Extreme Writing Now » Fiction

The World Of Crime Noir | Fiction | Crime

Alex Crabtree — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 04:20:39 +0000

Sam Spade, Phillip Marlow, Alexander Black, trench coats, fedoras, violence, and dames. Crime Noir is a literary genre made popular by the likes of Dashiell Hammet and Raymond Chandler, and has survived since the genre’s pioneer Carroll John Daly’s story, Knights of the Open Palm was published in the June, 1923 issue of Black Mask magazine.

Daly’s main character in that story, Race Williams, became the model for many of the protagonists in fiction crime noir that have left bloody footprints and gasping bims since his first appearance. Williams’ sharp tongued, hardboiled, cold blooded, and shoot-first-don’t-give-a-damn-about-names attributes can be clearly seen in Chandler’s Phillip Marlow, Hammet’s Sam Spade, and Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer.

But not all crime noir involves private eyes of eras gone by. Stieg Larsson’s wildly popular The Millennium Series, starring Lizabeth Salander as the main character, is considered crime noir, and Lizabeth is just a girl in a heap of trouble. Additionally, James Lee Burke and Richard Stark (a.k.a. Donald Westlake) are huge names in crime noir, and their main characters range from the on again/off again cop, David Robicheaux to the non-hero, professional thief, Parker.

What Is Crime Noir?

Buy Alexander Black for .99

To sum up almost all definitions of crime noir- the story must be dark, and treat violence and sex with the kid gloves off. In other words: fiction that makes us flinch.

In most cases, the protagonist is not a character instilled with socially accepted moral standards. Sam Spade and Phillip Marlow are known as anti-heroes- characters not above using unscrupulous methods to get the job done (entrapment, strong-arm tactics, and womanizing, Oh My!). And then there is Richard Stark’s most well known protagonist, Parker, a cold blooded thief who punches, bullies, and often shoots his way out of a soured caper so he doesn’t get pinched.

Also common in fiction crime noir are story lines where the central characters are somehow connected to a violent crime—-murder and armed robbery being the two biggies— and are forced to make a decision— should they seek help from the authorities, or should they attempt to untangle themselves using their own wits? Almost always, the decision falls on the latter side of the coin, providing opportunity after opportunity for the protagonist to dig themselves into a deeper hole.

Think Dr. Richard Kimble of The Fugitive.

Can Crime Noir Be Literary Genius?

Why not? James Lee Burke is often hailed as one of the genre’s masters with praise attached for his literary prowess. And it’s true- Burke’s tales are written beautifully with complex characters and stunning metaphors. His talent for laying down descriptions, putting the reader in the middle of wherever Burke dictates, is nearly unrivaled. This passage from The Glass Rainbow is a prime example of his talent as Dave Robicheaux describes a room he rented in Natchez, Mississippi:

…the ventilated storm shutters were slatted with a pink glow, as soft and filtered and cool in color as the spring sunrise can be in the Garden District, the courtyard outside touched with mist off the river, the pastel walls deep in shadow and stained with lichen above the flower beds, the walkways smelling of damp stone and the wild spearmint that grew in green clusters between the bricks. I could see the shadows of banana trees moving on the window screens, the humidity condensing and threading along the fronds, like living tissue. I could hear a ship’s horn blowing somewhere out on the river, a long hooting sound that was absorbed and muted inside the mist, thwarting its own purpose….The wood floor and the garish wallpaper and the rain spots on the ceiling belonged to another era, one that was outside of time and unheedful to the demands of commerce…

Even if Burke does deserve the praise he gets for his awesome ink, it is almost unfair because there have been authors in the genre equally talented. Where Burke is a master of painting almost surreal scenes taken from the reality of the Mississippi Delta, Richard Stark was a master at putting the reader in the taut mind of professional thief.

Parker—just Parker, no first name, no last name—was as hard as cold blue steel. But he didn’t operate without rhyme or reason; Stark let us in on his protagonist’s psyche and showed us how Parker logically evolved through the series of twenty-four novels. One Parker faithful made this observation:

And Stark…yes…moving words- active, eliciting emotion…and subtleties find their way between the lines. Like the poor beauty shop owner, how she died accidentally, how that guilt seeps in long enough to resonate within Parker’s psyche, and then..somehow…he let’s himself off the
hook..thereby letting you off the hook..

What is the common denominator that makes all memorable crime noir work? The same magic trick that all great authors have up their sleeves, no matter the genre— tension. The tool of champions is what has readers reaching for the a book when they should be doing something else, or turning one more page than they promised themselves they would.

In 1980, among the top fifteen U.S. fiction titles sold, seven belonged to Mickey Spillane— in spite of the fact his books were constantly crucified by literary critics who found the high content of violence and sex in his work to be distasteful. Mickey’s reaction:

Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar… If the public likes you, you’re good.

From the era of fedoras, trench coats, classy women who knew how to play, and acerbic gumshoes to modern themes involving abused girls and doctors trying to prove their innocence while running from the law, crime noir has proven over and over that it is a genre that can’t be plugged and sent to the big sleep.

Alexander Black operates below the surface of every day life. Some would call him a Cleaner, others a Fixer, but few would call him by his real name more than twice. Pledging allegiance to no one, he works on both sides of the law, performing the type of wet work that calls for molten steel in his veins, and a noble approach to justice before legal.

The newest anti-hero legend of the crime noir genre can be found at his web site- Alexander Black. Pick up some of his short stories while you are there. Guaranteed brain candy for the gritty minded.

Additional information on Alexander Black can be found in the article Fiction Crime Star Alexander Black, at Squidoo.

Let’s Have Fun Writing | Defining Creative Writing

Alex Crabtree — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 17:00:46 +0000

Series Lets Have Fun Writing»

Last week, we opened the Let’s Have Fun Writing series by talking about writing practice and how that habit will help writer’s find their heart and use it when the pen anything. I hope some of you are swearing like sailors at me. I hope your hands are all cramped up, because I know that means you have committed to the concept. Besides, I shouldn’t be the only one of us to have to suffer through the pain. You guys get to suffer too.

As promised, this week we will take on the topic of creative writing and what the hell it really is.

For the better part of my life I thought creative writing was just another, more elite way of defining fiction. But the truth of the matter is, creative writing is story telling and there is a big difference between story telling and writing fiction.

Huh? What did he just write? Story telling IS writing fiction. He has flipped his lid…we all knew it was just a matter of time.

Okay, the way I see it is fiction is a class of writing in which we create make believe people, places, and issues to tell a story, and story telling is communicating, or broadcasting any tale (fiction or non-fiction) in hopes to get the readers to feel empathetic towards the author’s angle. A good example of this is a human interest column in any newspaper. A solid columnist can makes us feel the joys and pains of his/her subject; in some cases we will touch the accompanying photo because we are connected (admit it, you have done this).

I guess we should look at some official definition of creative writing before we go on, so let’s take a look at what Wikipedia says about the term:

Creative writing is considered to be any writing, fiction, poetry, or non-fiction that goes outside the bounds of normal professional, journalistic, academic, and technical forms of literature. Works which fall into this category include novels, epics, short stories, and poems. Writing for the screen and stage, screen writing and playwriting respectively, typically have their own programs of study, but fit under the creative writing category as well.

Obviously, creative writing covers fiction, but if you look closely; non-fiction is thrown in there as well. But, what is not said is the underlying desire to engage our readers in ways that sell them our emotional investment in the stories we tell. Just look at the memoir responses we have published here at Extreme Writing Now and you will see all kinds of wonderful examples of non-fiction story telling that will leave you spellbound. (Don’t go yet, I’m not finished boring you here).

Here’s what Sol Stein, esteemed editor and publisher, has to offer about non-fiction creative writing, or literary non-fiction:

Literary nonfiction puts emphasis on the precise and skilled use of words and tone, and the assumption that the reader is as intelligent as the writer. While information is included, insight about that information, presented with some originality, may predominate. Sometimes the subject of literary nonfiction may not at the onset be of great interest to the reader, but the character of the writing may lure the reader into that subject.

So…yeah. It’s all about taking the plain old, boring black and white, facts and breathing life into the. Travel is another great example of literary non-fiction, or should be. We could read about a region’s altitude, flora and fauna, or a writer may state population figures and list indigenous animals. Maybe the author will let us know the cost of a night’s stay at one hotel as it compares to another. But does any of this give us a taste of what the experience of being in that mythical location is really like?

Nope.

Give us, the readers, the texture of the locals’ voices and how you may have detected sarcasm in every inflection, only to discover later that was love. Let us see the rocky, and rough drive up the mountain, a drive that was sparsely peppered with beautifully colorful explosions of wildflowers. Maybe you saw the crags of the mountain tops and you thought of a snowball fight because of the pockets of snow that were sprinkled around the high spots.

This is exactly the type of writing you will find in the book, Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools: Tuck into a slice of Andalucían Life, penned by Extreme Writing Now friend and member, Victoria Twead. This kind of writing will draw readers in, and that’s exactly what we should strive for every chance we get.

Hopefully, we’ll all learn different ways and techniques that will help us vividly and engagingly tell our stories in ways that will be not only fun for our readers, but will make writing an exciting and rich experience for us as well.

Next week we’ll actively grab our readers by their shirts and tell them we will no longer sit by and be passive.

Entries in this series:

Let’s Have Fun Writing | Practice

Alex Crabtree — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 17:00:13 +0000

Series Lets Have Fun Writing»

Far be it from me to stake any claim to being a writer with enough talent and skill to sit on a high throne and give sound writing tips, yet I believe that this site needs a weekly ‘Writing Tips’ column, so I am going to take up the yoke in hopes that WE all can learn something about creative writing without missing the whole point of having fun with our writing..

Sometimes I really do wish I had taken Drake University up on their grant deal they put on the table for me. The up side would have meant I would have had real, formal training in the craft of writing, most especially creative writing. Oh yeah, I might have graduated from the ‘hunt and peck’ typing technique I use today.

Then there would have been the downside: RULES!

Rules really should be respected when we write, but they shouldn’t be the first goal of our efforts. We shouldn’t be thinking about them as we write first drafts (oh, I know that even though we shouldn’t let them in, our own little prickish self editors sit on the edge of our efforts), no what we should be doing is writing the hell out of our lucid thoughts first and save the editing and rules for later drafts. This will always make your writing more electric and alive. Think of Dr. Frankenstein working feverishly trying to harness the lightning to bring his monster to life. Do you think he gave one damn that the rules state God is the only entity that gives life?

One of my all time favorite guests to appear on the EWNN radio show, Tara Masih, talked about an amazing class she was invited into as a guest lecturer. Tara teaches Flash Fiction on a regular basis and was given 50 minutes with the class of students that had no real knowledge of correct English practices. These were the kids from Misfit Island. But, Tara said at the end of 50 minutes with these kids, she had in her hands some of the best flash fiction she had ever read; bar none. The secret? Those kids didn’t feel restricted by rules they knew nothing about and wrote from their heart.

Of course, Tara did go onto say that the stories needed polishing, but they were damn good.

One of the best ways I know how to find your heart when you write is though a very ugly and unforgiving word; a word as vile as flossing. PRACTICE. There, I said it. If you write every day for at least 10 minutes, and I mean write without a goal, then eventually you’ll find it easier to put your all into anything you write for purpose.

Natalie Goldberg, author of the only real ‘How To Write’ manual you’ll ever need, Writing Down the Bones, tells us the best way is to grab a very fast pen, a handful of cheap notebooks, and write for 10 minutes every day. Don’t lift the pen, do not stop at GO, do not look at or think about what you are writing; just let it flow. Write like shit, she says, and don’t plan on using any of what you wrote; plan is the operative word here, because you may find some golden nuggets you don’t want to let go of.

Pick an object, color, emotion, memory…hell, anything to start writing about, and write your heart out. Write what you feel. Write your emotions. Bleed out for 10 minutes. Ask questions about what you choose to write about during practice and you make wonderful discoveries about the depth of your perception.

Personally, I don’t think you need to have a pen and paper, but I do think you need the 10 minutes of uninterrupted time, and that 10 minutes should be at the same time every day. This will give you a sense of commitment to your cause and after a while it becomes a routine; trust me.

So, this week’s tip from me; PRACTICE. If you have practiced, or are currently practicing, do you find that it truly helps with finding depth in your writing? What are your practice habits? Can’t get 10 minutes a day? How about 5, or even 3?

Please feel free to add or expand on any of this in the comments section below. Give this old hack a lesson or two.

Next week we’ll talk about creative writing and how it means so much more than inventing interesting fiction.

© 2011, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Entries in this series:
Let’s Have Fun Writing | Practice
Let's Have Fun Writing | Defining Creative Writing
Let's Have Fun Writing | Kick Passive Ass With Active Voice
Let's Have Fun Writing | The Mighty Megaphor
Let's Have Fun Writing | Spike Those Verbs
Let's Have Fun Writing | The Art of Words
Let's Have Fun Writing | Color Swatches
Let's Have Fun Writing | Get Off Your Ass
Let's Have Fun Writing | The Name Game
Let's Have Fun Writing | Making the List
Let's Have Fun Writing | Those Slutty Adverbs
Let's Have Fun Writing | Sentenced To Life
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Five Years With Interest

Alex Crabtree — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 21:22:35 +0000

In this flash fiction piece I weave a tale of eventually paying the piper in currency inked with terror…

Beams of moonlight filtered in from the mostly cloaked windows and pierced her as she sat in the dark room, bound, gagged, and terrified. The wooden chair was cold against her thighs and the dirty cement floor uncomfortably raked her bare feet.

“I have been waiting for this dance for the five long years since you nearly took away my life.” His wet, hissing voice against her ear startled her and tears began to flow as she choked a scream against the leather gag.

She heard a growl and felt his leather duster brush her arm and leg when he stood up and walked out in front of her. Her eyes, wide with terror, only saw a quiet, dark silhouette against an even darker room.

Suddenly, he leaned in just enough for the dusty yellow shards of light to stripe his face. The one eye she was able to see was ablaze with rage, and she could see his shape heave with each breath he took. Trails of sweat ran down, in and out of the visible slices of his face. Fear was gripping her tighter with each heartbeat.

He held in a dirty fingerless glove clad hand, a 9mm Beretta. Suddenly he pointed it towards her and let loose several shots. A scream curdled in her throat as her eyes squeezed tight. Flinching as she felt every round pass her ear; heard every bullet hit the wall behind her. Urine started to pool in the chair, soaking her thin purple dress as the grit from the violently roiled air pressed against her face.

Quickly he was next to her, pressing the gun barrel’s end hard against her temple. As the intense, painful heat and sickening sweet smell of her own burning flesh seared her soul, she felt him lean in to snarl, “Bitch, it’s time you collect what you paid for five years ago.”

She nearly strangled on her on slobber as she felt the pressure of him slowly squeezing the trigger of the gun tightly pressed against the side of her head.

CLICK! And her bladder fully let loose.

No explosion, no more pain than the burn, or the terror that had her fully in its throes. She was sobbingly alive.

His beastly laughter as he stood erect in the moonbeams unnerved her even more as she pleaded with him through teary eyes. She was sure he was going to reload the gun and end it. In fact, somewhere deep inside of her quivering mind a scream came out, wanting him to stop the game and kill her.

He turned his head and exposed a perfectly round scar that he fingered when he said, “I have marked us both for your sin. Live with it as a reminder not to fuck with me or anyone else again.”

With that, he dropped the gun and walked past her. As his footfalls faded behind, she was left soaking in tears, sweat and urine, to be awash in the five years of guilt stemming from that night after the office party, the morning after embezzlement with his name wrongly all over it, and his suicide attempt. The guilt she was hiding from had finally snared her in its monstrous jaws.

In the end, she cried for him.

A Good Landing

Alex Crabtree — Sun, 02 Jan 2011 13:22:10 +0000

This flash fiction submission explores the probability that no matter how good, or how lucky we are, we still need a little help…

Every landing you walk away from is a good one, Sam thought to himself as he limped away from the now burning Jenny. He didn’t even look back at the plane as it was planted nose first behind the barn as if it were some twisted, exotic tree. In fact, his only focus right now was Howard Hamm, the film director who asked Sam if he could dive just a little lower before pulling out, And ‘The Double H’ was standing squarely in Sam’s crosshairs.

“Was that low enough, you sunovabitch?” The rugged looking, one time World War One pilot punctuated the question with a hard right cross that sent the overweight, balding director flat on his back.

Without missing a step, Sam strode through the dew dampened pasture with long, purposeful steps towards his Ford; leaving a wake of gasps along the way as the production crew stumbled back out of his way. No one immediately went to the aid of the struck director because they were afraid the tall, broad man would flail again. What those who had no air combat experience didn’t understand was that Sam’s reaction was very controlled and tightly focused. He had but one adversary in this situation; there were no other targets. Do the job and get out is what kept him alive to this point, and every action was treated as a job.

Upon reaching his car, he saw sitting in the passenger seat the most beautiful woman he had ever met, Georgette Hamm. Just before he got in, Sam leaned down to the window and addressed the gorgeous redhead, “Hey there, doll. Taking a bit of a risk being here, aren’t ya?”

“Get in here ya big lunk,” Georgette playfully told Sam.

Sam jumped in the driver’s seat and started the car, slammed in gear and drove the two of them off. The old dirt road was full of character, which meant that no matter what speed the car traveled, Sam and Georgette were tossed around in their seats.

Once the car ambled around the last bend of the township route and was dumped out onto the smoother county road, Sam looked over at Howard Hamm’s wife and said, “Once again, isn’t this a bit risky? Suspicions will increase and ‘The Double H’ will surely find out.”

Georgette looked up at Sam with her huge brown eyes and said, “Don’t worry about that sugar, he already knows.”

Sam slammed on the brakes and looked hard at his pale skinned lover, “What do you mean he knows? Holy Christ, I put my life on the line for his damn movie. I mean I just now did it. In fact, he could have had me killed if he wanted….”

“Shhhhhh, lover. Did you enjoy punching him,” She batted her eyes at him.

“Well, no. Not exactly enjoyed it; that would mean it was personal. What I did wasn’t personal; it was just a reaction to being put in a near death situation. I guess it was a counter strike.” Sam was visibly shaken with the news that Georgette gave him.

“He almost did kill you. I was able to save you at the last moment,” She smiled at him.

Now, the big man was really wondering what was going on with his lover. Was she going nuts? He said to her, “What do you mean you saved me? You weren’t anywhere near the production crew.”

“I was able to put up just enough resistance on the throttle that you fell short of air speed enough to kill you on impact.” A somber tone crept into her voice as she continued, “Listen, Howard found out about us and killed me this morning. Took me out to the reservoir and strangled me. He left my body in the lake and no one would have ever suspected him. I am an angel…”

“What? An angel? You have gone crazy. In the first place, you ain’t dead, you are right here in front of…well, beside me. And then there’s the fact that we both committed adultery.”

“No, it’s true. I am an angel; I was given my wings right away to save you.” Georgette blinked once, then smiled as she continued, “Sam, I was destined to die inside. Being a Howard Hamm trophy would have eventually made me a zombie. I might have fallen prey to opium or worse, if it hadn’t been for your love.”

Then, with a single tear slowly working down her cheek, she pulled back at her collar and showed the deep red rope burns and bruising. She took Sam’s hand and made him feel fatal wound.

Shakily, Sam said, “Georgette, my sweet Georgette. I do love you; more than you will ever know.”

“Smiling, Georgette looked deep into Sam’s eyes and said, “No Sam, you are wrong. I know exactly how deep our love runs, and so does heaven. That’s why I am here. We both did our part to preserve our love and see justice come to an empty hearted killer.”

“Huh?”

“I knew you’d lash out at Howard, and I knew you’d do it regardless of who was watching. Now, many witnesses saw that and suspicions will rise. People will start to stick their noses in, especially after my body is found, and see that Howard clearly tried to kill you. It will all blow up in his face and he will be dealt with swiftly.”

“But…”

Delicately putting a finger over Sam’s lips, she continued, “I’ll be looking over you and you will know I love you, Sam.” She then stepped from the car, blew him a kiss, and then disappeared.

Publicity from ‘The Double H’ murder trial was so good for Sam, that he found it easy to locate financial backers for his successful flight school, Red Headed Angel Flight Training, and at the bottom of his business cards was the saying, “Every good landing needs a little help…”

The Horror of It All

squidrich — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 12:55:51 +0000

He used to write of horror, but now his pen was full of grief. As the tears of ink hit the page, he paused, staring ahead. He recounted that day. The words on the page could never do justice to what was on his mind.

He used to write of horror. Maybe he still does.

The Reunion

squidrich — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 11:58:13 +0000

She exhaled. Her final breath. A new life was beginning.

Her eyes opened, a white light blinding her momentarily. She blinked, trying to focus. Sitting up, she looked inquisitively. This was not her body. She no longer felt pain.

In the distance: movement. Faces she recognized. Her father, brother and niece were welcoming her home.

An Angel Down | We Miss You

Alex Crabtree — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 17:01:02 +0000

This is my 55 word flash fiction tribute to our recently fallen Angel…

“Quit your sobbing,” the tinny voice rattled from the desktop intercom.

A sniffling voice, “We can’t, Charlie. She’s gone.”

“She may be gone, but she left you a charge. Each one of you has her twinkle in your eye. She will always be there. Now go celebrate her gift.”

The remaining Angels cheerfully descended upon us.

Welcoming Mickey Mills | The Prodigal Scribe

Alex Crabtree — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 14:37:07 +0000

I would like to officially welcome Mickey Mills to Extreme Writing Now. Mickey, who answers to the handle of The Prodigal Scribe, is the author of the wildly popular, Haunting Injustice.

Mickey is my kinda soul; in more ways than one. It would seem that we both have decided to push our writing at about the same time in our lives and we are having a blast doing it. There is a kind hearted edginess to Mickey that has mass appeal; a great cat.

He is a biker.

Mickey wrote the lion’s share of Haunting Injustice while on a Harley and He road trip out into the vast American West. Tent, truckstops, and Starbucks were just a few of his writing rooms while he was on that trip. His take on the trip can be read at The Prodigal Scribe.

The inkslinger hails from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and is planning on penning his second novel while on a bike trip along America’s East Coast. Meanwhile, he has joined as at EWN and has published two pieces in the short time (less than a week) that he has been a member. Starpilots is a humorous 55 word flash fiction piece and Moose McCloud is a beautifully written piece about loving hearts and tolerance.

Mickey will be our guest this week at the Extreme Writing Now Network (Sunday, October 24 at 6:30 p.m. EST) talk show, where will discuss his book and experiences of writing on the road. Mickey is also planning a surprise announcement on the show, so tune in and don’t miss what is sure to be yet another fast and entertaining 30 minutes.

To add to all the excitement, Mickey has agreed to send out a signed copy of Haunting Injustice to the winner of the EWN Ghost Stories contest going on right now. IF you are interested in joining in on the fun, visit Ghost Stories for all the details.

Before I let you go, I would like to point out a great review of Mickey’s book. The review was written by our own Bev Owens and can be found at Haunting Injustice.

Have a rockin’ day!

Moose McCloud

mickey — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 06:32:11 +0000

I was there the Easter Sunday when Moose McCloud walked into the Holy Redeemer Blessed Church of the Pentecost. The congregation had just started the first hymn when the turbulent rumble of a motorcycle pulled into the parking lot. The noise effectively drowned out the chorus – “My sins were washed away and my night was turned to day…” Voices risen in attempt to overcome the motorcycle thunder quickly fell silent.

The ladies were dressed in their finest chiffon dresses; each one accessorized by a Sunday hat, size dictated by the social status of the woman wearing it. The men, wearing the suit they would one day be buried in, exchanged curious glances as the main door slowly opened and a familiar big biker stepped into the sanctuary.

I didn’t know much about Moose, except that he was Viet Nam vet and kept mostly to himself. He was a persistent loner. His mother had been a long time member of our church and always said her son would come home after she died. I don’t guess anyone really believed her until today.

Every head in the place turned as if connected to the same swivel, eyes fixed on the newcomer, wondering what would happen next. His long silver hair fell past his shoulders. He wore a black leather vest over a clean blue jean shirt. He wore as much jewelry as any woman in the sanctuary. Dark tattoos decorated both arms down to his thick wrists. You could hear the tinkle of small chains dangling from his boots, a testament to the silence of the congregation. He made his way to the front row and found an empty seat near the aisle. He didn’t say a word.

The preacher cleared his throat and picked up the hymn where they last left off. The previous enthusiasm for song had left the congregation. Moose did not join in, he just sat there, eyes focused on the stained glass behind the pulpit.

It was a typical Easter sermon – all about the crucifixion and the resurrection. On Easters past, church members could get quite animated and liberal with “Amens” and “Hallelujahs,” but not that day. Brother Carter preached to the crowd, but kept his eyes on Moose. And when he was done he made the alter call with the organ playing softly in the background. Moose stood and stepped forward. The music trailed off to silence. He reached out and shook the nervous preacher’s hand.

Moose turned slowly to face the congregation. It was the first time I got a good look at his face. The march of time, the sun and wind, had carved tiny lines across his tanned cheeks. Tear drops collected at the corners of his deep blue eyes. In a soft voice he said, “Most of you know who I am, but you don’t know me.” He paused briefly to pull a kerchief from his back pocket to wick the tears from his eyes. “I promised Mama I would come back to church after she died and try to be a better person. I hope you can find it in your heart to let me stay here.”

A hush fell on the heels of his words and for what seemed like an eternity nobody moved. A slight gasp was heard from one of the elders as Abegail Crumpler slowly worked to the aisle, her large hat scrapping faces along the way. She struggled to the front using a wooden cane for support. Moose didn’t move, he just scanned the sanctuary behind her.

Abby was dwarfed by the towering biker, her eyes barely chest level as she stopped in front of him. She took his hand, looked up into his eyes and said, “John, you mother was part of our family. Of course you can stay.”

He smiled and said, “Thank you, Miss Crumpler. And, you can call me Moose.”

“Your mother called you John and around here, that’s what you’ll be called.”

One by one, members of the congregation stepped forward to welcome John McCloud into the church family – most of them anyway. A few chose to slip out the back door before the service was over. Some returned – some didn’t.

So here we are, a year later getting ready for another Easter service, and I can say with much confidence that John McCloud hasn’t really changed one bit. He is still one of the kindest, good-hearted men to ever grace the doors of the Holy Redeemer Blessed Church. But we’ve all changed for having him here. We’ve learned you can’t judge a man’s heart by the length of his hair or the clothes on his back.

Despite some members drifting away when Moose walked in, new faces have replaced them. The spiritual gains outweigh the physical losses. Out front there’s a new sign that reads, “Motorcycle Parking Only.” A dozen two-wheeled machines line up side-by-side, polished chrome reflecting the bright colors of chiffon dresses and Easter hats as the women walk past.