Landscape ...

I dreamt of a nightmare landscape, the sky blotted out by a dark stain that hung low above the land, the desert like a dried up shore at low tide.  The small threads of green that the baked land usually held with tentative grasping fingers were withered and colourless.  The wind no longer blew and I couldn’t feel the air that I breathed.

Wandering in the desert I saw many people, each shuffling slowly and aimlessly, avoiding one another, each an island in the sea of sand.  I could see some had old wounds and dried blood on their bodies or faces and their eyes were dull and haunted.  Many talked to themselves and I knew this was a muttered lamentation of their lost lives and regrets of things not done and words not spoken.

At the same time I saw people I knew who were still alive; M_ and B_; Big Pete; M_; Ruben and the rest of the crew.  I saw F_ and Jaimie walking alone, clinging to each other, safe in each other’s embrace, and seeing that comforted me.

The most troubling thing to me was that despite being able to see the air wavering from the heat that radiated up from the ground, I felt so very cold.

•

When I arose in the morning I shaved and showered and dressed while F_ and Jaimie slept in; the bar-b-que the night before no doubt having worn them out.  When I opened F_’s bedroom door I was at first startled to see he wasn’t in his bed, but settled quickly when I realized where he must be.  Gently and silently I opened Jaimie’s bedroom door and found them both alseep, snuggled tight together under the sheet, their noses almost touching.  It was an odd feeling that washed through me; another breed of man would roust and separate them, but I remembered my dream and seeing them together, feeling gratitude that they had each other in this hard world.  Perhaps they too had ominous dreams and sought each other out for comfort.  Who was I to judge?

The more I learned of the world the less it seemed I knew.

"__&__"

Voices & Bar-b-que ...

Voices in the dark;

“He’s playing you, lover man.”

“He seems sincere.  We talked after – he truly wants to retire.”

“He offered you a small piece of what you are due.”

“But it comes peacefully, without blood.”

“Really?  How long before M_ has you killed?”

“B_is part of it.  We’d have each other’s backs.”

“Maybe M_kills B_ as well.”

“No.  Even he’s not that stupid.  B_ cleans our money, takes away all trace linking us to the trade.  None of us would be safe from the law without B_.”

“You might be underestimating the depth of M_’s stupidity.”

“He’d need the crew behind him.  Half of them back me already and the other half would turn on him before they let him kill B_.”

“Maybe.”

•

Later;

“How do you know B_ isn’t part of D_’s plan to betray you?”

Silence.

•

D_ once more proved he was the lodestone of our world, his personal gravity drawing the entire crew to his trailer park for the bar-b-que.  These family gatherings were odd for me, mingling with the men who I pursued larceny with surrounded by their girlfriends, wives, and children.  Men who I have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with as we committed murder, tossing Frisbees and footballs or playing in the pool with their kids.

It’s an odd world, filled with light and horror.

"__&__"

It ain't the road, it's just the map ...

I led her and F_ to D_ and Tracy and Bets and we gave them our thanks and said our goodbyes.  Outside in the Saturn, all three of us were grateful for the quiet after the growing din of the Laird.  I backed out and rolled through the gravel toward the exit.  It was then that I saw M_’s Charger parked at the far end of the crowded lot and M_ coming around the rear.  As we drove slowly past, M_ opened the passenger door and B_ climbed out and stood up on her tip-toes to kiss him.  They only had eyes for each other and didn’t notice us.  I saw the glint then and it sent shivers rolling up my back because I knew what the business was that M_ said they had to attend to.

They both wore wedding bands on their left ring fingers, and it was as though another small piece of fate snapped into place like the clicking of a tarot card being laid down on a wrought iron table.

I could sense it coming like you can sense a freight train throbbing in the distance by the inaudible vibrations in the earth beneath your feet long before it breaks the horizon.  But I didn’t want to believe it was an inexorable future laid out before us.  Fortunes told are at best a map toward a murky future but weren’t the road to it by my reckoning.  I wanted to believe we could steer our own course and avoid the storm of change the Grim Sisters had foretold.

I wanted to believe that more than anything.

"__&__"

The Good Monsters ...

I write about gangsters, outsiders, and outlaws, and in my novels I reveal that not all who do wrong are bad people, despite some viewing them as monsters.  Some are good monsters.

Bikers Against Child Abuse was founded in 1995, the brainchikd of and spearheaded by Chief (all B.A.C.A. members go by their road names) in response to hearing about an eight year old boy who was so frightened of his abuser that he refused to leave his home.  Chief recruited his biker buddies and befriended the boy.  Within weeks, the boy was again venturing out, riding his bike and playing with his friends.

B.A.C.A. has grown worldwide since then, including a Canadian chapter in Saskatoon, where Tap and Mercy (pictured above) are founding members.

B.A.C.A. members are real bikers, and some have a criminal past, but to become a member they have to pass a criminal record check and anyone with a history of child abuse or domestic violence is refused.  B.A.C.A. also has a strict rule that at least one of the members present with a child has to be the same sex, so B.A.C.A. has both male and female members.

B.A.C.A. prospects have to take training from approved child mental health professionals as part of their year-long indoctrination into the club.

When a child has been abused and is frightened, family members or guardians can call their local B.A.C.A. chapter who will then verify the abuse through the court system, police department, or social services agencies.  Once a child is accepted into the B.A.C.A. program, the chapter organizes a ride with all members rolling out to the child's home.

The child is introduced to the B.A.C.A. members and told who they are and what they do.  B.A.C.A. then gives the child their own kutte - a vest with a B.A.C.A. patch on the back and the child's new road name embroidered on the front - they are then patched in as a member of the club.  Unlike most motorcycle clubs that require members to wear their kuttes with pride, child members can choose to wear them or not - some not wanting to due to the stigma of having been abused.

In Saskatoon at the membership ceremony, B.A.C.A. members each hug a teddy bear and it is given to the child who is told that the bikers have put their love and caring into the bear, and when they're scared, they can hug the bear and feel that love and caring and know that their biker brothers and sisters are there for them.

But it doesn't stop there.

The child is then given two bikers as their own and is given their cell phone numbers and told they can call on them any time, day or night.  Those bikers belong to that child for as long as the child needs them.

Assigned B.A.C.A. members are called upon to fill many roles; sometimes it's simply a matter of riding their bikes past the child's home at bedtime - their Harley's thundering past, letting the child know that they are there for them always.

B.A.C.A. members have been called by children to spend time with them when they are home alone while their parents are at work; to walk them to school and home again; even to escort their school bus on their Harleys.  At times B.A.C.A. members will stand on guard outside a child's home all night to help them feel safe.

But perhaps the most important duty B.A.C.A. members have is to be with the child for any court appearances.  If a child has to testify against their abuser, B.A.C.A. members form a protective circle around the child and escort them to the witness stand.  They will then fill the front row of the courtroom and tell the child to look at them, not at their abuser when they testify.  Once the child is finished testifying, B.A.C.A. again forms a circle around the child and escorts him or her home.

"When a child is in a courtroom, their monster is in there with them." Tap told a reporter outside the Saskatoon courthouse, "But with us there, the child thinks 'I have my own monsters and mine are bigger and meaner than you are'."

If an abuser continues to harass or intimidate a child, B.A.C.A. members will organize a ride to the abuser's neighbourhood where they will post flyers and visit all the abuser's neighbours, explaining who they are, what they do, and why they are there.

Despite the biker stereotype, B.A.C.A. has a strict non-violence policy.  If an abuser ever confronts a B.A.C.A. member, their policy is to walk away.  That is of course, so long as the abuser doesn't try to hurt the child.

"We're kind of like barbed wire around the child." Tap said, "And if you try to get to that child ... well, you figure it out."

One of the most important things an abuser steals from a child victim is their sense of safety.  B.A.C.A. gives that safety back.  But B.A.C.A. gives more; acceptance of the child as a valued person; validation that what happened to them WAS a big deal and; that it wasn't their fault.

For more information on Bikers Against Child Abuse, drop by their website at Bikers Against Child Abuse.  And next time you pass a biker, flash him wave - he (or she) might just be one of the good monsters.

The Funeral ...

I mingled and made my greetings to the rest of the crew, keeping an eye on F_ and Jaimie and seeing they were being well taken care of by Tracy and Bets.

Funerals and wakes reveal the underlying nature of people as they perform their role upon the stage.  For those who truly loved the departed and that absence has yet to be processed, it is a confused and surreal ritual they navigate on autopilot while hoping they are trapped in a bad dream.  They have that distant haunted look, mistrustful of what is transpiring as they go through the motions and mouth the words that are expected of them.  You can see the desperate hope in their eyes that soon they will awaken and none of it will have been real.

But for the majority of people who gather in their best dark costumes and uncomfortable shoes, their sorrow is a performance - a social burden that they must carry as long as they can.  As the play begins they trot out the usual phrases spoken in gentle tones, none of which would survive any deeper scrutiny; ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, ‘She’s in a better place’, ‘You’re in my thoughts and prayers’, and the most false; ‘If you need anything - anything - just call’.  Then, during the second act the somber masks give way to grins then smiles, the hushed voices grow in volume and tone, the topic migrates from remembrance of the freshly dead to the comedy of daily life.

You can feel the buoyant mood overtake the crowd like a rising tide and no one gives voice to their most intimate and sincere thought; ‘Better her than me’, and there-in begins the third act.

"__&__"

Stardust ...

There is a certain look from religious people as they try to imagine the world of an atheist - a world without belief in their god - their personal awe, their wonder, their glory.  They do not understand how we can live in a world devoid of magic and the supernatural, and at times feel pity for those of us who believe only in scientific discovery and the wonder of the natural universe.  Their pity is unwarranted, because ... we are stardust

In the beginning all was chaos; without form; without shape; without direction - a celestial fog of bits of matter, lost in a timeless expanse of space .  Protons, neutrons, and electrons drifted through total darkness and in total darkness found each other and were compelled to begin a universal ballet that would be repeated over and over.  These small bits formed the first atoms - the seeds of all things; the stardust that would shape a universe.  The atoms’ small gravity drew them together to form the first molecules of carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen ... microscopic structures that would form the building blocks of the universe.  As they collected each other, heat began to form and from that heat time began to creep.

Over billions of years, the small collisions and tugs of minute gravity began to draw this stardust into a grand celestial waltz as natural as the dance of the first atoms - circling to form eddies, flowing, thickening.  Soon, large clusters in the centre of the eddies attracted more and more molecules and compressed itself to form a solid frozen ball with a gravity well that lighter clusters orbited around in the form of dust and gas, repeating the atomic dance to form the crucible of galaxies and within those, individual solar systems.  Order was forming out of the chaos; the universe began to resolve in form and shape and motion.

As the centres of the clusters attracted more and more mass, their internal pressure and heat grew and time accelerated.  These centres grew more dense and their gravity compressed them further and reached out to stabilized the eddies of matter that swirled around the centres until they too collapsed to form the planets.

Then something wondrous happened; the compression-generated heat within the great masses at the centre of each solar system reached a critical point and the once frozen balls of matter ignited and sent forth a blast of energy that stripped the atmospheres from the nearer planets and warmed those at mid distance.  This was the birth of light, and over millennia was repeated in a cascade across the universe, and that light held within it an infinite rainbow of colour.

Circling each new sun out past its planets in the farthest reaches of its solar maelstrom, frozen flakes of chemical compounds clustered and formed huge ice balls that fell into the gravity well, and as the new suns warmed them and blasted them with photons, the frozen gasses began to boil and mix as the comets drew perilously close, to calve and break into parts on their violent trip around the sun.  Some of the boiling mixtures formed a rudimentary long molecule of deoxyribonucleic acid, which was delivered to the planets as the comets’ broken parts crashed into their surfaces and reshaped their landscapes.  Strings of this DNA withered and died on rocky planets and joined the soup of gas giants, but on planets with liquid water it thrived and began its evolution.

DNA strands found each other and became longer and more complex, and over time they created single cell rudimentary creatures that at first drifted on the tides of the water worlds, then evolved to have the ability to move on their own.

The great comets continued to grow in the outer reaches and continued to fall into the gravity well and continued to impact the planets delivering new strands of the blueprints of life.  These massive collisions changed the planets, adding to the chemical mix, reshaping the land, and sometimes creating new chaos. These wet planets would never know calm, but the DNA of the small creatures allowed them to evolve to survive in their ever-changing environment.  Some evolved in place to become algae and later plants, others evolved to swim, to reproduce, to forage and hunt, and to change their local environment to suit their needs.

The branches that grew from the original DNA carried in a comet’s frozen core, spread and life became diverse.  Some branches died by either falling behind in their evolutionary journey or were obliterated through disaster, but those that survived grew stronger and more complex.

As the algae and plants left the water, borne on waves pulled by an orbiting moon’s gravity, they clung to rocks and soils and burrowed their roots deep.  Creatures who fed on these plants followed and evolved to be able to move on land, at first only to visit but eventually to inhabit.

Life flourished on these water worlds, and flourishing, evolved and diversified.  These life forms faced many challenges; ice ages; floods; fires; extinctions caused by more comet strikes, yet DNA survived and adapted.  Creatures a billion years deep in evolution developed rudimentary brains to ensure the survival of growing bodies – a brainstem to tend the body’s autonomic systems, then a Limbic Systems to promote survival of self and survival of species, and ultimately cognitive capability.

In cosmic time, the evolution of these advancing creatures was but a blink of an eye, but they did advance; forming community and social structure, developing curiosity about the world around them – learning how to make and use tools, to harness the elements, to grow food, to alter their environments in order to further their survival, and to stare at the glittering cosmos of the night sky and wonder at its beauty.  Like the bright objects they observed, they too were composed of stardust and longed to return to it.

The universal waltz will go on.  Things will change.  One by one, the suns will burst forth in bright agony as they die and collapse, becoming matter so dense that it will absorb what light remains.  The universe itself will slow then halt its expansion, then slowly, over billions, perhaps trillions of years will draw back to its original state; a cold, dense ball composed of protons, neutrons, and electrons in a timeless void, held tight in the grip of its own immense gravity.  And when the last molecule shatters to atoms and the last atoms lose their cohesiveness and join all the other matter held in that quivering mass, the tipping point will be reached and it will explode, sending its microscopic parts outward in a chaotic spray of matter that will begin this miraculous process once again.

This is our awe and wonder and glory, for we are stardust.

Let Me Tell You A Secret …

My next two novels will have mysticism and horror at their core which is a huge departure for me.  Yet my fans shouldn’t worry, both are still populated by crime and criminals.

One is BETWIXT (where the dead things go) in which my main character, Max dies in the first chapter and finds himself in a timeless land which occupies the thin border between life and oblivion, reality and nothingness.  In life, Max was an enforcer for an international motorcycle club and is used to being the one who is feared, but Max discovers fear himself for the first time in BETWIXT.

My current work in progress (which shall remain nameless until the date it’s published) is also steeped in mysticism and – one could say – horror.  My main character is the narrator who is murdered just past the halfway point of the story, yet keeps telling the tale.

It is peculiar for me to embark on these two projects because I do not believe in gods nor spirits nor unexplained things that go bump in the night.  I am a humanist – a civic humanist to be precise.  For me, the lower breed of humans in this world keep us well supplied with all the horror that is unimaginable.  I suppose that’s why we are drawn to horror novels, movies, and television shows; we know it’s make-believe so we can dip into it without damaging our sense of safety like a ten minute perusal of CNN headlines can.

Yet here’s  the thing – my secret; I have experienced two encounters that I cannot explain, both holding the cachet of the supernatural.  One was long ago when I was a field supervisor for a large security firm.  My patrol drivers all complained about a new contract for a deserted building, saying it was spooky and that they heard unexplained voices. They all believed it was haunted.  To prove them wrong, one night I did the midnight patrol.  As I walked through the centre of the floor I was on, not near any doors or windows, from just over my right shoulder I heard a man’s bemused voice say; “Well, well, well.”  I searched that building to ensure I was not being pranked by my patrol staff, but I was indeed alone with whatever made that distinct statement so close to my ear.

The other encounter was prolonged; I rented a house with a friend – 2288 Riverside Drive in North Vancouver.  It was a pleasant home with some odd occurrences; electric clocks that were running properly the night before would be running backward in the morning; my friend’s cat would react to something unseen in the hallways, hissing and sometimes screaming; we both caught movement in reflective surfaces out of the corner of our eyes constantly.  It hit its peak one night when I dreamed that a naked woman in her mid-thirties with a shag haircut – popular in the 70s – seduced me and led me to my bedroom.  As we made passionate love, she suddenly gripped me painfully and began to scream, her body gushing blood.  It was one of those dreams that felt real.

The next day when I told my friend about my dream, he paled; he had dreamt of the same woman in the same encounter the night before as well.

I don’t know if I encountered the psychic echoes left behind by living people or my own overactive imagination, I still do not believe in the supernatural.  But even though science has yet to prove that ghosts exist, it is fun to experience these things and tell our stories on dark and stormy nights to allow our hunger for fright to be satisfied.

Strong Women ...

With few exceptions, I endow my female characters with strength and determination.

Growing up, I was surrounded by strong women.  They had to be; the men in my family were mostly drunks and gamblers.  If you’ve read Little Gangsters, you’ve already met some of them.

Left high and dry with three young daughters in Tofield, Alberta during the great depression when her husband took a powder, my grandma became a moonshiner to make ends meet.  When she moved to Vancouver she became the only independent bootlegger in East Van and faced down the local mob boss with an unloaded shotgun - which so impressed him he took her under his wing.

Of her three daughters, one became my mom who would sneak a five or ten out of my dad’s wallet when he passed out drunk so she could pay the mortgage at the end of each month.  One of my aunts married a poor man and headed south, carving a ranch out of the woods above Tigard, Oregon.  The third sister gut shot her husband after he slapped her around at a party - he lived and she ended up in Essondale mental hospital.

My godmother was a strong woman as well; she had to be - she was married to one of Vancouver’s two mob bosses.  Last I saw her was at their 50th wedding anniversary, which is pretty good considering her father told her the man she married would leave her destitute and pregnant within six months.

When I was in my twenties I was shocked to learn that some men abused their wives and girlfriends and couldn’t wrap my head around why the women put up with it.  As mean as he was, I couldn’t imagine my dad ever raising a hand to my mom - he’d have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of his life.  Sure, he slapped me around at every opportunity, but hit my mom?  Never.

I guess even degenerate drunks have strong survival skills.

So it’s natural that my female characters be strong; Chelsea, young Jesse and grown Jesse, Angel, B_, the firecracker female lead in my current project, and Olive in BETWIXT are all amalgams of strong women I’ve known in my life.  Even Carrie – though beat down by her family and the world – showed a strong will where matters of the heart were concerned.

This all came naturally to me.

When I returned to college as an adult, I had to take a course called “Feminist Studies’ as part of my program.  I was convinced I was in for a semester of female radicalism, but instead I learned that I was already a feminist.  I just never thought of myself that way.

Now, with four granddaughters, I have become a radical feminist, and the state of the world being what it is, I think it’s time for the men in charge to leave the keys on the desk and let the women take over.  I truly think they’ll do a better job.

So this happened ...

And here's why; Click

MC Creation ...

How did I create Denny – my protagonist in the Gangster trilogy?

Denny began as an extension of myself mainly because all the stories in Little Gangsters are true – with a single exception – and most happened to me.  I even gave Denny my middle name.  That book was to be a stand alone novel and was originally titled; Little Gangsters of 7th Avenue, but Denny had a longer story to tell, so it evolved into the trilogy.

To assemble Denny I took the best and worst of myself and exaggerated both.  The abuse he suffered from a drunken father as a child left him filled with self doubt, always feeling lesser-than, never good enough, and filled with a barely suppressed rage against oppressors.  At the same time, with his damaged self-image, he developed a twisted idea that he could never aim above his station in life – that he could only be desirable to the broken people in this world and by casting himself in the role of a white-knight he could hold value in the eyes of those around him.  It was natural for Denny to become a leader amongst misfits, criminals, and as he refers to himself and his cohort; mongrels.  This is reflected in Little Gangsters through his drift away from his friendship with Timothy ‘the perfect boy’ toward Frankie, the boy who dreams only of becoming a gangster and who is destined to be Denny’s life-long partner in crime.

There was also the unexpected blossoming of Denny’s love for Carrie, a literally broken girl who is both beautiful and vulnerable, and who - for Denny - is perfect in her imperfections.  Denny’s love for Carrie is one he will hold precious for all of his days, even when his heart is shattered by the inevitable tragedy that is the final curtain for all white-knights.

Denny does his best to model himself on his first mentor; his godfather Al Di Napoli – a man who made every person he spoke to feel like they were the most important person in the world.  Because he grew up in a home broken by alcoholism and abuse, Denny is drawn to loyalty, valuing and offering it above all else and that fits with the milieux of the Di Napoli crime family - and it is a family for Denny; an idea he craves above all else.

Though Denny learns to control his childhood rages, they occasionally slip their leash; when trying to beat Freddy Santovich to death in Little Gangsters; the brutality during his fight with Rocco in Bigger Gangsters; the cavalier way he commits murder for hire in Millennial Gangsters.

In all three of the Gangster novels that span forty years of Denny’s life, each holds a central crisis for him and the resolution of each crisis changes Denny profoundly.  He is a man who is evolving, growing more comfortable in his own skin, and eventually finds the love and family he has searched for all of his life in the least likely place.

Denny also plays a central role in Gangster's Girl, but that is Jessie's story to tell, and has a cameo part in The Dog Don't Bark, where we meet him during his dark years.  For now though, I believe I am done with Denny's story, yet if another sequel does come to fruition in the future, I think it's best to begin that tale with Denny's funeral.

Aaron D McClelland

Penticton, BC

Author's Website

Death & Dying ...

“Jaimie and her mom shared a love of Shakespeare, and this sonnet seemed appropriate to honour her life and passing.”  I read;

“That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

It was during that reading that Jaimie finally allowed her sorrow to be set free, and cried silently with head bowed, and for her comfort F_ encircled her shoulders with one arm and drew her gently against him.  Others I saw were dabbing eyes discreetly as they listened to the sonnet while being aware of a daughter’s grief, yet the tears that welled in my own eyes were all for the pride I held for my son.  It was in that moment when I first saw the man he would become.

"__&__"