500 words Day 9 (Mundy's Story part IV)

As part of my participation in My 500 words, I am posting what I write each day. For the past 3 days, I have been sharing details of a character’s backstory from my novel in the works, Sidewinder. The previous entry is here.

     Mundy’s past was playing for him like a dream as he narrated it to the voices in the dark. The bliss that penetrated him like sunlight, along with the feeling of wellbeing by talking about himself was all he wanted to think about. But still, there was a place in his mind becoming more awake that wondered where he was and who were these people he was talking to.

     He had been born on a core world. He had shared about growing up in the shelter, but learning to steal out on the streets, falling in with the most powerful crime lord on the planet, and the man’s brutal justice to anyone who crossed him. After a few years, Mundy moved to the inner circle.

     By Mundy’s 18^th birthday, he was picking marks out of crowds. He participated in shell games and card games, scams and robberies. He was still one of the best pickpockets in any of Dean Handler’s crews.

     Then came the day Dean called Mundy into his office personally. He had a special job for him. There was a major religious personality visiting the core world. Dean Handler had been called out too many times by this preacher, so he wanted some items planted on this man, drugs that he preached against. Mundy had the deft ability to pick pockets, could he to a reverse job? Mundy was sure he could. He had put back wallets and other items before, into pockets and purses after taking cash or credits out.

     Dean Handler walked up and put his hands on Mundy’s shoulders. “If you get caught, they’re going to suspect you’re working for me,” he said. “And the penalty for holding Zee can land you away for a lot of years.”

     Mundy nodded. He knew.

     “If you keep your mouth shut,” Dean went on. “Your time locked up will be okay. No-one will mess with you, even the turn-keys. But if you talk about me, well, Mundy. You won’t get killed while you’re locked up, but you may wish for it, you know?”

     Mundy glanced into Dean’s face and the man put on a warm smile. “But you won’t talk if you’re caught,” he said. “I know you won’t. You’re a good kid.”

     Days later, Mundy was in the huge crowd pressing for a chance to see The Reverend Todd. Mundy had studied up on the man and the religion he’d taught. The shelter he’d lived in as a kid had talked about Jesus and sin and that sort of stuff.

     Reverend Todd was surrounded by bodyguards. But he was letting people come up and shake his hand, some people hugged him. Mundy made his way through the people, some so emotional they were crying. He picked up on the tone and put on a star struck smile, letting his breath be shallow so that tears came.

     The crowd was making its way toward passport control, where they would all have to stop except for the reverend and his entourage. Passing through the gate is where people were searched. Mundy had to get to him before that.

     Pushing around some older folks, Mundy slipped the small package up his sleeve where it fastened to a catch, in moments, he was face to face with the famous preacher who had both hands extended, people shaking both of them. Mundy let his face show awe, sadness, and hope. Here was someone who needed a reassuring hug. Reverend Todd caught his eye and his smile became more subtle. He put both arms around Mundy, and Mundy hugged him back. As soon as the expected, pats on the back came from the reverend, Mundy moved his arm past the man’s pocket and dropped the package.

     “God bless you, son,” Reverend Todd said as he let go. Mundy nodded. The relieved look he had didn’t have to be faked. He started off away from the direction of the crowds. He had done it, now to get to a place to lay low for a day.

     Moving against the motion of the crowd was slow going. Mundy could see the apartments across the far street where there was a basement he knew he could duck into. The hole in the people was almost there. The crowd had stopped moving.

     And a hand fell on his shoulder. Mundy’s feet broke into a run, but he went nowhere. The hands turned him around to see the reverend looking at him, along with several bodyguards and most of the crowd, that was quieting down.

     The reverend’s hand was in his pocket and the look on his face was like a man who had been sold spoiled food. He nodded to the man holding Mundy, and the man pushed up both of Mundy’s sleeves. On his right wrist, there was the empty catch.

     “Bring him to my car,” Reverend Todd said. We can delay take off for a spell. I want to talk to that poor young man.”

  

500 words- day 8 (Mundy's Story Part III)

As part of my participation in My 500 words, I am posting what I write each day. Mundy Gilbert is a character in my novel in the works, Sidewinder. I’ve been telling his backstory for the past two days here. This entry continues Mundy’s Story.

     Mundy was being questioned. He felt more relaxed than he knew possible. The only feeling he could liken this to was the bliss one feels being half awake from a nap. He was aware of the darkness and quiet. He thought perhaps his eyes were closed. Voices came from the darkness and asked him about his past. It felt good to talk about himself and his past. He had already shared about growing up in the shelter on a core world, taking to the streets and learning to pick pockets. When he accidently robbed a crime lord, he was hired on to work for Dean Handler, the most powerful gangster on Channel.

     The differences between the street gangs Mundy had run with and the gang he was with now were few. One of the main things was that his older gang was warmer, more friendly. These guys took things more seriously. There was accounting and people wanting to know where he was going. Mundy caught on though. Structure was good.

     In less than a week, he was working street games in the transportation hubs. Sometimes there was a shell game, with a ball under a cup. Mundy could be a lookout and sometimes he was a plant, a person who pretended to win so that others would come and lose. Mundy learned card games and how to cheat at them. He was still too young to join up on high stakes games, but he could spot cheats in other games and point them out to his team.

     For the first few years, he never saw Dean Handler. The crime lord had plenty of people working for him that came and checked on the underlings. But one day, the big man who had been there when Mundy was recruited showed up. Everyone called this man Spelunk, and the room fell silent when he came in. West, one of the leaders of Mundy’s street team, got up and made for the back door. Spelunk told him to stay where he was, and West did.

     Mundy sat in the chair telling the voices in the dark about what happened, but when he got to this part, it was no longer pleasant. West had been beaten almost to death while the rest of the crew watched. Mundy had never seen anything that bad. At the time, he cried, but telling it in this quiet dark, he could stay calm.

     When the beating was done, Spelunk took off his gloves. Mundy felt a big fist pull his chin up and he was looking into the big face, which looked amused and disgusted.

     “Quit your bawling, you baby,” Spelunk said. Then he flung the bloody gloves in Mundy’s face.

     Mundy sat in the chair, eyes closed and reflected. “I tried never to cry after that,” he said to the voices in the dark.

     He never saw West again, but it was made clear that West was stealing off the profits.

     Then a year later, Mundy was busted by the bulls for holding stolen goods. Down at the police station, he stayed quiet, played dumb, and told the cops nothing. When he was let out, his crew boss met up with him and told Mundy how good he’d done. Dean Handler himself heard about how Mundy could side step questioning and told nothing. Mundy didn’t know how Dean found out what happened within the walls of the cop shop, but he had heard everything.

Days later, Mundy was living in a new place, over a restaurant where he could get a meal 3 times a day. His job hadn’t changed, but the guys he worked with did. These new guys were friendlier with each other, and soon to Mundy too.

Dean Handler personally came by once a month and talked to anyone there. The first time he saw Mundy, he remembered his name and gave his shoulder a pat.

     Mundy felt like he could stay there forever. And yet, as he sat in the dark room talking to the voices, he remembered that it only lasted a few years. And because of what he had done, Mundy was never going back.  

  

500 Words-day 7 (Mundy's Story part II)

As part of my participation in My 500 words, I am posting what I write each day. Today‘s entry continues Mundy’s story. Part one is here.

    
     Mundy knew he was sitting in a dark room with a gentle bliss flowing around him. Voices were asking him questions and for some reason, he felt happy to answer them. Maybe it was this blissful feeling, or maybe it was just that no-one had ever really listened to him talk about himself and his past before. He had told them about growing up in a shelter, being bullied and eventually turning to the streets, where he discovered he had a talent for picking pockets. Then came the day that he found himself holding a billfold with more cash than he thought even existed in the world. Without knowing it, he had robbed a crime lord.

     Mundy went to the hideout of the gang that he usually turned over his take to. In the deep slums of town, people lived in the streets. Everyone knew each other here. Outside of the broken down rail depot, Rags, the skinny old man who was always there stopped Mundy.

     “Word’s out kid,” he said. “Someone lifted from Dean Handler.”

     Rags was blind, but still, Mundy made sure the fat billfold was secure against his inner thigh. He looked toward the hideout entrance.

     Rags went on, “The boss says stay scattered. He don’t know you guys. Whoever done it, they’s not going to live long anyway.”

     Mundy’s mind raced. Where was he going to go? Could he buy a ticket off-world?

     “If ‘twere me that done it,” Rags said. “I might try hopping a transport off world. But if Dean catch you first, well then you get buried in the ground instead, maybe still a little bit living when the dirt cover you up.”

     Rags beckoned Mundy closer. Mundy stepped forward and looked at the dark man’s white eyes. This man had told stories. He knew the score.

     “If was me,” Rags said as if they were the only two in a room. “I would march it back. Dean probably be right where he ws when he got lifted. Maybe if someone got moons enough to give back what he stole, Dean don’t kill him.”

     “Yeah,” Mundy said. “That’d be good.”

     He had nowhere to go. What else was there? So in a short while, Mundy was walking through the city center. And there at the entrance to the fancy restaurant, the frowning man stood, hands on hips. There was a stretch hover next to him, probably full of his goons. Mundy kept his eyes down as he approached. When he reached Dean Handler, he looked up to see the man had been watching him. Making slow moves, Mundy extracted the billfold and held it out, waiting for Dean to snatch it. Instead, another hand took it from the window of the hover. Mundy looked to see a slender old man open the billfold and count every note. He nodded and handed it to Dean.

     “Undisturbed,” he said. “All of it’s there. No tracers.”

     Mundy felt hands clap on his shoulders. He tried to turn and look behind him, but he was being held firmly in place.

     “Why did you bring it back, kid?” Dean Handler said. His voice had the crisp sharpness of a core world businessman.

     “I didn’t want it,” Mundy said. “I… just wanted to have a little money.”

     “You did a good job pulling it off me, you know?” Dean said. “Who do you work for?”

     Mundy paused for a moment, the pressure on his shoulders tightened.  

     “It’s okay kid,” Dean said. “Whoever it is, they probably work for me anyway, or I get a cut. They did right by refusing to take that in. And you got moxie, kid. Bringing that straight back to me. Look at me.”

     Mundy looked up into the man’s face, the shaped dark beard offset the bald head and sharp brows. Dean looked him up and down.

     “I think you’ll do well,” he said. “You’re working for me now.”

     Without another word, Dean Handler turned and got into the hover. The door shut and it sped off. Mundy finally managed to turn around to see the mountain of a man, unsmiling, holding his shoulders.

     “I’m going to let go now,” he said. His voice, less refined, sounded like it was an effort just to speak and stand at the same time. “You’re not going to run away.”

     “Where’re we going” Mundy asked.

     But the caveman didn’t answer. They made their way out of the city center on foot. That day, Mundy went to work for the biggest crime lord on the core world.

  

500 Words-day 6 (Mundy's Story Part I)

As part of my participation in My 500 words, I am posting what I write each day. What follows is an alternative version of a scene from Sidewinder with a character’s backstory.

     Mundy remembered bliss like this before. This was the feeling he remembered from waking up from a nap, and then knowing he didn’t have to go anywhere or do anything and could even go back to sleep. He hadn’t felt that ecstasy until recently in his life when he took long afternoon naps on the cruise ship.  His life before that had never allowed for that.

     He made no effort to think about where he was, but hunger began to pique at him, and there were sounds happening around him. He felt that he was in a seated position and his eyes were closed. His mouth felt funny. He remembered something about his mouth. It had been hurting before, right? But when was before? What had happened? He remembered something else too, this thought had been with him all along. He had done some bad things, betrayed people. The bliss sank away, replaced by guilt. Yes, someone had hurt him, but he had deserved it.

     “What’s your name son?” a voice spoke.

     It seemed right that they would ask him that, whoever they were.  He wanted to admit how bad he’d been. 

     “I’m a sidewinder,” he said. Because that’s what he had been, a traitor.

     There was a commotion around him. Maybe they were getting ready to hurt him some more, but Mundy was still too relaxed to move. Let them do what they would.

     More questions came, but they asked about his past. Mundy found himself walking back on the streets of the core world he’d been born on. There was the shelter, the place with the beds and the food and lots of other kids. The girl who probably had been his mom who stayed for a little while, but then never came back. He tried to be included with other boys. Sometimes they let him and sometimes not. Someone kept taking his shoes. They had two pairs and he had none. He learned to hide food and eat it where no-one could find him. Sometimes he got out of the shelter.

     Out on the streets, he met some other boys who stole things. They learned that Mundy had an “angel touch” and could pick pockets and purses better than anyone. Mundy began to steal for them and they gave him shoes as well as food.

     Mundy sat in the chair in the dark with people talking to him. It felt good to answer their questions. Their voices were gentle. What’s more, it felt good to go back and recall these days. He used to think about them a lot, but he had never really had anyone who wanted to listen to him talk about these things.

     He talked more about how he had lived at the shelter, but spent a lot of time out on the street too. He lifted things from people, but he never kept anything to himself. What good was money to him? The gang he reported to fed him better than the shelter and that was better.

     Then one day he saw a man arguing with a woman. They were being loud and the man was distracted. Mundy sidled alongside him and waited for the man to move. Mundy matched the man’s movement pulled a heavy billfold, and slipped behind the crowds until he could run down an alleyway.  

     When he was a safe distance, Mundy opened the billfold. There was more cash in there, local currency as well as Alliance Credits, than Mundy had ever seen. There was no ‘dent and no code cards, just enough cash to buy maybe enough food to feed everyone at the shelter for 100 years.

     Mundy felt fear rip through his heart. He had robbed a crime lord.

  

500 Words-day 5 (Cancer)

As part of my participation in My 500 words, I am posting what I write each day.

With most of my writing, I try to offer some kind of answer or solution to whatever I’m talking about. If it’s a life story, I might say how it changed me. I don’t have an answer today. It’s just what I’m thinking about.

     When Naomi was diagnosed with cancer, the doctors kept calling it Neuroblastoma, so I did too. When I called a friend out of state to ask for prayers, that was the first time I said it. “Naomi,” I said, then I paused with the realization. “Has cancer,” I managed to get out.

     Some people want to personify cancer or imagine it as some awful beast. They talk about battling cancer, fighting it as if it’s in a boxing ring, or maybe more accurately fighting it like a knight and a dragon. It’s all about winning the fight, losing the fight means losing your life.

     But I read something in of all places, a young adult fiction book. One doesn’t win over cancer for any other reason than the right medical care, the grace of God, and sometimes just pure luck. Sometimes those factors fall into place for people and the cancer is overcome. Other times…no.

So here I’m going to say something that I believe is true, no matter how utterly horrible it sounds.  Sometimes this happens: No matter how hard someone fights, no matter how much they want to live, and yes, regardless how much prayer is being lifted up, they die anyway. They die anyway.

Naomi fought like a furious animal sometimes when it just came to a needle stick. One time it took four nurses and me to hold her down. And when that happened, I couldn’t help but be proud of her. I saw what a fighter she was. If cancer was a personified being, she would have cleaned its clock. Naomi got superior medical care and responded to it. She went into remission twice. But the cancer kept coming back.

And prayer. We had friends around the world praying for her. I prayed all the time. Every time I saw a falling star I would say a prayer instead of making a wish. There was no shortage of prayer for her. But still, she’s gone.

I don’t like to imagine cancer as a monster to be fought. It’s human cells dividing and multiplying in a way they’re not supposed to. Cancer has no evil mind that malevolently selects victims, letting some live and taking others. And in many cases, it’s no-one fault that it happens. While plenty of cancers are brought on by unhealthy lifestyles, many others, including the ones that affect children, just happened.

And this week a family lost a wife and mom. There’s no making sense of it. She didn’t want to die, she got medical care and we prayed for her and she died from the cancer just the same.

I struggled for years with God over losing Naomi. And I finally had to just keep believing in His love and His sovereignty, regardless of what I felt. Some things, there’s no understanding. Why the fall of man included diseases that create empty chairs at the family table is something I will never understand.