The Apple

She walks slowly through the garden, as her gentle feet dance over the cool, dew-dropped grass. Her powdery-white skin, unbeknownst to her, radiates as she steps closer to the tree. It towers above her, sturdy and solemn, while its low-lying fruit shines brightly in the mid-day sun. Perfectly round and golden, the apples beckon her forward.

The snake slithers next to her, and follows her as it glides over the grass. She gets closer to the tree and slows down her pace. She comes to a complete stop, as she stands in front of the tree. The tree shines forth in full splendor, as it emits a soft light.

She reaches forth, slowly and unsure. She pauses. She looks down at the snake, as it is slithering towards her. It slowly wraps itself around her ankle, up her calf. It quickly glides past her thigh and around her hips. It shoots up her back and perches on her neck. Slowly its mouth gets ever closer to her ear. The snake softly hisses in her ear, “s-s-s-surely one bite cannot hurt.”

Her arm rises with trepidation. Her elbow curves, as her slender arm reaches toward the branch with the lowest-hanging fruit. The apple, almost within her grasp, begins to radiate in a reddish-golden hue. The snake has coiled itself around her outstretched arm, as her hand closes around the glowing orb.

As her fingertips touch the apple, a blinding white light engulfs her palm. It runs down her arm as she pulls the fruit from its branch. The warmth of the glowing orb covers her whole body, as she brings the fruit closer to her mouth. The snake, which is coiled on her steadily closer arm looks into her eyes. “Jus-s-s-t one bite,” it hisses.

She takes a bite and closes her eyes.

The instant her teeth close on the orb, she is overcome with an onslaught of images. It is an overflow of black. Images of war, famine and pestilence. Armies marching in unison. Villages burning. Hatred rising. The shadows of Inquisition. The horror of Genocide. The stain of Holocaust. Twin towers collapsing. Mushroom clouds expanding. Images of faces to be known. Hitler saluting. Stalin in his full regalia. Pol Pot’s killing fields. The Cossacks sweeping across Europe’s plains. The Intahamye sharpening their machetes to march on Kigale. The janjaweed ravaging across Darfur. Faces etched with prejudice. Eyes showing fear. Hearts filled with rage.

Eve trembles amid the weight of the imagery. She is overwhelmed, but is unable to move. She shakes, writhing in pain.

The archangel Gabriel looks down from above and sees her. He sighs, as a single teardrop rolls down his marble face. He plucks two feathers from his outstretched white wings, and drops them. A gentle wind slowly floats the feathers down to the garden.

The first feather lands on the snake, which goes limp and falls to the grass below.

The second feather lands on her head.

Now an overflow of white flashes before her eyes. Images of charity, mercy and goodness. Faces of righteousness. Images of faces to be known. Dr. Martin Luther King roaring in perfect cadence. Mother Theresa handing soup to the masses. Gandhi sitting cross-legged in a solitary cell. Faces etched with kindness. Eyes showing integrity. Hearts filled with compassion. Absolute justice and mercy.

White becomes red, as she is bombarded with images of life. Blood pulsating through veins. Birth pangs. Life pushing down from the womb. Age overtaking life. Death overtaking age. The overflow of red becomes the golden light of knowledge.

Eve falls.

She awakens to her own nakedness, as she is sprawled on the grass. Eve opens her eyes. She squints, as her eyes are sensitive to the light around her. She can barely keep her eyes open. Sounds are pounding all around her, and she is overpowered by the new reality around her.

Eve gets up, her hand clenches tight around the apple. She takes a step, then another. Her pace quickens. She is searching.

Eve finds him. She looks directly into his eyes. “Adam, my love, “ she softly whispers in his ear, “jus-s-s-t one bite. S-s-s-surely one bite cannot hurt….”

La Naranja del Palacio de Gobierno

What are you in for?
-Stealing an orange from the Governor`s Palace.

They toss people in jail for that?
-Only the hungry ones.

Any plans to get out?
-Yeah, I`m working on it.

What do you have in mind?
-Do you always ask so many questions?

Only of people who give answers.
-Fair enough. I heard something about a priest who has been agitating. Trying to free the slaves and overturn the order that enslaves us all. A pox on the crown and their viceroys! A pox on the governernor- that mandarin mandarin, and his beautiful orange fields while we starve in the streets.

What is the name of this priest?
-His name is Father Hidalgo. He speaks the voice of God, but not like they do. He does not use the Church to keep us down, but rather to bring us up. He does not close his eyes and recite mass while the masses lay hungry and dying. He calls for, even screams for, our independence and our freedom.

Was it at least a good orange?
-The greatest. It would have made the Valencians grow grapefruits for shame. It was sweet as life, and succulent as a virgin on her quinceañera. The juice ran down my arm like the blood in my veins; like the blood of revolution.

What is your name?
-They call me Don Pablo Quijote de Los Angeles. Soon they will call me free.