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A review by mnstaples4
Fruit of the Drunken Tree by Ingrid Rojas Contreras
4.0
“I thought about Petrona, how she had nothing to lose and how she was not touched by the tragedy of the girl and her red shoe as Cassandra and I were. I thought about what she had said- that the girl with the red shoe didn't even know she was dying and how she had meant it as comfort, but how the thought only filled me with terror.”
“I began to see the Spirit of Holy Fear everywhere. It lived in my dreams, in the pipes that didn't bring water to the house, in the television that showed me Pablo Escobar. It lived in the deep sound of electricity leaving our home the sizzle static of the television, the humming of voltage through walls and floors and ceilings-ebbing, unwinding, pirouetting into silence. It lived in the quiet after the electricity was gone: the dog's bark, a grasshopper's song, the howling wind rustling the leaves of the Drunken Tree. It lived as some kind of imminent sense, some kind of dark wingspan that slowly advanced on our house.”
“I began to see the Spirit of Holy Fear everywhere. It lived in my dreams, in the pipes that didn't bring water to the house, in the television that showed me Pablo Escobar. It lived in the deep sound of electricity leaving our home the sizzle static of the television, the humming of voltage through walls and floors and ceilings-ebbing, unwinding, pirouetting into silence. It lived in the quiet after the electricity was gone: the dog's bark, a grasshopper's song, the howling wind rustling the leaves of the Drunken Tree. It lived as some kind of imminent sense, some kind of dark wingspan that slowly advanced on our house.”