Sometimes, God holds back the snake. Sometimes, He sends you to heaven.
The serpent’s tongue flicked from scarred lips. Its fat brown body coiled in the palmetto, black eyes glinting in the dim light. The forked tongue touched the glass and retreated, touched and retreated, steady as a metronome. Without that flicker of motion, the snake would have been invisible, one more piece of driftwood lost in the shadows thrown by the branches and wire mesh atop the display.
“You ever seen a serpent handler’s snake?” the zookeeper said. His cut-up arms bulged from a work shirt emblazoned with the logo of Zoo Atlanta. He passed me twice before he spoke, the two of us alone in the gloom of the reptile house, with nothing but the rustle in the cases for company… read more >
