Culture

Martin Boyd

helicopter-2The following is an excerpt from my short story “Culture”, originally published in 2008 in the Canadian literary journal Other Voices. The story has recently been re-published in an excellent Spanish translation by award-winning Mexican-Canadian author and translator Martha Bátiz, for the new anthology Desde el norte: narrativa canadiense contemporánea, published by Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana in Mexico. Many thanks to Martha for giving this story new life in the Spanish language.

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The Orchid

Martin Boyd

OrchidThe orchid had been a gift from Mrs. Zarowsky, to welcome them to their new home. They didn’t know much about plants, but they were grateful for the gift, which they placed beside the front door of the little two-bedroom apartment that the kindly old Ukrainian woman had rented to them. They’d found the apartment in their first few days in Toronto, and the moment they met Mrs. Zarowsky, who had welcomed them so warmly, and the moment they saw the bright, cozy apartment, they knew it was just the place for them, and they signed the lease at once.

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Pablo Salinas

Pablo Salinas was born in Lima, Peru in 1973. He has published a diverse range of stories and poems in print and online journals, as well as in the anthologies Retrato de una nube (2008, published in English as Cloudburst by University of Ottawa Press in 2013), Las imposturas de Eros (2009) and Voces con vida (2012). His short stories “El camino de regreso” and “Padre José”, which received honorable mentions in the nuestra palabra contest in 2008, appear in the collection of nuestra palabra award winners titled Cuentos de nuestra palabra en Canadá: Primera hornada (2009). He completed a doctorate in Hispanic Studies at the University of Ottawa and is currently visiting professor at Shawnee State University in Ohio.

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Sleep Well, José Miguel

Humberto Benjamín Clavería

Que duermes bienManuel Urrutia couldn’t get to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he thought of the damaged skull with a gold tooth that he had hidden away inside his backpack. He seemed to sense the dead thing emerging from the bag, covered in soft tissue, crowned with a mop of fresh flowing hair. His skin stood on end merely imagining that the bodiless head might suddenly come to life, approach him and begin to talk to him, to tell him who he was, to share his past with him. Or perhaps he would weep or laugh. And the gold tooth would shine in the light of his bedside lamp.

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Joan Francisco Matamoros

Big BopMexican writer Joan Francisco Matamoros was born in the Mexican border state of Chihuahua, and at the age of 12 he moved with his mother to Toronto, where he completed much of his secondary education. At sixteen he returned to Chihuahua to live with his father, and then decided to return to Toronto to settle and study here. He began writing stories in earnest at the age of sixteen during his return to Mexico, when he reconnected with the Spanish language.

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Ángel Fernández (Gélico)

gelicoGélico began his first publications as a cartoonist at age 17 in the humorous weekly magazine Melaíto. Since then, his work has been published in hundreds of magazines and newspapers in Cuba, Canada, and many other countries. During his career he has won more than twenty awards and participated in more than thirty collective exhibitions. He currently resides in Toronto, where he is the director of Gélico Gallery.

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Old Fear

Miedo viejo

Yoel Isaac Díaz León

Once again, I’ve been a few blocks from my friends’ house, near the street Calzada de Infanta. Once again, I have not gone to see them. One of them is now 65 years old; the other 68. Every December when I go back to Havana, I feel the impulse to go by and say “hello” to them, but at the last moment I stop short at the bus stop. There I stay while my gaze wanders down the street to San Miguel, right, left, then right again. I stop at the building and look up. I go up the stairs and knock on the door.

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Adrift

Horacio Quiroga

A la derivaThe man stepped on something spongy, and then at once felt the bite on his foot. He jumped forward, and turned around with a curse to see the jararacussu coiled up, awaiting another attack.

The man shot a quick glance at his foot, where two little drops of blood grew painfully larger, and he drew his machete from his belt. The snake saw the threat and buried its head in the middle of its coiled body; but the blunt edge of the machete fell upon it, dislocating its spine.

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A Letter to God

Gregorio López y Fuentes

Una carta de DiosThe house – the only one in the whole valley – was up on one of those flattened hills which, like rudimentary pyramids, had been left by a few tribes as they continued on their pilgrimages… amid the cornstalks, the beans with their purple flowers, an unmistakable presage of a good harvest.

 

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Gabriela Mistral

Ballad of my name

Gabriela MistralIn commemoration of International Women’s Day, this week’s post is a poem by Gabriela Mistral (1889-1957). Born in Vicuña, Chile, of indigenous and Basque descent, Mistral went on to become one of her nation’s most outstanding ambassadors and the first Latin American (and, to date, the only Latin American woman) to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1945. A true Latin American icon, Mistral will be remembered as a great educator, a tireless advocate of children’s rights and, above all, the author of some of the most moving poems ever written.

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