Disruptive Compassion

Be kind always.

I believe a person should be kind whenever possible; as the saying goes, it is always possible. Be kind to everyone, Man and beast alike.

It is easy to be nice to people who can do things for you. It feels right to be nice to those who are beautiful, and sometimes people find it easy to be kind to those who can help them.

But, it is more important to be kind to those who can never pay you back. Be nice to the downtrodden, and be nice to the unfortunate. This is how you disrupt the evil in the world.

Radical Kindness.

Disruptive Compassion.

Smile at the person who looks grumpy. Ask the person who looks like they’ve been crying, and actually listen. I have had days where I’ve burst into tears because the cashier at McDonald’s was nice to me; it felt like it turned my life around.

My mother calls this staving off the heat-death of the universe. It may not be possible to save the world, but you just might be able to save a life with your kindness.

Be kind always.

The Name on the Napkin

“Hey! You left this!” Malloy called out after the woman in the red dress who was hurrying out of the place. She was dressed too nicely to be here now; to be here at all. He’d seen her scribbling on it just before she paid her tab and left. It seemed important.

He reached for it, careful not to smear the ink with his damp fingers; from sweat or the condensation from his beer, he didn’t know. The limp two-ply paper flopped over the back of his hand in the humid, Tuesday afternoon bar air.

Malloy shouldn’t be here. He should be at work. Too bad he didn’t have a job at the post office anymore. Going postal wasn’t a phrase used too much these days.

This made it all the more like catnip to the new agencies when he did what he did. “Going postal” was trending on every trend-tracking system there was. He was famous.

Well, infamous.

He hadn’t hurt anyone. He hadn’t pulled a gun on a post customer or something stupid. He’d just set his mail truck on fire.

Really, it was nothing.

Malloy had parked it in the parking lot of a closed-down mall and used six gallons of gasoline to saturate every inch of the cursed vehicle. It was hell on wheels, literally. Day in and day out, he left little chunks of his soul in the cracked pleather seats.

Either it went or he did.

Once he got the fire going, Malloy sat down in a camp chair a safe, roasty-toasty distance away and roasted marshmallows until the authorities and fire department came. He forgot the graham crackers and chocolate. It was a damn shame.

He was out on bail now. He wasn’t sure how long cirrhosis of the liver took to kill you, but he was determined to let it take hold of him. He liked to imagine he could feel the organ in question harden to stone.

Malloy flipped the napkin upright so he could read it. Her handwriting was loopy and uninhibited and accented by a lipstick kiss.

You’re my hero XOXO

-Aryia

Her phone number was listed too. He pulled out his phone and dialed. Maybe cirrhosis could wait.

The Stop Light

Ascher squeezed their eyes shut and pushed their head against the headrest of their 2008 Honda Hoopty. They wished they could turn on the A/C.

But, they couldn’t. It was broken. Again.

The driver of the car behind them was shouting and banging their hands on the steering wheel of their black SUV. It looked like the kind that the bad guys would drive single-file in a generic action movie.

Ascher just shrugged and turned the music louder. When did the songs that were popular in high school become classics? How was that possible?

Sure it was possible with the linear nature of time and all, but it didn’t seem right. It was like the gray hairs sprouting up around their temples. It was inevitable, if somehow also improbable-feeling.

“When did I get old?” they asked themself. There were perpetual bags under their eyes and their graying hair seemed mousier than it was when they got their car for a graduation present.

It was new then, with all the bells and whistles. Ascher liked to joke that it had some features only known to the great apes of the Congo. It was a lame joke that almost never garnered a laugh, but they couldn’t seem to stop telling it.

Until the new-new came out.

Then things were different. What was once cool was no longer, and the hip thing was passé. Their car was passé. Their music was passé.

Ascher was passé.

It felt like the world was passing them by. Years ago, they were at the top of their class. Now they were stuck in a dead-end job that felt like it was slowly killing their soul.

The driver in the SUV behind them started blaring their horn. Ascher looked up. The light was still red. It hadn’t changed.

It didn’t feel like this light was ever going to change..

The Wraith

The room is dark, just like I like it. The light hurts my eyes and makes my insides twitch.

I walk across the dark to the pantry. The power could be out for all I knew of care. Right now, I don’t miss it.

The dark and the cold make me feel like I’m still alive, instead of this cursed, half-life.

I hear the muffled screams as I get to the pantry- music to my withered ears.

I don’t grasp the doorknob like some clumsy boy on prom night. No, instead, I caress it gently, lovingly.

I want to savor the next few minutes.

Eventually, I have to open the door, but when I do all the fun will be over.

Sighing, I open the door.

Inside there’s a woman, maybe all of twenty-six years. I’ve bound and gagged her.

Her pretty auburn hair is hanging down over her face in luscious tendrils. I coax one back behind her ear. Her pale, frightened face looks at me, terror twisting her features.

I stroke my fingers down her cheek. It’s wet and clammy from all the tears she’s cried. I wipe my hand on my pants before I kiss my fingers and press them to her temple.

She squirms and tries to twist away. I smile. She can’t, the space is too small.

I reach for her gag.

I want to hear her lovely voice scream. I want her to sing out her terror.

I do, and she does.

Pleasure, rich and dark, fills my empty veins.

I crouch down before her and she spits in my face. I smile.

They always taste better when they’ve got a little spirit in them. 

I tip my head back and shake down my fangs. They click into place like a magazine on a gun.

I look back at her and she screams.

She should.

If I could still see myself, I’d probably scream, too.

I thrust my face forward, like a rattlesnake.

She screams again and my mouth waters. I penetrate her lovely, pale skin with a little too much pressure.

I need to learn to pace myself. Next time, I suppose.

I lap at the warm river that flows out. It tastes like heaven and hell, damnation and redemption.

As her screams die with her, I force myself to stop.

I need to remember rule one: Never drink from the dead.

Hemingway and Rock

As I sit at my computer, listening to Cheap Trick, it occurs to me that I have arrived. No, I’m not published yet, but I wrote a novel. I spent every spare minute writing and writing until it was all there. I did it.

Now, I’m at the hard part- revisions and editing. I’ve never made it to this stage before with any of my writing. Usually, when I finish a piece and go back and reread it, I just feel like crying.

Not this time.

I think it’s different this time because it’s so personal to me. I’ve had to take a multi-pronged Hemingway-esque approach to it.

1. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.

2. Write hard and clear about what hurts.

3. There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

It’s been so hard, and yet so easy to get it all out of my head. The words want to flow out of me like water. I just have to be near something to write with when it happens.