http://home.comcast.net/~cutuphalfdead/charity.txt

This was recently published in the Alembic, which is the literary journal published by Providence College.



I woke up on a bus in Syria. My eyes opened to meet the darkness
of the window, darkness broken by dabs of white light. The darkness
of open poverty wasn’t like the darkness back home. Opening my eyes
didn’t feel like opening them at all, but like someone sprinkling
sugar on my darkness. Good sugar too, not the kind you put in your
coffee, but the kind you sprinkle on your fried dough. It tasted
like baking soda.
I looked onto the horizon to see the sun rolling over the line
of sand. I couldn’t see the sun very well. It was shining through the
windshield, blocked by the dark grizzly head of the bus driver.
As the bus approached the lonely city, incoherent cries leaked
through the open windows. We were a bus full of over privileged fucks.
Annoyed by the lack of any decent air conditioning, and frustrated by
the heat of the wind rushing through our hair. I was embarrassed for
us, embarrassed for the two nuns sitting three rows in front of me.
They were proud of their conviction, of their humility. They were
sweltering beneath those heavy habits without breaking their Christian
smile as sweat poured off their faces.They only got worse as the city
approached. The distant cries had now grown with intensity and
audibility. They were cries desperately shrill and feminine. The cries
of four thousand tortured old ladies and starving infant children. The
smiles soon faded from the nuns’ faces. A look of deep concern overtook
their godly faces, as the cries became clear.
“Food…please…hungry” they cried over and over again in broken
English. They only three words they know.The nuns were thrilled, though
they’d never admit it. Thrilled to put their compassion, their humility,
into action. They eagerly rummaged through their bags, retrieving four
sandwiches. As the bus slowed around a corner, the nuns instinctively
reached out their windows, passing their charity to a young, weathered
woman and her three hungry children.
“Those bastards!” I thought, amazed at how they could be so cruel,
so selfish, so naïve. Did they honestly believe that a small assortment of
tuna fish and dried vegetables would help these people? What kind of
nourishment could that bring? It’s a tease, it’s a goddamned tease and
they’re too proud to even see past their own selfish humility.
I wanted to get up. I wanted to walk over there and beat the two of them
senseless. I wanted to kill them with my own hands. “No”, I thought, “Fuck
them, I’ll show those motherfuckers how to save these impoverished souls.”
I reached into my money belt and quickly grabbed a wad of bills. I flipped
through the wad to get a rough count, nearly $2000 of cold, hard, American
currency. I looked out the window to find my target, the object of my charity.
I see her up ahead, a middle aged looking woman who’s probably only
pushing 19. In her arms is her crying baby and at her feet is her raggedly
dressed son. He looked like he was 13 years old and barely 40 pounds. As
the bus approaches my eyes meet hers. I can see, no, I can feel the
desperation in her hardened eyes peering through her dark veil. The bus
passes as I extend my arm to pass her my money. Time moves at a fraction
of its standard speed and all eyes dart of the green gold. Three other
women, three other mothers of starving infant babies dive for the
shimmering paper like starving wolves for a morsel of raw meat. The mothers
dive as the babies fly, tiny bodies soaring through the air. The three of
them crash to the street and are instantly sucked under the wheels of my
slowly speeding bus. Blood spurts everywhere, much of which lands the bus’s
windows, with a drop hitting the bridge of my nose. The bundle of green
explodes as hands reach to the air, neglecting all previous duties. It’s a
shower of red and green and my bus drives on, leaving behind poverty’s
carnage. I turn my head as my bus speeds off, following the frenzy with my
eyes until it is clear out of sight.
Time resumes and the nuns pray.

This is a brilliant and a very insightful piece of social commentary. I liked the way that towards the end of the piece the authorial voice was still descriptive and yet somewhat detached, and by detached I mean not overly emotive, almost like there is a lack of surprise at the reaction to money and the abandoning of responsibilities. What I'm trying to get at here is that alot of the impact comes from what is not said and what you have left up to the reader to fill in, this can be a very powerful tool.
Anyway, I apologise if this makes no sense, I'm very tired and have a headache but I think this was brilliant.

is this real? something you saw or heard? if your aim was to shock, well, you were successful. only detachement this time seems oddly disrespectful, because those things really happen and yet they don't. i don't know, maybe i'm just cranky with pain.

It makes perfect sense. Of everything I have ever written this is what I am most proud of. It doesn't have a real point, or a real plot. It stemmed from a thought I had one day about how charity can sometimes be selfish, and even when it isn't it doesn't always do the good we want it to and can sometimes make things worse. The only real goal I had with this was to tell a story. That's what I like, stories for the sake of stories.



This is not real. I have never been to Syria or anywhere remotely like it. I never heard of this ever happening though I know things like this happen every day. Like I said in response to the other reply, I just wanted to tell a story based on a cynical thought I had one day.