Fruit of the Drunken Tree

by Ingrid Rojas Contreras

We prefer a tomb in Colombia to a jail in the United States.

Behind the thorny bush, Abuela heard sounds that would never leave her: the popping of machine guns, the helicopters, soldiers screaming. There were sparks kicking up dust around them, shots swallowed by the earth.

Now, according to the workers, with their superhuman vision, they saw all kinds of impossible details—the men carried machine guns, they were wearing dark bandanas over their mouths, all kinds of details. Now, power of suggestion, right? But since I am a man with a clear mind, not prone to being tricked, both eyes wide open, I can tell you that the group of men we saw walking into the fog were not guerrillas at all.” Papá waited a moment for effect, then he added, “I think they were ghosts.”

Wait...lol?...or.....not?

Gorrión took away his arm from my shoulder and walked away into the shadows of the fire again, and I was afraid, and as the men descended on me like a pack of wolves, I held on to the only thing I had left—the sound of my pet name, the one from the time of before, Petro, how nice it sounded to my ears.

reading between the lines....so horrifying

The boys and girls taking their First Communion (boys on the left, girls on the right)

Huuh,interesting

Fruit of the Drunken Tree is a novel inspired by personal experience.