Writing In The Dark of the Year: All About Snakes

Week 2 of Writing in the Dark of the Year. For the first exercise we read Sylvia Plath's Rhyme and then we were asked to think of a story and give it a twist.

When we were in Coonoor, India, and going for walks with Mum on the Lamb's Rock road we would have "Snake Drills." Mum would call out, "Snake!" and we would have to freeze in whatever position we were in at that moment.

I saw my first snake at the ranch in the garden in 2023, a beautiful garter snake. I didn't know whether to freeze so I took a picture and shot it to Ivy and the Good Rancher. They both assured me that this snake wouldn't hurt me!

All this to say that the writing course I'm taking took a decidedly reptilian turn.

This is what I wrote:

Once upon a time in a land far away there was a garden, a garden full of the scent of eucalyptus, the sparkle of cinnamon, the punch of Tellicherry pepper.

Through the garden ran a river where fish would sparkle silvery in the cool, clear water. 

And the birds would flit and preen and coo. 

It was very good.

But there was a serpent in that garden, of course there was, hiding in the eucalyptus leaves, lying in wait for the innocent maiden who he knew would pass by him in the heat of the day. Surely she would notice him today. He would wait for her.

The maiden did come to the eucalyptus grove. She gathered her basket of leaves, piling them high as she breathed in their heady aroma. She paused for a word with her companion; and as she did, the serpent slithered surreptitiously into the basket of leaves, slid to the bottom with the faintest rustle, so soft the maiden never heard him.

She lifted the basket onto her head. It seemed heavier than usual, somehow. Maybe she was just tired, she thought to herself, as she trudged down the path to the factory.

She took her place in line, setting her basket down with a sigh.

From the depths of the basket appeared a sleek head with two obsidian eyes and a forked ruby tongue.

The maiden, lost in her thoughts, did not notice.

"Look at me now," the serpent hissed as his tongue flicked against her left heel and he made a loop around her ankle.

Almost faster than thought he wrapped himself around her, his head curling around about her neck, squeezing her in his vicious embrace.

The courtyard froze in horrified, helpless silence.

The girl, choking, petrified, fainted and fell to the ground as one dead. The snake exhaled, a victory hiss. She had noticed him. They all had noticed him. He had triumphed!

Slowly, slowly he unfurled himself from the maiden's supine body. He began to crawl away on his belly, back to the camouflage of the eucalyptus trees, back to wait for his next victim.

BOOM! The foreman's gun blew his head to smithereens.

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For the second exercise we look at a picture the facilitator has selected for that night's work. This is what she had selected for week 2:

(Untitled by Katerina Plotnikova)

She showed it to us after I had read my piece ... Because of this weird coincidence, I thought I would include the second piece I read to the group that evening. After looking at the picture and gazing at the fresh face of the young woman with the world-weary eyes, my mind was transported to that first garden in the Book of Genesis.

The first part of the next piece is clearly not my writing, as you can see. My comments start immediately following the old, familiar story:

Genesis 3:1-7 (The Message)

"The serpent was clever, more clever than any wild animal God had made. He spoke to the woman: 'Do I understand that God told you not to eat from any tree in the garden?'

"The woman said to the serpent, 'Not at all. We can eat from the trees in the garden. It's only about the tree in the middle of the garden that God said, 'Don't eat from it; don't even touch it or you'll die.'

"The serpent told the woman, 'You won't die. God knows that the moment you eat from that tree, you'll see what's really going on. You'll be just like God, knowing everything, ranging all the way from good to evil.'

"When the woman saw that the tree looked like good eating and realized what she would get out of it - she'd know everything! - she took and ate the fruit and then gave some to her husband, and he ate.

"Then they understood what they had done. And they realized that they were not wearing any clothes. So they took some leaves from fig trees and sewed them together to cover their nakedness."

The man went to work, tilling the soil, setting up empires, toiling until he dropped with exhaustion.

But the woman, with the weight of the serpent's words wrapped around her head, looked down through the generations with knowing, tired eyes.

And the guns roared and the bombs hissed and the buildings dropped and the mothers wailed, Rachel weeping for her children, unable to be comforted.

And so it continued for 100 days and counting.

And the fig trees - unwitting props in the drama between good and evil that began to rage that day in the garden - bowed their heads and withered in Gaza.