Chronicle
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I have never asked why, but we call my grandmother, my maternal grandmother, “Nana”. Her real name is María Angélica, but we have always said it this way: “Nana”, with a capital “N”. I mention this in... -
For a long time, I woke up in utter fear. Every morning, panic would take over my body as I listened to a sound that was different from my friends’ alarm clocks. It wasn’t cocks crowing, or my mom’s s... -
In this story there are two cities. Granada and León. -
On the night of March 9, 2019, in the middle of the national blackout that had begun two days earlier, outside the Hospital Central de Valencia, the journalist Heberlizeth González bumped into a women... -
One morning in March 2014, under a sky overlain by dregs of clouds, I climbed into the car and drove from Midland to El Paso on interstate I-20, with the relative peace of mind inspired by the subtle... -
In times of disorder,of organized confusion,of dehumanized humanity,nothing should seem natural. -
It was the first time that she had visited Ecuador. She called me but wrote again later: “I’m the Argentine writer, Hebe Uhart, I can’t hear you very well over the phone. I’ll arrive in Quito on Monda... -
Seeing as how I had to wait four or five hours to make the connection with Cubana de Aviación, I wandered around the terminal. Images came to my mind from 10 years ago. I visited this splendid... -
The Mexicanx Initiative, comprised of around 50 writers and authors of science fiction, fantasy and horror, attended The 76th World Science Fiction Convention in San José this summer. Stephen Tobin ch... -
The Casa del Hielo, at the corner of Barrio Boston, Aracataca. I begin the story of the real Macondo at the same point where the story of the fictional Macondo begins. Travelers from all over the worl... -
Dozens of donkeys have broken their necks in the rugged trench, eight kilometers long, that separates Wikdi from his school. Besides that, the paramilitaries have tortured and murdered many people the... -
It just so happens that murderers—I suddenly realize as I walk past the tree where one of the seventy-six victims was hanged—reveal to us, at the point of the sword, the country that we know neither i... -
Nobody knows if the urn belongs to the funeral home or the district attorney. The first time I came, I didn’t want to get close. I stayed just outside the grave. The situation was very strange. I felt... -
He is a man, but he could be something else: a catastrophe, a roar, the wind. Sitting in a a low armchair, covered by a wool blanket, he wears a denim shirt, a beige sweater with several holes, cordur... -
A few weeks ago, I read the essay by Isaiah Berlin in which he proposes his famous division between two types of intellectuals. According to the Latvian philosopher, as is well known, there are hedgeh... -
Like clouds pearled with gestures, blushes, and contempt, the gay menagerie would appear in constant flight from its own identity. -
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I have a strange relationship with airports. As soon as I set foot in one, I feel a certain urge to go running out of my country; but, at the same time, I get terribly anxious about feeling myself fal... -
After several erratic twists and turns, we find the Casa de hablas.
