Paradais

by Fernanda Melchor

a dirt track which, at that time of night, was more like a living, breathing pit of darkness, a tunnel that echoed with deathly screeches and the croaks of cicadas and enormous toads hiding in the grass, a track that Polo would turn into without a second thought, without braking at all, befuddled by his thirst and pounding head, squinting from the sweat and insects in his face, pedaling furiously and with drunken abandon and placing all his trust in his muscle memory, which seemed to remember the places where the track grew narrow or gnarled with tree roots after all those years spent cycling back and forth twice a day through that tunnel of vines and ferns and boggy leaf mold that stank like a fresh grave: first as a young boy, to attend the school on the other side of the river, and then, when he was a bit older, to take the bus to Boca.

the scariest of them all were the ones who slept like angels the moment their heads hit their mattress, they really were sketchy motherfuckers.

Milton was stupid enough to think Polo’s silence meant he was impressed by the things he said, when really it was the unbearable sadness of having lost his cousin — his best and only friend — for good.

pale tamale hands. The next thing, the prick was trying to spin it on his forefinger