off expecting that he's going to win the fight," Carter said.
The battle appears to be over. However the summa rudis — perhaps interpreting Demetrius' fall as accidental, or perhaps with some ulterior motive — thought otherwise, Carter said.
"What the summa rudis has obviously done is stepped in, stopped the fight, allowed Demetrius to get back up again, take back his shield, take back his sword, and then resume the fight."
This time Diodorus was in trouble, and either he died in the arena or Demetrius inflicted a wound that led to his death shortly thereafter.
This event would have happened before a crowd of hundreds, if not thousands, of people in a theater or in part of an athletic stadium converted into a sort of mini- Colosseum.
After Diodorus was dead, the people who created his tombstone (probably family or friends) were so upset, Carter suggests, that they decided to include some final words on the epitaph:
"Fate and the cunning treachery of the summa rudis killed me."
Roman Gladiator's Gravestone Describes Fatal Foul
An enigmatic message on a Roman gladiator's 1,800-year-old tombstone has finally been decoded, telling a treacherous tale.
The epitaph and art on the tombstone suggest the gladiator, named Diodorus, lost the battle (and his life) due to a referee's error, according to Michael Carter, a professor at Brock University in St. Catharines, Canada. Carter studies gladiator contests and other spectacles in the eastern part of the Roman Empire.
He examined the stone, which was discovered a century ago in Turkey, trying to determine what the drawing and inscription meant. [Top 10 Weird Ways We Deal With the Dead]
His results will be published in the most recently released issue of the Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik(Journal for Papyrology and Ancient Epigraphics).
Tombstones talk
The tombstone was donated to the Musee du Cinquanternaire in Brussels, Belgium, shortly before World War I. It shows an image of a gladiator holding what appear to be two swords, standing above his opponent who is signalling his surrender. The inscription says that the stone marks the spot where a man named Diodorus is buried.
"After breaking my opponent Demetrius I did not kill him immediately," reads the epitaph. "Fate and the cunning treachery of the summa rudis killed me."
The summa rudis is a referee, who may have had past experience as a gladiator.
The inscription also indicates Diodorus was born in and fought in Amisus, on the south coast of the Black Sea in Turkey.
Though Carter has examined hundreds of gladiator tombstones, this "epitaph is completely different from anything else; it's telling a story," he told LiveScience.
The final fight
The story the tombstone tells took place about 1,800 years ago when the empire was at its height, its borders stretching from Hadrian's Wall in England to the Euphrates River in Syria.
Gladiator games were popular spectacles, many of them pitting two men against each other. Although deaths from wounds were common, the battles were not the no-holds-barred fights to the death depicted by Hollywood, said Carter.
"I believe that there are a number of very detailed rules involved in regulating gladiatorial combat," Carter said.
Though the exact rules are not well understood, some information can be gleaned from references in surviving texts and art.
For starters, most, if not all, of the fights were overseen by the summa rudis.
Among the rules he enforced was one in which a defeated gladiator could request submission, and if submission was approved by the munerarius (the wealthy individual paying for the show), the contestant could leave the arena without further harm.
Another rule that appears to have been in place was that a gladiator who fell by accident (without the help of his opponent) would be allowed to get back up, pick up his equipment and resume combat.
Death of Diodorus
It's this last rule that appears to have done in Diodorus. Carter interprets the picture of the gladiator holding two swords to be a moment in his final fight, when Demetrius had been knocked down and Diodorus had grabbed a hold of his sword.
"Demetrius signals surrender, Diodorus doesn't kill him; he backs off expecting that he's going to win the fight," Carter said.
The battle appears to be over. However the summa rudis — perhaps interpreting Demetrius' fall as accidental, or perhaps with some ulterior motive — thought otherwise, Carter said.
"What the summa rudis has obviously done is stepped in, stopped the fight, allowed Demetrius to get back up again, take back his shield, take back his sword, and then resume the fight."
This time Diodorus was in trouble, and either he died in the arena or Demetrius inflicted a wound that led to his death shortly thereafter.
This event would have happened before a crowd of hundreds, if not thousands, of people in a theater or in part of an athletic stadium converted into a sort of mini- Colosseum.
After Diodorus was dead, the people who created his tombstone (probably family or friends) were so upset, Carter suggests, that they decided to include some final words on the epitaph:
"Fate and the cunning treachery of the summa rudis killed me."
Thursday, June 16, 2011
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.
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.
Plethora of Art VIII
Slot 7 results are in. Slot 8 covers are now posted for viewing and voting...
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Friday, June 10, 2011
Plethora of Art VII
Round 1 Slot 6 is a wrap. New covers are posted for viewing and voting. It's Slot 7 at...
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Love Hurts...
Or so the 1975 song of the same name claims.
Of course, by definition, it's not really the love that does the hurting, but rather one's reaction to it. As the timeless lyrics of the Nazareth song suggest though, love can leave one with more of a mess to sort through than he arrived with. In my latest release, Rite of Passage, novelist John Ashley Price deals with such adversity.
In love, he did what many of us do or have done and trusted blindly, and he ended up in the aftermath of love gone wrong. Broke, penniless, and with nothing but his name, John now suffers from anxiety so strong anytime he gets near anyone "interested," he doesn't know how to cope with the adverse reactions. Just to be around a man who shows interest sends John's body into instant fight or flight mode--a panic attack.
Many of the following physical reactions are known to be felt when one experiences a panic attack:
palpitations
slow heart beat
dizziness
difficulty breathing
shaking
fear of losing control or dying
sweating, chills, hot flashes
racing thoughts
stomach pain
numbness in limbs
And John get to experience them all. I put the poor man through the wringer in Rite of Passage. But he'll learn that not all love hurts before the book is through. Take a chance. Go along with him on his journey.
Rite or Passage by Bryl R. Tyne
Dreamspinner Press
Blurb:
Forty-one-year-old John Ashley Price was a Western writing superstar until his accountant stole his heart—and everything else he owned. Now, unable to write and suffering from debilitating panic attacks, all he wants is to start over someplace where dropping off the radar is the norm. Someplace he won’t meet anyone. A place where writing should come easy. Hence his relocation to Divide, Colorado.
Of course, John didn’t count on Pat Smith—or Pat’s determination and raw sex appeal. Pat has his sights set on winning John’s heart as well as his trust, and he’s making serious headway… until John learns the truth. Just how does Pat know so much about him?
Excerpt:
Purchase Link
In love, he did what many of us do or have done and trusted blindly, and he ended up in the aftermath of love gone wrong. Broke, penniless, and with nothing but his name, John now suffers from anxiety so strong anytime he gets near anyone "interested," he doesn't know how to cope with the adverse reactions. Just to be around a man who shows interest sends John's body into instant fight or flight mode--a panic attack.
Many of the following physical reactions are known to be felt when one experiences a panic attack:
palpitations
slow heart beat
dizziness
difficulty breathing
shaking
fear of losing control or dying
sweating, chills, hot flashes
racing thoughts
stomach pain
numbness in limbs
And John get to experience them all. I put the poor man through the wringer in Rite of Passage. But he'll learn that not all love hurts before the book is through. Take a chance. Go along with him on his journey.
Rite or Passage by Bryl R. Tyne
Dreamspinner Press
| ISBN-13: | 978-1-61581-926-3 |
| Pages: | 80 |
| Cover Artist: | Dan Skinner/Cerberus Inc. |
Blurb:
Forty-one-year-old John Ashley Price was a Western writing superstar until his accountant stole his heart—and everything else he owned. Now, unable to write and suffering from debilitating panic attacks, all he wants is to start over someplace where dropping off the radar is the norm. Someplace he won’t meet anyone. A place where writing should come easy. Hence his relocation to Divide, Colorado.
Of course, John didn’t count on Pat Smith—or Pat’s determination and raw sex appeal. Pat has his sights set on winning John’s heart as well as his trust, and he’s making serious headway… until John learns the truth. Just how does Pat know so much about him?
Excerpt:
BELLY full, I carried in enough wood to start a good fire, ran myself an extra-large glass of water, added a few ice cubes, and headed back upstairs to write.
Well, Sheriff Chad Hardy, where were we? I got comfortable, noticing the late afternoon sun out the room's single window.
You like sunsets, Chad Hardy?
He didn't, and he cemented the fact by whipping his horse around, effectively placing his back to a horizon of reds and golds.
Not even in the end? I had to ask, I mean, most cowboys rode off into the sunset at the end of my books.
No? Not even in the end. He didn't believe in sunsets.
I couldn't blame him…
…And closed my laptop, stood, stretched, wondering how in the hell Carol had gotten this desk up here. No doubt, my “neighborly neighbor” had a part to play in it. I lifted the front left corner and carried it forward and to my right until I could sit peacefully with the setting sun at my back. Less than a minute later, I was typing away.
Words turned into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and so forth until I had two pages of what I considered “good words.” I leaned back in my chair, feeling rather smug. Fingers laced across my chest, I caught movement in the mirror opposite the room's solitary window and felt the frown that I was sure creased my forehead as I honed in on the streak of movement in the reflection….
I was on my feet, before I could think to move, and looking out my window.
Thunk!
Tracking the only movement I could see through the trees, I watched the wood split—the axe stick—he lifted the entire getup, block of wood and all, and swung it over his shoulder, then back to the stump. Three even pieces toppled to the ground in different directions.
Shirtless, the man kept a rhythm. Judging from the force and repetition of his swings, if I was closer, I was certain I would've noticed the sheen of sweat coating his skin. Through a hundred-plus yards of thinly populated trees, I spied, mesmerized.
Corded muscles drawn taut. The swing. The snap. The release. The quiver….
Okay, okay. I could see his ripped form in my mind's eye only, but I was no less content to lean on that sill and watch my neighbor from a distance. His intention was clear—at least, to me—grab the new guy's attention and keep it. I mean, who in his right mind chopped wood wearing only jeans and a cowboy hat in fifty-degree weather?
Exactly.
I broke my concentration to glance over my shoulder at my laptop, but in the next heartbeat, I was back at that window with my mind fathoms beneath any gutter.
“Well, Sheriff Hardy, looks like you've met your match.”
Sweat beaded at my temples, accumulated across the back of my neck. I adjusted the shrinking fly of my jeans, ran my tongue over dry lips; but sandpaper never moistened anything. With only one thought in mind, I leaned harder on the sill—definitely been awhile since any man’s held my interest.
Sadly, the last one I could recall by name was Mark. The excitement left my lungs in a single, solitary sigh; I even gained a bit of slack in the crotch of my jeans at the thought.
How deflating.
The more I dwelled, the tighter my chest got, and I turned away from the window. Wasn't bad, per se, that I thought of the man, but he'd affected my actions… and my reactions. Bastard had no right.
I pulled myself together, reminded myself the fewer complications the better. “Looks like you win, after all, Chad Hardy.” Time to concentrate on the one man in my life who hadn't given me a shovel full of shit.
I retook my chair, placed my fingers on the keyboard, and waited. Within seconds, I was once again typing away. Seemed all my character needed was some competition to spur him into action.
Like most of my attempts to write lately, though, this one proved a lost cause, also. I hadn't gotten a full page down when my mind drifted back to the scene outside my window. By the shadows cast on the far wall, the sun had all but disappeared, and the wood chopping had ceased a good while ago. I closed my laptop and hung my head, debating—Jim Beam or Jack Daniel’s—which one was the quickest route out of misery?
Purchase Link
Bryl R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice, published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Dreamspinner Press, STARbooks Press, Untreed Reads Publishing, Changeling Press, and Amber Quill Press. Check out Bryl's bi-monthly column: My Way Find out more about the author at: bryltyne.com
This post is X-posted at The Rainbow Studio, Bryl Tyne's Blog, and Defying Description.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Ride the Machine: While not vehicles to ride, Theo Jansen's Strandbe...
Ride the Machine: While not vehicles to ride, Theo Jansen's Strandbe...: "While not vehicles to ride, Theo Jansen's Strandbeast 's creatures/vehicles are able to walk only using the wind and wind powered pneumatics..."
Friday, May 27, 2011
Plethora of Art V
We have a winner from slot 4, and we have a new batch of covers over which to ogle and vote... here:
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Friday, May 20, 2011
Plethora of Art IV
The winner from slot 3 is announced, and book covers for slot 4 are now posted. Entertain your eyes and your brain, and then vote.
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings
Monday, May 16, 2011
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.
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
Read excerpt HERE.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Plethora of Art III
The highest number of votes received in Slot 2 was for Black Gold, cover by P.I. Nunn.
Now, time to vote in Slot 3 and your link is here:
Elisa Rolle - My Reviews and Ramblings
Now, time to vote in Slot 3 and your link is here:
Elisa Rolle - My Reviews and Ramblings
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Plethora of Art II
The next group of book covers are now posted at Elisa Rolle's site for viewing and voting. Anyone can play. All are welcome. Link is here:
Elisa Rolle's Rainbow Awards Cover Contest
Elisa Rolle's Rainbow Awards Cover Contest
Sunday, May 8, 2011
NEW RELEASE: Class Distinctions at 35% Off This Week Only!
This week only, the story is available for a 35% discount from the publisher for all ebook formats (for Kindle, choose .prc). Click here to get your copy.
"Class Distinctions" will be available soon for Amazon Kindle, Nook, and other ebook readers.
Here are the details for "Class Distinctions":
Kyle and Jonathan were perfect for each other, the two halves that, once together, made a whole. And then one snowy night just before Parents' Weekend on the campus of Hamilton University, Kyle drops a bomb: he's breaking up with Jonathan.
Class Distinctions follows the couple through the stormy (in more ways than one) night that ensues. Why has Kyle suddenly decided to throw away something so precious and good? The answers lie in their backgrounds, and will gradually come to light as a winter blizzard rages around the young couple. Their tortured paths bring them to the covered bridge where their love had come to life on a hot summer day. But will the warmth of that memory and the heat of the love they once shared be enough to outclass the storm, and more importantly, bring them back together?
Excerpt:
...He had come to the bridge almost without thinking about where he was going, but when he arrived there, he knew his feet had had a purpose in bringing him to this place. The snow swirled around him and pitted against his face like needles. He watched as the flakes vanished into the rushing water beneath him.
The bridge was a special place for Jonathan and him. It had been where they had shared their first kiss, back in August, shortly after they had met. The bridge had been a different place, almost of a different world, in August. The sun was bright, beating down relentlessly, bringing the temperature of the day into the mid-nineties. The air was thick, like a damp cloth thrown over one’s skin. Mosquitos hummed…and the leaves on the trees whispered whenever an all-too-infrequent breeze came along.
Jonathan had led him to this bridge, after they had spent the morning hiking the woods surrounding it. The two of them had forged a path along the creek that ran below it.
“You have to see this…it’s really cool.” Jonathan took my hand and led me through a copse of trees to a clearing. He gestured grandly as the vista opened up before us—the weathered bridge, with its stones and faded boards, rose up against the brilliant blue sky like an ancient treasure. On either end of it, weeping willows sagged in the heat.
There wasn’t a soul around us.
Jonathan took my hand in his own and the touch was electric, almost like a jolt, as it coursed through me. It was the very first time he’d touched me and I think that simple pressure of palm against palm and fingers intertwining let me know I was in love with this boy. It also opened the door to a hunger for thousands more touches from him, ones as simple as grabbing my hands and ones a lot more complex.
We fought our way up through cattails growing along the shoreline and further up the rise, brambles, but at last we reached the planks that would lead us inside the covered bridge. Its shade promised cool.
Jonathan pulled me into the darkness and turned to me, smiling. “Isn’t it something? I wonder how old it is?”
I looked in his robin’s egg blue eyes, amazed I could still make out their pale color even in the shade of the covered bridge. “It’s great. Thanks for bringing me here.” I let go of his hand so I could reach up and touch his face. “But it doesn’t compare to you, to just being here with you.”
I leaned down then and kissed him. Even though he had taken my hand, I wasn’t sure until that moment that Jonathan was even gay. We had started the morning as buddies, classmates, fellow students at Hamilton University on our way out on a hot Saturday for a hike. But when he lifted his face and parted his lips slightly to meet me, I knew not only that he was gay, but also that my feelings were reciprocated.
And that filled me with an inexpressible joy.
The kiss lingered for what seemed to me like a half hour, but was really only a minute or two. My tongue probed the inside of his mouth, which tasted sweet, slightly of cinnamon. He reached up and laid his hand on the back of my damp neck to twine in my curls and pull me closer to him. Our sweaty bodies meshed.
It was a moment of pure, undiluted happiness. It was a moment I would never forget...
Click here to get your copy.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Plethora of Art
You absolutely MUST stop by Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal and see the book covers on display. It's round one of her poll featuring some of the top artwork and photography from published books and ebooks collected on one page. Best part is, after feasting upon the visual stimulants, you can vote for your favorites and see poll results to date.
Do it all at this link:
Elisa Rolle - My Reviews and Ramblings
My favorite so far is Sheri's work for Accidents Never Happen. I'm a sucker for boxers, and the red landscape behind him reminds me of Munch.
Do it all at this link:
Elisa Rolle - My Reviews and Ramblings
My favorite so far is Sheri's work for Accidents Never Happen. I'm a sucker for boxers, and the red landscape behind him reminds me of Munch.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Frothing in the Frothy Sea
I really like this picture HERE.
Not only is it the latest interpretation of William Maltese's "Artists Do" series, the artist doing just happens to be Kris Jacen, Executive Editor and Formatting Director at MLR Press, Passions in Print Press, and Featherweight Press.
Considering the heavy workload of Kris's publishing duties, I have to wonder how she found time to create her "William Maltese Arising From the Frothy Sea." Makes me feel as though I'm moving at a snail's pace. Makes me question my own efficiency, or lack of it, but doesn't prevent me from enjoying Kris's graphic.
Not only is it the latest interpretation of William Maltese's "Artists Do" series, the artist doing just happens to be Kris Jacen, Executive Editor and Formatting Director at MLR Press, Passions in Print Press, and Featherweight Press.
Considering the heavy workload of Kris's publishing duties, I have to wonder how she found time to create her "William Maltese Arising From the Frothy Sea." Makes me feel as though I'm moving at a snail's pace. Makes me question my own efficiency, or lack of it, but doesn't prevent me from enjoying Kris's graphic.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
As it Was Can Still Be
I got this in an email. Usually in such cases, I will read a paragraph or two and delete, but the writing on this piece carried me to the end. The author is Michael Gartner, whose career began as a sports writer and progressed to managing editor of many newspapers and president of NBC News. He wrote this in 2006. Hope it hooks you like it did me.
* * * * *
My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, bull!" she said. "He hit a horse."
"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car.. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church.
She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think about it.. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
"Loses count?" I asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."
I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred."
At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" he countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet!"
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, or because he quit taking left turns.
* * * * *
The beauty of carefully-chosen words is a gift. Thank you, Mr. Gartner, for sharing yours.
Jardonn
* * * * *
My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
"Oh, bull!" she said. "He hit a horse."
"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car.. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church.
She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think about it.. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
"Loses count?" I asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."
I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred."
At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" he countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet!"
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, or because he quit taking left turns.
* * * * *
The beauty of carefully-chosen words is a gift. Thank you, Mr. Gartner, for sharing yours.
Jardonn
Friday, April 22, 2011
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,
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.
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
Friday, April 15, 2011
25 on 5 - Bandit's Prey 2
by Jardonn Smith, Copyright 2007
“Sorry, Bob, I don’t believe you. Guess you’ll have to watch us do our thing.”
Taggert stood helplessly and waited. The arches of his feet already were sore, but any lowering of his body tightened the noose around his neck, so he continued to prop himself up. He watched the men bring two of his saw horses from the side wall and place them between him and his two ranch hands. With a shotgun still aimed at their heads, Jason and Lucas were forced to strip naked, then made to bend over and straddle the ends of the horses. The blond-haired Lucas cast his eyes to the floor, while Jason turned to look at his boss.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Taggert. We ain’t told ‘em nothin’.”
“I know, boys.”
Each of the men’s ankles were roped to the two vertical legs of the saw horses, followed by their wrists, which were stretched beyond their heads and tied to the top horizontal beams. From Bob’s view, each man’s buttocks faced him about four feet away, while their bodies were bent at angles of 90 degrees. Their legs were spread like an inverted “V” in conjunction with the legs of the saw horses, while their strong backs flared from the extended and stretched position of their arms.
Bob encouraged them by explaining the deal. "It's my fault they're here, men. I'm sorry. I got us into this mess and we'll just have to fight through it."
The lead henchman butted in, “That’s a touching speech, Mr. Taggert, but we know they can’t help us. They’re just here for our entertainment. You can watch, too.”
Removing their belts, two of the bandits started laying leather across the broad backs of the ranch hands, starting at the deltoids and working downward towards the butt cheeks. Neither victim cried out, but emitted manly grunts and an occasional whimper. Taggert watched the beatings in anger, but his rage was not directed at the hoodlums. No, Bob Taggert was angry with himself – and his wife. It had been less than 24 hours since they had last seen the man responsible for this invasion – this violence against him and his employees.
Sex had brought this to them. Bob and Marsha Taggert liked to swing with other couples. They had just wrapped up a satisfying four way in the plush room where they had spent the last two evenings – The Pepper Grinder Hotel and Casino in Wendover, Nevada.
Wendover was just a lonely spot along Interstate 80, until someone decided to put a casino there. Surrounded by the Utah Salt Flats to the east and Nevada desert for endless miles in every other direction, there was no logical reason to put anything there, but somebody did and soon two other companies came to the same area to build.
Bob and Marsha loved to visit Wendover – more Marsha than Bob – and would book their favorite room at the Pepper Grinder weeks in advance, even though there was no need for reservations. It was their destination of choice for any special occasion or just to get away, because Marsha loved to play the slots, while Bob enjoyed the comfy beds, good food, saunas, swimming pools and frequent sex parties his constantly-horny wife managed to put together for him. Plus, knowing how his wife liked to gab with strangers, he avoided taking her to Las Vegas or Reno, where too many hustlers and con-artists lurked for easy prey. The Wendover crowd – what little there was of it – was more their kind of people and this allowed Bob to relax when there.
His first meeting with Everett and Mindy Hurst came at the hotel pool and nearby whirlpools on an open-air rooftop. Pre-arranged by Marsha, the Hursts joined the Taggerts for a swim, then conversation in bubbling and heated water – four in a hot tub. Bob’s screening process was thorough, as Everett and Mindy convincingly posed as vacationers weary of the crowded casinos of Las Vegas and Reno. He was an insurance salesman for The Prudential and she, like Marsha, a housewife. None had kids, because they preferred to party – in the bedroom – and since they were more than attractive enough, that’s where the four of them ended up. Two joy-seekers and two supposed vacationers traded partners to fuck, eat pussy and suck cock in a marathon, six-hour session.
Making the most of the Taggerts’s two-king-sized-bed suite, the gala ended with some three-on-one body worship, the final recipient being Bob. They stretched him out on one of those big beds, and while Mindy and Marsha took turns riding up and down Bob's thick pole, Everett and whichever other one was available worked their tongues all over Bob’s compact and strong body, stimulating every sensitive area that could be found.
It was one of the hottest hook-ups he had ever been involved with and he performed like some sort of super-human stud, keeping his cock fully swollen and firing endless salvos into whatever receptacle happened to be ready to take it. After that, Bob and Marsha slept peacefully, while Everett and Mindy returned to the casino for more slot play – or so they said. Obviously, the Hursts had checked out of the hotel and – armed with whatever information they had finagled out of the naive Marsha – managed to find the Taggert ranch, bringing the entire gang of bandits with them.
Suddenly, a painful scream jolted Bob from these memories.
Straining his neck to the left, he saw a cattle prod electrocuting his foreman, Marsh Nolan. The suspended man howled in agony, as the metal touched the middle of his back and forced him to thrust his upper torso forward, where he was greeted by two solid fists pounding into his chest and belly. Taggert winced when he saw what they were doing to his good friend. Nolan's body twisted and writhed, uselessly trying to avoid the simultaneous assault to both his front and back.
Oddly, Bob Taggert didn’t think about the ungodly pain being inflicted upon his foreman, but more about the desecration of that beautifully masculine body – one which he had seen up close and personal many times. Wiry and chiseled from hard work on the ranch, now it was being scarred by hideous jolts and bruising punches. And as a further insult, the cattle prod was one of their own – hand-held, battery powered and capable of delivering up to 60,000 volts of electricity – used by the ranchers in persuading animals to move through chutes or up and down ramps. It was designed to prod 1000 pound livestock – not 180 pound humans. Marshall Nolan was a man and Taggert could no longer idly watch them torture his friend with that hideous device.
“God damn you, Hurst, stop it. He doesn’t know anything.”
“Of course not. We figured that out long ago. This is for your benefit.”
“Leave him be. Let my men go and work on me.”
Hurst raised his hand and the torture stopped. “Your time will come soon enough.”
Nolan’s body collapsed and the chin dropped onto his chest. Scars of crimson red peppered his handsomely defined shoulders and muscular back. Bob was sickened by the sight of this, as he reflected upon the times he had lovingly scraped his nipples across the solid surface of that man’s back, while driving his penis into the squeezing depths of the same man’s bowels.
Men get lonely moving cattle from one part of 250,000 acres to another, and since men are purely sexually beings, they have no reservations about taking care of one another next to a warm campfire miles from nowhere. These men held a deeply seeded trust and fondness for one another – a necessity on the open range, where one slip up could result in injury to either men, horses or valuable livestock. Inspired by rolling hills and natural grasslands at the foot of the Calico Mountains, these men strengthened their bonds when darkness fell.
Every 30 days or so, Bob, Marsh, Lucas and Jason would cull a number of select animals from the herd, then drive them to the feedlot pens built between Nolan’s living quarters and the main ranch house. These cattle drives usually took at least 76 hours to complete and when the four men were alone at night on the grasslands, Bob would hook up with Marsh and Jason with Lucas.
This man’s cattle was a prized commodity. Once the selected head were brought to the home feedlots, they would be pampered for the final year of their lives. Only irrigated corn went into their bellies and Taggert beef had a direct pipeline to all the Las Vegas and Reno hotels. In fact, all Bob Taggert needed to do when he had livestock ready for harvesting was to dial his phone, call the packing house and wait for their trailer trucks, which would be sent directly to his ranch within 12 hours. For three generations the Taggert family had run one of the finest cattle operations in the state and a check arriving from the Gerlach Postal Office would mean pay day for the Taggerts and their hired hands.
He loved these men and treated them accordingly. They had a top-notch bunkhouse within sight of the main house, plus Bob Taggert paid them in cash, because where they lived banks were hard to come by. Three hours north of Reno, the only town of size anywhere near the ranch was Gerlach and even that was 65 miles away. This is why Bob used the bank only to convert checks into cash and kept plenty of it in a safe at his home.
Next post 04-25
“Sorry, Bob, I don’t believe you. Guess you’ll have to watch us do our thing.”
Taggert stood helplessly and waited. The arches of his feet already were sore, but any lowering of his body tightened the noose around his neck, so he continued to prop himself up. He watched the men bring two of his saw horses from the side wall and place them between him and his two ranch hands. With a shotgun still aimed at their heads, Jason and Lucas were forced to strip naked, then made to bend over and straddle the ends of the horses. The blond-haired Lucas cast his eyes to the floor, while Jason turned to look at his boss.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Taggert. We ain’t told ‘em nothin’.”
“I know, boys.”
Each of the men’s ankles were roped to the two vertical legs of the saw horses, followed by their wrists, which were stretched beyond their heads and tied to the top horizontal beams. From Bob’s view, each man’s buttocks faced him about four feet away, while their bodies were bent at angles of 90 degrees. Their legs were spread like an inverted “V” in conjunction with the legs of the saw horses, while their strong backs flared from the extended and stretched position of their arms.
Bob encouraged them by explaining the deal. "It's my fault they're here, men. I'm sorry. I got us into this mess and we'll just have to fight through it."
The lead henchman butted in, “That’s a touching speech, Mr. Taggert, but we know they can’t help us. They’re just here for our entertainment. You can watch, too.”
Removing their belts, two of the bandits started laying leather across the broad backs of the ranch hands, starting at the deltoids and working downward towards the butt cheeks. Neither victim cried out, but emitted manly grunts and an occasional whimper. Taggert watched the beatings in anger, but his rage was not directed at the hoodlums. No, Bob Taggert was angry with himself – and his wife. It had been less than 24 hours since they had last seen the man responsible for this invasion – this violence against him and his employees.
Sex had brought this to them. Bob and Marsha Taggert liked to swing with other couples. They had just wrapped up a satisfying four way in the plush room where they had spent the last two evenings – The Pepper Grinder Hotel and Casino in Wendover, Nevada.
Wendover was just a lonely spot along Interstate 80, until someone decided to put a casino there. Surrounded by the Utah Salt Flats to the east and Nevada desert for endless miles in every other direction, there was no logical reason to put anything there, but somebody did and soon two other companies came to the same area to build.
Bob and Marsha loved to visit Wendover – more Marsha than Bob – and would book their favorite room at the Pepper Grinder weeks in advance, even though there was no need for reservations. It was their destination of choice for any special occasion or just to get away, because Marsha loved to play the slots, while Bob enjoyed the comfy beds, good food, saunas, swimming pools and frequent sex parties his constantly-horny wife managed to put together for him. Plus, knowing how his wife liked to gab with strangers, he avoided taking her to Las Vegas or Reno, where too many hustlers and con-artists lurked for easy prey. The Wendover crowd – what little there was of it – was more their kind of people and this allowed Bob to relax when there.
His first meeting with Everett and Mindy Hurst came at the hotel pool and nearby whirlpools on an open-air rooftop. Pre-arranged by Marsha, the Hursts joined the Taggerts for a swim, then conversation in bubbling and heated water – four in a hot tub. Bob’s screening process was thorough, as Everett and Mindy convincingly posed as vacationers weary of the crowded casinos of Las Vegas and Reno. He was an insurance salesman for The Prudential and she, like Marsha, a housewife. None had kids, because they preferred to party – in the bedroom – and since they were more than attractive enough, that’s where the four of them ended up. Two joy-seekers and two supposed vacationers traded partners to fuck, eat pussy and suck cock in a marathon, six-hour session.
Making the most of the Taggerts’s two-king-sized-bed suite, the gala ended with some three-on-one body worship, the final recipient being Bob. They stretched him out on one of those big beds, and while Mindy and Marsha took turns riding up and down Bob's thick pole, Everett and whichever other one was available worked their tongues all over Bob’s compact and strong body, stimulating every sensitive area that could be found.
It was one of the hottest hook-ups he had ever been involved with and he performed like some sort of super-human stud, keeping his cock fully swollen and firing endless salvos into whatever receptacle happened to be ready to take it. After that, Bob and Marsha slept peacefully, while Everett and Mindy returned to the casino for more slot play – or so they said. Obviously, the Hursts had checked out of the hotel and – armed with whatever information they had finagled out of the naive Marsha – managed to find the Taggert ranch, bringing the entire gang of bandits with them.
Suddenly, a painful scream jolted Bob from these memories.
Straining his neck to the left, he saw a cattle prod electrocuting his foreman, Marsh Nolan. The suspended man howled in agony, as the metal touched the middle of his back and forced him to thrust his upper torso forward, where he was greeted by two solid fists pounding into his chest and belly. Taggert winced when he saw what they were doing to his good friend. Nolan's body twisted and writhed, uselessly trying to avoid the simultaneous assault to both his front and back.
Oddly, Bob Taggert didn’t think about the ungodly pain being inflicted upon his foreman, but more about the desecration of that beautifully masculine body – one which he had seen up close and personal many times. Wiry and chiseled from hard work on the ranch, now it was being scarred by hideous jolts and bruising punches. And as a further insult, the cattle prod was one of their own – hand-held, battery powered and capable of delivering up to 60,000 volts of electricity – used by the ranchers in persuading animals to move through chutes or up and down ramps. It was designed to prod 1000 pound livestock – not 180 pound humans. Marshall Nolan was a man and Taggert could no longer idly watch them torture his friend with that hideous device.
“God damn you, Hurst, stop it. He doesn’t know anything.”
“Of course not. We figured that out long ago. This is for your benefit.”
“Leave him be. Let my men go and work on me.”
Hurst raised his hand and the torture stopped. “Your time will come soon enough.”
Nolan’s body collapsed and the chin dropped onto his chest. Scars of crimson red peppered his handsomely defined shoulders and muscular back. Bob was sickened by the sight of this, as he reflected upon the times he had lovingly scraped his nipples across the solid surface of that man’s back, while driving his penis into the squeezing depths of the same man’s bowels.
Men get lonely moving cattle from one part of 250,000 acres to another, and since men are purely sexually beings, they have no reservations about taking care of one another next to a warm campfire miles from nowhere. These men held a deeply seeded trust and fondness for one another – a necessity on the open range, where one slip up could result in injury to either men, horses or valuable livestock. Inspired by rolling hills and natural grasslands at the foot of the Calico Mountains, these men strengthened their bonds when darkness fell.
Every 30 days or so, Bob, Marsh, Lucas and Jason would cull a number of select animals from the herd, then drive them to the feedlot pens built between Nolan’s living quarters and the main ranch house. These cattle drives usually took at least 76 hours to complete and when the four men were alone at night on the grasslands, Bob would hook up with Marsh and Jason with Lucas.
This man’s cattle was a prized commodity. Once the selected head were brought to the home feedlots, they would be pampered for the final year of their lives. Only irrigated corn went into their bellies and Taggert beef had a direct pipeline to all the Las Vegas and Reno hotels. In fact, all Bob Taggert needed to do when he had livestock ready for harvesting was to dial his phone, call the packing house and wait for their trailer trucks, which would be sent directly to his ranch within 12 hours. For three generations the Taggert family had run one of the finest cattle operations in the state and a check arriving from the Gerlach Postal Office would mean pay day for the Taggerts and their hired hands.
He loved these men and treated them accordingly. They had a top-notch bunkhouse within sight of the main house, plus Bob Taggert paid them in cash, because where they lived banks were hard to come by. Three hours north of Reno, the only town of size anywhere near the ranch was Gerlach and even that was 65 miles away. This is why Bob used the bank only to convert checks into cash and kept plenty of it in a safe at his home.
Next post 04-25
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
New Release: At Day's End
At Day's End by Bryl R. TyneDescription:
Samuel's not just feeling old, he is old, but he's not dead... not yet. And the bright spot of his week is spying on his hot new gardener. No one knows better than he does how ridiculous it is to think a twenty-something beefcake would show any interest in a recluse like him; fifty years hasn't changed a thing, really. Though Samuel feels a connection he can't explain, he's stunned beyond words one Friday morning to find the young man knocking at his back door....
A Bittersweet Dreams title: It's an unfortunate truth: love doesn't always conquer all. Regardless of its strength, sometimes fate intervenes, tragedy strikes, or forces conspire against it. These stories of romance do not offer a traditional happy ending, but the strong and enduring love will still touch your heart and maybe move you to tears.
A Bittersweet Dreams title: It's an unfortunate truth: love doesn't always conquer all. Regardless of its strength, sometimes fate intervenes, tragedy strikes, or forces conspire against it. These stories of romance do not offer a traditional happy ending, but the strong and enduring love will still touch your heart and maybe move you to tears.
| |||||||||
| Categories: | Daydreams, Fantasy/Paranormal, Bryl R. Tyne, Bittersweet Dreams |
| Book Type: | eBook |
| File Formats Available: | .epub, .lit, .prc, html, pdf |
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Love Revisited: Rye and Chal Contest - TODAY and TOMORROW only!
And more! You can also win a copy of the book that inspired my latest release too AND a T-shirt!
2 WAYS to win–2 DAYS to play!
TODAY: Drop by the Noble Romance Publishing readers’ group and leave a comment on my post: COB CONTESTTOMORROW: Stop on by the Noble Romance Authors’ Blog and leave a comment on my post: What’s Love Got to do with it?
Here are the prize details:
One commenter from each–the group and the blog–will win this funky Tee:Another one from both places will win a pdf copy of my new release: Love Revisited: Rye and Chal from Coin Operated Boy
And the one commenter who leaves the best answer to my COB CONTEST on the Noble Romance readers’ group will win a pdf copy of both the original Coin Operated Boy and my latest release Love Revisited, and a T-shirt!
So, what’re you waiting for? Stop by, leave me a comment and enter my contest. I’ll pick winners tomorrow night and post them here, on my blog, and in the Noble Romance readers’ group.
NOBLE AUTHORS’ BLOG: http://nobleauthors.blogspot.com
NOBLE ROMANCE READERS’ GROUP: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NobleRomancePublishing
Good Luck!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Little Red Riding Bitch Giveaway
Beginning March 15th!!
Get your Entry in for all the Goodies being Delivered by this Little Red Riding Bitch!
In Celebration of DEMON BOY'S New Album, DAWN OF THE DEMON, which features the song, LITTLE RED RIDING BITCH, we bring you LITTLE RED RIDING BITCH, The Giveaway!!Participants Include: Demon Boy, Studio 3B, Vampire Wear, and Author Dorlana Vann
Entry Instructions at http://www.studio3bonline.com/littleredridingbitch.htm
Winner will be announced Midnight, April 15th!!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Grammy's In Memoriam
Because they always go by too fast for reading, I'm posting a YouTube video of the Grammy's honoring those who have died since last year's broadcast.
Whoever shot this seemed to have problems holding their camera steady, but at least we can hit pause and read the captions.
Whoever shot this seemed to have problems holding their camera steady, but at least we can hit pause and read the captions.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Mr. February
If you're truly, honestly looking for an author interview worth your time, my GRIT co-author, William Maltese, talks freely with fellow author Rie McGaha over at her blog here:
Spotlight Author
Best of all, Mr. Maltese, for the next 28 days, will go by the name, Mr. February. We will all simply have to live with that.
Spotlight Author
Best of all, Mr. Maltese, for the next 28 days, will go by the name, Mr. February. We will all simply have to live with that.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Building the Burlington Northern-Santa Fe
The main components of what we know today as the BNSF Railway began with the mega-merger in 1970 of three major railroads: The Chicago, Burlington & Quincy, The Northern Pacific and The Great Northern.
CB&Q
Known as the Burlington Route or The Q, the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad was founded in 1849 with the primary connections from Chicago (headquarters), Minneapolis, St. Louis, Kansas City and Denver.
Trackage ran as far west as Wyoming and Montana. The most famous trains on The Q were the Zephyrs, known for their efficient passenger service betweeen the major cities on the route. This name is continued
today by one of the Amtrak passenger trains.
NP
Headquartered in St. Paul, MN, the Northern Pacific line was founded in 1864 and ran from Chicago, IL to Seattle, WA. The line itself was built along the trail first explored by Lewis and Clark.
The North Coast Limited was the flagship passenger service train, beginning in 1900 and ceasing operation in 1971, when Amtrak took the name. Running from Chicago to Seattle, this train was best known for introducing not only the popular Vista Domes for viewing, but also the rare Vista Dome sleepers.
GN (The Goat)
Founded in 1890 by James J. Hill, the Great Northern Railway ran from Chicago to Seattle and parts of Canada, with its headquarters located in St. Paul, MN.
One of the most famous and best-loved passenger trains ever to serve the United States, Great Northern's Empire Builder streamed from Chicago to Seattle, dazzling riders with stunning scenery through parts of Yellowstone.
While smaller buyouts and mergers had taken place during the 1950's and 60's, the 1970 merger of these three giants resulted in the formation of the Burlington Northern Railway.
This union created one of the biggest players of all western railroads (Chicago to the Pacific Coast) and as passenger service was slowly phased out across the western United States, the Burlington Northern dominated the northern half of the western and midwestern freight traffic, especially coal and grains.
During the 1970's & 80's, only the Santa Fe, Union Pacific (which merged with Missouri Pacific and Western Pacific in 1981), Chicago Northwestern and Southern Pacific remained as major competition for the BN.
Many smaller lines were being bought out, while some were abandoned through bankruptcy (most notably the Rock Island.) As for the BN, they made a bold move. A 1980 merger with a smaller railroad gave the BN reach to the Gulf Coast.
SL-SF (The Frisco)
The St. Louis-San Francisco Railway never made it to California. Begun in 1876, it soon adopted the nickname Frisco. Both the name and markings disappeared with the merger, as Burlington Northern maintained its own moniker and colors.
The Meteor was one of the heavily-used passenger trains, closely following the famous Route 66 path from St. Louis to Tulsa, Oklahoma.
----------------
From the Big Four to the Big Two
By the mid 1990's, only four major railroad names remained to service the midwestern and western United States: Southern Pacific, ATSF (Santa Fe), Union Pacific and Burlington Northern. In 1994, both the UP and BN were making offers to acquire the Santa Fe, but in 1995 the UP abandoned their attempt and the Burlington Northern announced plans to merge with the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe. Subsequently, the UP merged with the Southern Pacific and both these unions were completed in 1996.
AT&SF
The storied history of the Santa Fe Railway could (and does) comprise an entire web site.
Headquartered in Chicago, the company was founded in 1859. The main line never made it to Santa Fe, New Mexico, because the terrain proved too difficult to lay the necessary track, but the Chicago to Los Angeles route became very profitable, especially for passenger service and selling adjacent plots of land to homesteaders.
The Santa Fe Chief was one of the most cherished passenger trains ever to traverse the United States. There were many Chiefs, but the Los Angeles to Chicago run was used by countless Hollywood celebrities and therefore, the service and efficiency were second to none.
In later years, blue and gold schemes appeared along with the red, silver and gold War Bonnets. Like so many railroads now gone, the logos and colors of the Santa Fe are sorely missed. They were a part of our
culture, and citizens who lived along these rail lines were and still are nostalgic for the railroads that served their particular communities.
Count me among them.
CB&Q
Known as the Burlington Route or The Q, the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy Railroad was founded in 1849 with the primary connections from Chicago (headquarters), Minneapolis, St. Louis, Kansas City and Denver.
Trackage ran as far west as Wyoming and Montana. The most famous trains on The Q were the Zephyrs, known for their efficient passenger service betweeen the major cities on the route. This name is continued
today by one of the Amtrak passenger trains.
NP
Headquartered in St. Paul, MN, the Northern Pacific line was founded in 1864 and ran from Chicago, IL to Seattle, WA. The line itself was built along the trail first explored by Lewis and Clark.
The North Coast Limited was the flagship passenger service train, beginning in 1900 and ceasing operation in 1971, when Amtrak took the name. Running from Chicago to Seattle, this train was best known for introducing not only the popular Vista Domes for viewing, but also the rare Vista Dome sleepers.
GN (The Goat)
Founded in 1890 by James J. Hill, the Great Northern Railway ran from Chicago to Seattle and parts of Canada, with its headquarters located in St. Paul, MN.
One of the most famous and best-loved passenger trains ever to serve the United States, Great Northern's Empire Builder streamed from Chicago to Seattle, dazzling riders with stunning scenery through parts of Yellowstone.
While smaller buyouts and mergers had taken place during the 1950's and 60's, the 1970 merger of these three giants resulted in the formation of the Burlington Northern Railway.
This union created one of the biggest players of all western railroads (Chicago to the Pacific Coast) and as passenger service was slowly phased out across the western United States, the Burlington Northern dominated the northern half of the western and midwestern freight traffic, especially coal and grains.
During the 1970's & 80's, only the Santa Fe, Union Pacific (which merged with Missouri Pacific and Western Pacific in 1981), Chicago Northwestern and Southern Pacific remained as major competition for the BN.
Many smaller lines were being bought out, while some were abandoned through bankruptcy (most notably the Rock Island.) As for the BN, they made a bold move. A 1980 merger with a smaller railroad gave the BN reach to the Gulf Coast.
SL-SF (The Frisco)
The St. Louis-San Francisco Railway never made it to California. Begun in 1876, it soon adopted the nickname Frisco. Both the name and markings disappeared with the merger, as Burlington Northern maintained its own moniker and colors.
The Meteor was one of the heavily-used passenger trains, closely following the famous Route 66 path from St. Louis to Tulsa, Oklahoma.
----------------
From the Big Four to the Big Two
By the mid 1990's, only four major railroad names remained to service the midwestern and western United States: Southern Pacific, ATSF (Santa Fe), Union Pacific and Burlington Northern. In 1994, both the UP and BN were making offers to acquire the Santa Fe, but in 1995 the UP abandoned their attempt and the Burlington Northern announced plans to merge with the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe. Subsequently, the UP merged with the Southern Pacific and both these unions were completed in 1996.
AT&SF
The storied history of the Santa Fe Railway could (and does) comprise an entire web site.
Headquartered in Chicago, the company was founded in 1859. The main line never made it to Santa Fe, New Mexico, because the terrain proved too difficult to lay the necessary track, but the Chicago to Los Angeles route became very profitable, especially for passenger service and selling adjacent plots of land to homesteaders.
The Santa Fe Chief was one of the most cherished passenger trains ever to traverse the United States. There were many Chiefs, but the Los Angeles to Chicago run was used by countless Hollywood celebrities and therefore, the service and efficiency were second to none.
In later years, blue and gold schemes appeared along with the red, silver and gold War Bonnets. Like so many railroads now gone, the logos and colors of the Santa Fe are sorely missed. They were a part of our
culture, and citizens who lived along these rail lines were and still are nostalgic for the railroads that served their particular communities.
Count me among them.
Burlington Northern-Santa Fe Today
The Burlington Northern-Santa Fe Railway has made a concerted effort to preserve the heritage of both railroads, incorporating the design of the Santa Fe logo with colors of gold and black, orange and green (an homage to the Great Northern RR).
The paint schemes are in fact named Heritage 1, 2 & 3. The blue and gold of the Santa Fe is still used, as is the aforementioned War Bonnet scheme, with BNSF replacing the words Santa Fe.
Old landscapes fade away to be replaced by the new, but the people who run the railroads are the same. Regardless of the weather, they maintain the rail lines, rolling stock and locomotive power to deliver coal for our electrical power plants and commodities to fuel the country. Guess that's why I have a special fondness for railroads, railroading and railroaders.
As further proof of my interest, the Santa Fe RR plays an important role in one of my upcoming books, so I will next deconstruct the BNSF. I'll go back in time to tell of the mergers that resulted in the railroad we see today.
The paint schemes are in fact named Heritage 1, 2 & 3. The blue and gold of the Santa Fe is still used, as is the aforementioned War Bonnet scheme, with BNSF replacing the words Santa Fe.
Old landscapes fade away to be replaced by the new, but the people who run the railroads are the same. Regardless of the weather, they maintain the rail lines, rolling stock and locomotive power to deliver coal for our electrical power plants and commodities to fuel the country. Guess that's why I have a special fondness for railroads, railroading and railroaders.
As further proof of my interest, the Santa Fe RR plays an important role in one of my upcoming books, so I will next deconstruct the BNSF. I'll go back in time to tell of the mergers that resulted in the railroad we see today.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
So I Wrote a Romance Called TRICKS
This book is different.
Yes, boys and girls, this is my first full-length gay romance, an endearing little opposites-attract tale about a male stripper in a sleazy gay bar in Chicago's Boystown and the nerd who falls for him. Those of you in Chicago might recognize the bar that inspired me.
"What are you? Getting soft? A love story...really?" You might be wondering. Well, Tricks does have my own distinctive and dark touches, so I hope you'll give the book a chance and see how I make a gay love story wholly my own.
Here's the synopsis from the back cover:
Tricks can mean many things: sex partners, deceptions, even magic. In Rick R. Reed searing love story, it means all three.
Arliss is a gorgeous young dancer at Tricks, the hottest club in Chicago's Boystown. Sean is the classic nerd, out of place in Tricks, but nursing his wounds from a recent break-up. When the two spy each other, magic blooms.
But this opposites-attract tale does not run smooth. What happens when Arliss is approached by one of the biggest porn producers in the business? Can he make his dreams of stardom come true without throwing away the only real love he's ever known? And will this question even matter if the mysterious producers realize their dark intentions?
And here's a little taste:
Arliss had everything he needed right in front of him for that night's performance-hardhat, check, steel-toed boots, check, tool belt, check, black mesh thong with pouch for his rather prodigious endowment, big check. Yes, Arliss was just about ready for his turn on the stage at Tricks, located in Chicago's infamous Boystown neighborhood, at its epicenter on the corner of Belmont and Halsted. He also had before him a tall tumbler of Stoli vodka with just a whisper of cranberry juice cocktail in it for color, and a half-empty pack of Marlboro Ultralights. The latter two items helped the twenty-one-year-old calm himself before a performance, and the vodka in particular went a long way toward reducing backstage jitters.
He lit up a cigarette and regarded himself through the smoke. The lights in the crowded dressing room, which he shared with the other eight or so exotic dancers, were unforgiving. Fluorescent did little to hide any imperfections like rings under the eyes, reddened noses from too much partying, and, for those on their way out of the club, track marks on the arms. But Arliss didn't have to worry about signs of drug abuse showing up on his person. He had learned to just say no a long time ago, in a manner that he preferred not to dredge up, at least not now, when he was trying to put himself in a cheerful, high-energy mode.
The face that looked back at him was young, handsome, and vital. Arliss had a shock of white blond hair that stuck up in a manner reminiscent of rocker Billy Idol back in his glory days, before Arliss was even born. Both ears sported piercings-from one a single razor blade, cast in sterling, dangled; from the other, three hoops crawled up the side of his ear, growing smaller as they ascended. Arliss had full lips, sharp cheekbones, a cleft in his chin, and the most piercing ice blue eyes in the Midwest (or so he had been told). The only thing that marred his nearly perfect face was a gap between his front teeth, which he comforted himself by saying that the space gave him character. Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he struggled into his costume, ending by stuffing his dick into the pouch that protruded from his black thong. His member stuck out in such a way that invited grasping hands, which is what Arliss wanted, as long as there was cash in those hands to stuff the thong even more fully.
Attired in a costume that would make the construction worker from the Village People look demure, Arliss turned in front of the mirror to ensure he was the perfect fantasy specimen of pornographic machismo. He was grateful he had added the angel wing tattoo to his back and the snakes that twisted around each bicep. And the one on his chest, the tiny heart with the name "Helena" in it, always brought a lump to his throat-or a splash of bile to the back of it, depending on his mood and how forgiving he felt.
But now was not the time for being sentimental! Arliss was glad for the tattoos because they added a bit of manliness to his six-foot-two inch frame that held only 160 pounds in weight. He was what the older men at Tricks referred to as a twink and, thankfully, was a desirable commodity in some circles.
He set the cigarette down in a tin ashtray and took a swig of vodka. He could feel as much as hear the heavy bass of the techno music playing in the bar and knew that Antonio, a Puerto Rican dude with a shaved head and heavy stubble, was probably just about finished with his set, which meant his boxing ensemble cluttered the small stage.
Arliss would come out, dance briefly and flirtatiously with Antonio, and then have the stage to himself. He didn't know how he did it, night after night, but somehow he managed. He had always been the shyest boy in Ruskin, Florida, where he had grown up. If they could see me now... Well, if they could see me now, they'd probably still call me a fag and try to beat the crap out of me. Once again, my dear, now is not the time for sentimentality. He took another swig of vodka, draining the glass and feeling the warmth of the liquor as it spread through his chest and extremities. Show time!
Arliss hurried to the door that separated the cramped dressing room from the bar proper. Tricks didn't really have a stage, although the dancers liked to think of the bar upon which they danced as one. It was Friday night and, from the burble of conversation beneath the pounding beat, sounded as though they had a good crowd. He sucked in a breath, looked down at his perfectly smooth pale skin and six-pack abs and told himself he was gorgeous.
"Don't forget to smile, Toots! You always look like some gloomy Gus out there!" Leave it to Emmett Myers, owner of Tricks and Arliss' boss, to try and unsettle him just before he went on stage.
Arliss flashed the man a big, Farrah Fawcett smile. If the prissy older man with the pencil moustache recognized it as fake, he gave no indication.
"There! That's what they like to see! For heaven's sakes, you have to remember that if they think you're having a good time, they'll have a good time. And a good time means more money for all of us."
Arliss listened as the song wound down, morphing into yet another bass beat that signaled him it was time to stride out through the door, amble across the crowded room, ignore the covert feels and pinches he got as he made his way to the bar, and climb up on it to join Antonio in front of the crowd.
This moment, just before he went out, was always almost surreal. He felt as though he became someone else when he opened that door, or more properly, that his everyday world changed when he opened it. It was kind of like when Dorothy opened the door when she touched down in Oz and saw the color-filled Munchkinland, but instead of munchkins, his world was populated with bitter old queens, alcoholics, and trolls trying to put some oomph into their libidos by staring at boys young enough to be their sons.
"Get out there, gorgeous! Shake your groove thing!" Emmett cackled and placed a hand on Arliss' back to propel him forward. Just as much to get the hand off his back as to get to the stage, Arliss threw open the door, plastered on a big smile, threw his shoulders back and strode through the crowd, keeping his eye on the narrow strip of bar that would, for the next fifteen minutes, be his stage.
And yes, here is how you can win a copy in three easy steps:
1. Leave a comment, along with an e-mail address so I can get in touch with you if you win.
2. Help me spread the word about Tricks. Retweet or post news of Tricks and today's blog on your Twitter or Facebook account or just drop your reader friends an e-mail about it. This part is honor system but I will be spot checking.
3. Subscribe to this blog, using the link on the right.
Note: To enter the contest, you must do so at my official blog at http://rickrreedreality.
Do not enter on Amazon, Goodreads, or Facebook.
I will announce the winner on Sunday morning.
Don't want to wait? Click on Tricks anywhere in this blog and it will take you to the publisher's website, where you can buy an e-copy direct from them or be linked to Amazon to purchase the paperback. Or buy a Kindle version here.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
TOUGH GUY is out today at Amber Allure
Take advantage of the New Release Discount! 35% off.
Paul Kennedy is set on entering and winning this year's Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Days' Tough Guy competition. So why is everyone from Paul's ex to the Cody, Wyoming, postmaster hell-bent on discouraging him from competing? Each of his friends has his reasons. And among those, one is clear—Tony Austin, the Tough Guy champ for three years running, is sure to kick Paul's ass.
But Paul's not worried. He's book smart and determined...he'll win, as sure as there's cowboy in his blood.
Tony Austin, however, has other designs on Paul Kennedy. Designs planned to keep Paul beneath him if only Tony can figure out how to make his desires known. But "Guy Grunt" gets a man only so far, and Tony must rely on the only other language he has a chance of stumbling through...the language of love.
Genres: Gay / Contemporary / Western (Modern Day) / BDSM (Light) / Exhibitionism / Public Places
Heat Level : 3
Length: Novella (18k words)
Heat Level : 3
Length: Novella (18k words)
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