The Snake Machine
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The snack machine ponders John's crumpled dollar for a second or two, then ejects it. He fishes in his pockets for a flatter bill, and, finding none, he just ha to waste another few more seconds of his afterlife to smooth out that dollar. On the next try, the snack machine complies and burps out the last bag of Munchos he'll ever eat. John takes a few steps away from the machine and indulges in the heavenly taste, cloudy white wisps curling at his feet. Feast finished, John lets the empty bag flutter to the ground. At that instant, a cackling, fiery chasm opens under his feet. Half-chewed chips fly out of his mouth as he screams, falling much like that abandoned bag, into whatever stygian abyss awaits him below. Cassie doesn't catch any of this occurring. She is busy counting her change and meditating on the balance between her slim figure and the snack that would taste better than starch, cardboard and a pinch of salt. A tap on her shoulder makes her whirl. “Um, excuse me, ma'am.. spare any leftover change?” Cassie tries not to make contact with the dismal, despairing eyes she imagines to be two broken wheels rolling nowhere. “I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm using the exact amount-“ But something within this anxious gaze pulls her deeper in, and she glimpses under a harsh truth a gentler, secret one. There, under the dirt, soaked in fresh beginning, with mother's smile a child is given an apple, who, where… is such bright sunlight possible? Cassie is caught in the eyes behind the eyes, bright and radiant, last dollar on her outstretched palm. A halo of granola appears over Cassie's head. She ascends, so narrowly just having avoided the fate of reincarnation as a public restroom water fountain. Evan pounds on the constipated monolith, trying to get his half-ejected Twix to fall. God, he thinks, this is just like that freakin' Corn Pops commercial! Salvation arrives when he discovers that his Twix-loving ex has been standing behind him in line all this time. She'll bail me out, he thinks with an internal smirk as he puts on for her the look of a hungry child from Somalia. Alas, Hell hath no fury like a chick who orders a NutriGrain Bar to prove to him that she is over it! It's stuck-snack purgatory for these two. Sam approaches the machine with a wily contrivance: George Washington with a hole in his head, tied to a string. He confidently dips the coin into the slot, and .25 appears on the little black screen. Again, the number jumps to .50. But for Sam, good things don't come in threes, for on the next try, the quarter is stuck. He fruitlessly yanks on the string. A sudden, compelling jerk comes from the machine's cabalistic intestines, and Sam, breaking down into the most basic particles of his being, is sucked through the slot. “Enjoy the snack,” smirks the display. The line of souls slithers on into the cloudy distance, it inhabitants like millions of scales that gleam with human patterns that rise and shatter back into chaos, as some fiendishly calculate their sodium/calorie/fat intake and others try to cut in line, as some talk and others stare off into the distance, as coins are being lent and borrowed, dropped and picked up, stolen and given away.. actions cycling like this for thousands of years, ever since the original sin. Like most, Eva is only vaguely aware of how she got here, how lon she's been standing in line, or how this money got to be in her pockets. All she knows is that her turn has come. She looks over the boundless horde of treats being offered to her, each item leading its own phalanx of dazzling, never-ending clones – tangy, artificially-flavored fruit imposters, sweet-talking bags of giddy “fat-free!” and “low-cal!” temptations. Why am I here? She wonders. Why have I been standing in this line all this time? I definitely know I am hungry, but… for what? She motions for the person behind her to go ahead, and begins to walk away from the machine empty-handed. The line begins to shift and murmur. “Huh? Where's she going? She hasn't ordered anything!” “But this is… the line. You gotta order something. Why else would we all be standing here?” “What's she going to do with all her money?” “Foolish girl just lost her turn! It'll be another millennium before she's up again.” Eva continues on, the whispers behind her slowly rising to bewildered shouts. NO one had ver seen such behavior before. “What makes her so special that she can just walk?” “This is blasphemy!” She flings open the door and sunlight floods her face. She didn't realize until now how dark it was back there, how dry was the air. Soft grass grazes her feet and an orchard of exquisite trees stretches out to infinity. Light filters through the delicate leaves, tracing their sweet patterns with gold, brighter than the most luminous stars back on earth. Is such bright sunlight possible? Just then, it hits her. Already behind her, back in that stuffy room, a few people are gaining a vague intuition of what has just struck her mind like a shockwave. Tentative steps break souls away from the winding line. She caresses the soft fruit, tantalizing, just within reach, and a surge of enlightening sparks passes through her fingertips. She sees that things can be different this time around. Already some brave people are rushing out through the door, away from the cold, whirring mechanism of their now-powerless judge. I have moved beyond the opposites. Eva swims in uncertainty and ecstasy and remorse all at once, yearning, waiting, hoping, as her trembling hand reaches for the Forbidden Fruit. Nadya Lev
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