tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52757238418984128562024-03-05T06:55:23.576-04:00La baronesa rampante de BreñasEn esta canasta virtual encontrará el navegante cibernético aquellos cuentos que considero aptos para el ojo ajeno, opiniones cuando deseo compartirlas y otras actividades literarias según surjan. Siéntanse a gusto en este lugar.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-44974730349445525182013-06-08T21:35:00.002-04:002013-06-08T21:35:32.365-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Primer Lugar en el</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Octavo Campeonato Mundial del Cuento Corto Oral</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>El pasado viernes 31 de mayo de 2013 se celebró el Octavo Campeonato Mundial del Cuento Corto Oral en la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón en Santurce Puerto Rico</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>con el cuento titulado</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>De cómo Xu Wei descubrió el papel y se arrepintió</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Aqui el texto completo.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Que lo disfruten.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<b><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Xu Wei admiraba
la belleza del paraje mientras se preguntaba cómo obtendría seda para sus
dibujos. El artista soltó su imaginación la cual trepó por las cañas de bambú,
escuchó la música escondida dentro los tallos y en la melodía, el secreto de una
idea fugaz.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<b>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Enardecido por
la posibilidad regresó a su taller. Antes de entregarse a la idea ordenó que junto
a la puerta colocaran sin falta cañas de bambú. Permaneció durante días, con
sus noches, que luego fueron semanas, que finalmente fueron largos meses
entregado a su idea. Desde fuera solo se escuchaba el golpe seco, constante, de
un mazo sobre las fibras vegetales.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Un día de
invierno Xu Wei emergió del encierro. Llevaba los cabellos revueltos, la túnica
salpicada de verde savia, las manos irritadas. En sus palmas abiertas
descansaba una hoja resplandeciente como una luna de primavera. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sobre veloces
cabalgaduras arribaron las nuevas a palacio; Xu Wei había obtenido de las ramas
del bambú una fibra en la cual los artistas dibujarían, mejor que sobre la seda,
alucinantes paisajes. En agradecimiento a los dioses le enviaba al emperador en
el recién creado papel un dibujo en el que había capturado el paso del viento,
el temblor del canto en el pecho de un gorrión, el silencio de la belleza. Con
manifiesto descuido el emperador dejó caer sobre el dibujo las lágrimas que le
anegaron los ojos. Entonces, sin darse la vuelta, ordenó a su secretario que
escribiera en una hoja limpia la primera sentencia de muerte.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBi-_HrcEkvudR5x6bHhPkDZhthNS08fTBNywSUVjxueMlTKRl-X8_VtThFTTWJjdQfAif09MpULG917BKEGyhdhPCGvrWdbU8rHWEKzz8olllojKyUo40L155by_FUrcsYGM0For_ekZ/s1600/31may13+8vo+campeonato+y+ganadora+zamparelli+REDUC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBi-_HrcEkvudR5x6bHhPkDZhthNS08fTBNywSUVjxueMlTKRl-X8_VtThFTTWJjdQfAif09MpULG917BKEGyhdhPCGvrWdbU8rHWEKzz8olllojKyUo40L155by_FUrcsYGM0For_ekZ/s320/31may13+8vo+campeonato+y+ganadora+zamparelli+REDUC.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">De izquierda a derecha: El Dr. Luis López Nieves. El Sr. Juan David Calero, Gerente General de Carvajal Educación de la Editorial Norma. María Zamparelli con el certificado de premiación en las manos. Detrás el Sr. Alfredo Torres propietario de la Librería La Tertulia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">El Dr. Luis López Nieves, creador de la primera maestría de Creación Literaria en Puerto Rico y creador de este concurso que en esta ocasión contó con sobre 250 asistentes y 156 cuentos. Como en anteriores concursos la Editorial Norma dijo presente y otorgó un premio de $1,000 para el primer premio y con los refrigerios para los asistentes al concurso. El Sr. Alfredo Torres otorgó tres certificados de $100 cada uno a las Menciones para redimirlos en libros en La Tertulia, donde uno entra y no puede evitar encontrar más de un título que le interesa. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tras bastidores el Profesor José Borges y su equipo trabajaron largas horas, días y semanas para que la noche corriera sin tropiezos. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-49966532553070916772013-03-23T20:30:00.001-04:002013-03-23T20:30:50.968-04:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Centenario de Julia de Burgos</b></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span>1914- 2014</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b> </b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5_9i8TuZpEaa4C9X1SDqf3CGP1iHENt12DOJFgpToq1ElLfgnegcc6oF6oH7C2ST07AjxY-uTQhTcgh2Vvm6xIRWACQg_YxWLA7mqvftqyH5GEFyN7Neu4KeTkzcRyPbgDWDn6s8uF-5/s1600/julia_burgos_2_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5_9i8TuZpEaa4C9X1SDqf3CGP1iHENt12DOJFgpToq1ElLfgnegcc6oF6oH7C2ST07AjxY-uTQhTcgh2Vvm6xIRWACQg_YxWLA7mqvftqyH5GEFyN7Neu4KeTkzcRyPbgDWDn6s8uF-5/s400/julia_burgos_2_4.jpg" width="279" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b></b></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<b><b>Desde dentro</b></b></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<b><b>por Julia de Burgos</b></b></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<b><b><br /></b></b></div>
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<b><b><br /></b></b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Es un lamento.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Es un grito sin lágrimas.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde adentro.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde el fondo de todo lo inevitable.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde el sollozo en espiral de espaldas.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde la rama trágica</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>de un silencio perfecto.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde el azul caído</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>en los pies de la noche.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde la tempestad de </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>un sueño solitario.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Desde ti</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>y desde mí</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>grita un lamento</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>sin lágrimas</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>diciendo:</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>¡Adiós! </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Musicalizado por Mario Darias Mérida </b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Duo Darias- Mario Darias y Ana Irma Ruiz</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Desde adentro.mp3<br />From Irma Rivera Colón</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&view=att&th=13d94eee79e22c24&attid=0.1.1&disp=mp3&zw&saduie=AG9B_P9lWwI7PeZgKGs7GVI_xr6t&sadet=1364085089800&sads=EMlW5OB4gpDXBZhtbqQBcrlWsCo" style="color: #0000cc;">Download as MP3</a></span><b><a href="https://mail-attachment.googleusercontent.com/attachment/u/0/?ui=2&ik=c86b9e6016&view=att&th=13d94eee79e22c24&attid=0.1.1&disp=safe&zw&saduie=AG9B_P9lWwI7PeZgKGs7GVI_xr6t&sadet=1364084047354&sads=iyW7EwLtxsWMQIp9eHo_CVHqq9A"> adentro.mp3</a></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-59555304598073924892013-03-23T20:02:00.000-04:002013-03-23T20:12:25.070-04:00<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Centenario de Julia de Burgos</span></b><br />
<br />
<br />
El 17 de febrero de 2014, Julia de Burgos, poeta nacional puertorriqueña, cumplirá su centenario.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Distintas entidades educativas y culturales en Puerto Rico se preparan para celebrar la obra y vida de nuestra poeta nacional.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
En Cuba, el duo Darias compuesto por Mario Darias y Ana Irma Ruiz musicalizan y cantan los poemas de Doña Julia. Comparto una muestra de su trabajo que me facilitó mi amiga y poeta Irma Rivera Colón.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b>Cantar marinero</b></div>
</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b>por Julia de Burgos</b></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
¡Una vela!</div>
</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
¡Una vela nadando en el mar!</div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¿Es el mar que ha salido a mirarme,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
o es mi alma flotando en el mar?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¡Una ola en la vela!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¡Una ola en la vela del mar!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¿Es mi amor que se trepa en el viento.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
o es tu vida en las alas del mar?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¡Una vela!¡Una ola! Dos sueños</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
entre el cielo y el pecho del mar!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¿Es que el sol se ha calzado de espumas,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
o es que somos los brazos del mar?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¡Una vela! ¡Una ola! ¡Un naufragio</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
en las blancas espaldas del mar!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
No hay un puerto que pueda alojarnos...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
¡Remaremos el barco del mar!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" id="thetable" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 2px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 2px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 2px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 2px; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; width: 504pxpx;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" width="100%"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwJ-6jdZGLKifOSg-ZsE0MNb_yqlaQkaXCA4A5zkpQStUbgNycbixPZNPahBQWnaLUUL6JetQXEcW4ZItwvGMDBax3wl8CLv6v9ysrM6AH7pqxZ9K9aPIGA3tl_co0M05kG2PfMa9Egns/s1600/JULIA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLwJ-6jdZGLKifOSg-ZsE0MNb_yqlaQkaXCA4A5zkpQStUbgNycbixPZNPahBQWnaLUUL6JetQXEcW4ZItwvGMDBax3wl8CLv6v9ysrM6AH7pqxZ9K9aPIGA3tl_co0M05kG2PfMa9Egns/s320/JULIA.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
<object align="middle" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=7,0,0,0" height="27px" width="500px"><embed id="Player" scale="noScale" salign="TL" src="https://mail-attachment.googleusercontent.com/swfs/audio.swf?speedcontrol=0&backgroundColor=0xEEEEEE&autoPlay=true&audioUrl=https%3A%2F%2Fmail.google.com%2Fmail%2Fu%2F0%2F%3Fui%3D2%26view%3Datt%26th%3D13d98522942e6ced%26attid%3D0.1%26disp%3Dmp3%26realattid%3Df_hen25a4y0%26zw%26saduie%3DAG9B_P9lWwI7PeZgKGs7GVI_xr6t%26sadet%3D1364081555677%26sads%3DJqsixWr8FvRK86rMoucIVeE9X-Q" wmode="opaque" quality="best" bgcolor="#EEEEEE" width="500px" height="27px" name="Player" align="middle" allowscriptaccess="never" allownetworking="internal" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></object></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-top: 3px;">Cantar marinero-1.mp3<br />
From IRMA RIVERA<br />
<a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&view=att&th=13d98522942e6ced&attid=0.1&disp=mp3&realattid=f_hen25a4y0&zw&saduie=AG9B_P9lWwI7PeZgKGs7GVI_xr6t&sadet=1364081555677&sads=JqsixWr8FvRK86rMoucIVeE9X-Q" style="color: #0000cc;">Download as MP3</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-30960207928065081452013-02-22T16:20:00.002-04:002013-02-22T16:20:41.847-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;">Editorial Isla Negra y Librería AC<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;">les invitan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;">a la presentación del libro<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;">La huella de Palés<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Su presencia en las voces de Luis Rafael Sánchez, Yván Silén,
Mayra Santos Febres y Ana</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="ES" style="font-family: Andalus; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"> Lydia Vega</span></i><span lang="ES" style="font-family: Andalus; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;">de Irma Rivera Colón<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fecha: <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sábado, 16 de marzo de 2013<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hora:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>3:00 P.M.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lugar: <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>AC Libros – Pda. 23 Ponce de León <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Santurce, Puerto Rico<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Presentador:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dr. Félix Córdova
Iturregui<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "Apple Chancery"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: ES;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Moderadora:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dra. Luz Nereida
Lebrón<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_5EqewUEsemuXkXYwVcF0CG2xS34R456DM2HmIR5e76PXZLSmXWnwGCQJQkbkPxk16_R9kYP66aRYsnEGzc9VfJdw5WpPJ5T44pMw8IbskQmw59Wg4wtLbIsfPPl3fkrTQA7Pbw3c1EQ/s1600/Pales+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_5EqewUEsemuXkXYwVcF0CG2xS34R456DM2HmIR5e76PXZLSmXWnwGCQJQkbkPxk16_R9kYP66aRYsnEGzc9VfJdw5WpPJ5T44pMw8IbskQmw59Wg4wtLbIsfPPl3fkrTQA7Pbw3c1EQ/s320/Pales+3.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Irma Rivera Colón, junto a Pilar Vélez (de pie) exhibiendo la carátula de su último libro; <b>La huella de Palés</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCQAcSNLx5W3SVL0Bz8fWiSm1_0LTFctRwTxE3JXeR_Dk_iev4zjSLaFbODctg0sHtD_aQUIJ6vA6Uy5ZcuneVkat8qiyeHMC7lWYJL9PHyMdxBnFL7ZKAi-vJSupy_xZUrrBv4tc_exr/s1600/WP_20130208_004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCQAcSNLx5W3SVL0Bz8fWiSm1_0LTFctRwTxE3JXeR_Dk_iev4zjSLaFbODctg0sHtD_aQUIJ6vA6Uy5ZcuneVkat8qiyeHMC7lWYJL9PHyMdxBnFL7ZKAi-vJSupy_xZUrrBv4tc_exr/s320/WP_20130208_004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-35807333260011172702013-02-20T14:01:00.002-04:002013-02-20T14:01:16.198-04:00<b>Formación profesional para escritores</b><br />
<b>Plataforma de mercadeo para escritores</b><br />
Dictada por Pilar Vélez<br />
poetasyescritoresmiami@gmail.com<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRTIR_pZwCh0VDK4gZmSPhUTh1QHdeNFiunP7tW4bhaVlNTU4-De62IO3lyJJNmcoUaskEZpmGEh9BLp6rU25yslTSbgQUbIbvmuquBhsAUCSQHbcgSGwEJ9ocSrgJHMEDDYtW1sRyExN/s1600/WP_20130208_003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRTIR_pZwCh0VDK4gZmSPhUTh1QHdeNFiunP7tW4bhaVlNTU4-De62IO3lyJJNmcoUaskEZpmGEh9BLp6rU25yslTSbgQUbIbvmuquBhsAUCSQHbcgSGwEJ9ocSrgJHMEDDYtW1sRyExN/s320/WP_20130208_003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Sra. Pilar Vélez</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
La nueva junta de la <b>Cofradía de Escritores de Puerto Rico</b>, presidida por Melissa Padilla Ponce de León, dio inicio a su año de labores en beneficio de sus miembros ofreciendo la conferencia titulada <b>Formación profesional para escritores/ Plataforma de mercadeo para escritores</b> la cual se ofreció en la Universidad de Sagrado Corazón en San Juan, Puerto Rico el pasado 8 de febrero 2013.<br />
Pilar Vélez viajó de Miami para ofrecer la conferencia en la cual utiliza sus conocimientos económicos de su Maestría en Economía y su pasión, la escritura, para demostrarle a los escritores cómo hacer la transición de ser un escritor a ser un autor y mercadear, presentar y vender su trabajo con efectividad.<br />
La conferencia estuvo muy concurrida y fue tal el entusiasmo y acogida del tema que es probable que en un futuro cercano la Sra. Vélez regrese a Puerto Rico y ofrezca la conferencia en su modalidad de taller. Los participantes tendrían la oportunidad de elaborar sus propios planes de mercadeo para sus libros y su carrera de autor. Los dineros obtenidos en la actividad fueron donados por la Sra. Vélez para el fondo de <b>La cofradía de Escritores de Puerto Rico. </b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwjo0h49W9rsleN8bowTzuOI8bphTrdQIlftemnieHxnTLNPdp04BT3fTuwVnMHufkFQ77tr7D0Ox-uKBx_6Lh_eYkE57e7NDvQVUTr8-g81qk5sKgqOYweAdkBiMwLd2cdqpWLs9D_oVZ/s1600/WP_20130208_002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwjo0h49W9rsleN8bowTzuOI8bphTrdQIlftemnieHxnTLNPdp04BT3fTuwVnMHufkFQ77tr7D0Ox-uKBx_6Lh_eYkE57e7NDvQVUTr8-g81qk5sKgqOYweAdkBiMwLd2cdqpWLs9D_oVZ/s320/WP_20130208_002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
De izquierda a derecha: María Zamparelli (vocal), Pilar Vélez (conferenciante) y Mayra M.<br />
Bermúdez(tesorera)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-WpsTDj4CwiZKIy8KSfzouTnQYasK2wBISEpQMtfSkKiRrCBWwuRv4HZyRhipMbyalRzx6ELxQgwGxrwOmWp2b2Ya3YdOQnSMTeQ7r4hJodS-U_hj7zmtmDHE_j76qTDvVrlWox4NtaF/s1600/WP_20130208_006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-WpsTDj4CwiZKIy8KSfzouTnQYasK2wBISEpQMtfSkKiRrCBWwuRv4HZyRhipMbyalRzx6ELxQgwGxrwOmWp2b2Ya3YdOQnSMTeQ7r4hJodS-U_hj7zmtmDHE_j76qTDvVrlWox4NtaF/s320/WP_20130208_006.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
Melissa Padilla Ponce de León<br />
Presidenta de <b>La Cofradía de Escritores de Puerto Rico</b><br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-25399336819022270542013-02-09T11:44:00.000-04:002013-02-09T11:45:28.079-04:00<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=fUvVP42EfpU">http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=fUvVP42EfpU</a><br />
<br />
El trailer de la nueva novela de José Borges titulada Fortaleza. Borges es autor de <i>Esa antigua tristeza. </i><br />
Me comprometo a leer <i>Fortaleza</i> y comentarla. Mucho éxito a mi compañero de Creación Literaria.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-14824863427497567502012-11-17T16:55:00.002-04:002012-11-17T16:55:19.828-04:00I Certamen Internacional Toledano 2012<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Finalista en el I Certamen Internacional Toledano "Casco Histórico".</b></span><br />
<b>Recibí el décimo lugar como finalista con el cuento titulado "Domingo en el parque".</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
La Secretaría de Toledo publicará un libro editado por la Editorial Celaya con los treinta finalistas escogidos por el jurado el cual estuvo compuesto por personas del ambiente literario de la ciudad de Toledo.<br />
<br />
Los cuentos debían tener no más de tres folios por una sola cara, a doble espacio. Se recibieron 156 cuentos.<br />
<br />
Aquí el cuento premiado.<br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Domingo en el parque<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Amedrentado por
la oscuridad el niño detuvo su triciclo; los pies, que antes fueron alas,
inertes sobre los pedales interrumpidos a media rotación. Señaló con su dedo de
niño la sombra monolítica de la catedral proyectada sobre el parque y preguntó:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">—Mamá, allá, ¿se
acaba el mundo? Sólo en el desfiladero de sus pesadillas había enfrentado
oscuridades abismales como esa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">—No, hijo… —pero
corre por donde hay sol para verte no te vayas a lastimar —advirtió la madre
desde la solidez absoluta del cariño.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Calibrando la
distante penumbra el niño impulsó mansamente los pedales con la duda del
consejo recorriendo los senderos de su pecho. Azuzado por la curiosidad
aceleró. Corrió su triciclo sobre las baldosas agrietadas del parque con la
urgencia de quien enfrenta un desafío. Pedaleó junto a los senderos de flores
con ansia febril.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">El triciclo
agujereaba el viento con las esquirlas centellantes de su trinar. El niño hecho
de alas levantaba una estela de polvo perseguida por flores y juegos en los
senderos del parque mientras el sol quebrantaba las maderas secas de los
bancos, centellaba en la copa de los árboles, derramaba copos de luz sobre las
memorias somnolientas de los viejos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">-No te alejes
—insistió su madre desde la ternura de su regazo-. Juega donde hay sol —dijo— y
el temor era una fisura en su voz. Su importuna sensatez apenas lo alcanzó. La
advertencia fue un desafío.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">El niño se
detuvo frente a la sombra. Decidido, hizo girar los pedales con la certidumbre
de quien enfrenta una batalla, cruzó la frontera y desapareció como una
ilusión.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-17965384115181815392012-10-21T19:27:00.001-04:002012-10-21T20:02:51.267-04:00<b> Ganadora del primer premio en la categoría de egresados en el Primer Certamen de Minicuento de la Cofradía de Escritores de Puerto Rico</b>.<br />
El pasado viernes 19 de octubre en la Sala de Facultad de la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón se convocó a la asamblea anual de la Cofradía de Escritores. Como parte de las actividades para los egresados y los estudiantes de la Maestría en Creación Literaria se celebró el primer certamen de minicuento de la <b>Cofradía de Escritores de Puerto Rico</b>. El cuento debía tener como máximo 100 palabras. Los participantes sometían su cuento en la categoría de estudiante o de egresado.<br />
A continuación mi cuento titulado <b>Acto de magia</b> el cual capturó al público y con el cual merecí el primer premio en la categoría de egresado lo cual me llena de orgullo. Espero lo disfruten.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd5aYNhBe5JGjqgNUFr3_Hp7HSb-V8XNM1umlx9a7Ny4nEEgRa6qTWeF43ayIQwD9Aq64OZql-EdZgo9G3jZf0kWG0hgD-XZzBuEbhjC6aYJQwgmlGr2F0NAI1RNovaKgyz5FWK7UfzkB/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd5aYNhBe5JGjqgNUFr3_Hp7HSb-V8XNM1umlx9a7Ny4nEEgRa6qTWeF43ayIQwD9Aq64OZql-EdZgo9G3jZf0kWG0hgD-XZzBuEbhjC6aYJQwgmlGr2F0NAI1RNovaKgyz5FWK7UfzkB/s320/DSC_0085.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Acto de magia<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">La Baronesa<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dentro de la
circunferencia del reflector el mago se quita el sombrero y lo coloca sobre el
mantel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">—Nada por aquí,
nada por allá —dice exhibiendo su mano inmaculada.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Acto seguido la
introduce dentro del sombrero. Rebusca sin alcanzar el fondo. Siente un tirón y
desaparece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">En la oscuridad
el mago oscila como un péndulo suspendido por las piernas. A su alrededor el
público estalla en aplausos sofocados. El conejo hace una reverencia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Aquí el feliz grupo de ganadores.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5wlJEZEIhr2ct0F0SQ8nCqPSJPTu0WB64l8EdqMsu7LxvtN2K6zZQ5gFl-JHdTj__ki4CCREPUP_FwFp82FERDkVBE_dp5osFx-8OUHRr0C_BtzWGGmwK3xxYpXq_rrSMGhQbmzVlvdY/s1600/DSC_0093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5wlJEZEIhr2ct0F0SQ8nCqPSJPTu0WB64l8EdqMsu7LxvtN2K6zZQ5gFl-JHdTj__ki4CCREPUP_FwFp82FERDkVBE_dp5osFx-8OUHRr0C_BtzWGGmwK3xxYpXq_rrSMGhQbmzVlvdY/s320/DSC_0093.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fotos cortesía de Elfrén Ríos, fotógrafo oficial de la Cofradía de Escritores de Puerto Rico.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-64953814832350894892012-10-20T09:32:00.000-04:002012-10-20T09:32:34.978-04:00La creación por Nicolás Buenaventura<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SPNZ6RD5MP0" width="560"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-40812645380415855352012-10-12T20:34:00.000-04:002012-10-12T20:34:23.292-04:00<b>Festival de la palabra en Puerto Rico 2012</b><br />
Museo de Arte de Puerto Rico<br />
4 al 7 de octubre 2012<br />
<b>Pabellón de la Tinta</b><br />
Por primera vez desde que se creó el Festival de la palabra se ofreció una exhibición de cómic creada, organizada y curada por la iniciativa del profesor Luis Jefté Lacourt. La exposición incluyó cómics creados en Puerto Rico desde 1947 hasta el presente.<br />
Invitada por el profesor Lacourt participé en el debate titulado <b><i>La importancia de la lectura y los cómics</i>.</b><br />
Asistieron a la charla estudiantes de escuela primaria, intermedia y secundaria. Esa mañana descubrí que a pesar de las voces que critican el sistema educativo y acusan a los estudiantes de indolencia el caso es absolutamente distinto. Estos estudiantes definieron con claridad sus intereses, inquietudes y temas que buscan en sus lecturas.<br />
Cuando les preguntamos qué buscaban en la lectura de una tirilla las respuestas fueron precisas: humor, final inesperado o absurdo el cual abona al humor y misterio o suspenso. Elementos que cualquier escritor interesado en que lo lean incorpora a su narrativa. Esta contestación le revela al escritor que busca capturar lectores que su público sabe lo que quiere y lo que le gusta al leer. Entonces hablamos de un lector con criterio crítico lo cual no es poca cosa.<br />
Más sorprendente aún resultó los temas que las jovencitas de escuela intermedia o superior expresaron les gustaría leer: romance. Otra vez, tal vez contaminada por las noticias me sorprendí. Nada de mujeres ejecutivas que logran tenerlo todo ni de súper heroínas. No, se trata de una necesidad humana y propia de la edad. Un romance que puede como no tener un final feliz.<br />
Una vez concluyó el debate visité el Salón principal en el cual las casas editoriales y los escritores ofrecían sus libros. Un gran ausente fueron precisamente los cómics. Una herramienta tan evidente en su poder para interesar al lector joven y en la cual existen magníficas adaptaciones de obras clásicas, novelas gráficas y tirillas no tuvo representación.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2j4z8UVfY3SulzvYT2aRSqBsyz2I7osQDwjbSpdBRrxsTLhCV1ywqh029-lAt35LOe3aV3Le-ckAIg3VVqhqIwjqKEzu-_5Sq5Qom1O3HuAxmIA-EIzypV0OiD0D2QvvTc3kwZ43ES7n/s1600/photo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2j4z8UVfY3SulzvYT2aRSqBsyz2I7osQDwjbSpdBRrxsTLhCV1ywqh029-lAt35LOe3aV3Le-ckAIg3VVqhqIwjqKEzu-_5Sq5Qom1O3HuAxmIA-EIzypV0OiD0D2QvvTc3kwZ43ES7n/s320/photo.gif" width="213" /></a></div>
Quizás en la próxima edición del Festival de la Palabra librerías como Metro Cómic o la recién inaugurada Librería AC, la cual aparenta poner énfasis en la oferta de cómics y novelas gráficas tomen una mesa y ofrezcan a sus jóvenes y no tan jóvenes lectores una alternativa a la "literatura".Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-22045663352046341922012-10-09T19:32:00.000-04:002012-10-09T19:32:04.600-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnVtBqy-F52Qq3o1Qm2shW8PeFqdChnLdYpbtYHLrkbQwopztKGznEu0xQVEuAGTBnPZBfwuZYsglZIAstGzC9x7xRhXH7mOVkDkGfPRQub73qEXzNjGLJvxbUvEsvDPC2Babb0g2qYTq/s1600/Los+diez+derechos+del+lector+Esp-1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnVtBqy-F52Qq3o1Qm2shW8PeFqdChnLdYpbtYHLrkbQwopztKGznEu0xQVEuAGTBnPZBfwuZYsglZIAstGzC9x7xRhXH7mOVkDkGfPRQub73qEXzNjGLJvxbUvEsvDPC2Babb0g2qYTq/s640/Los+diez+derechos+del+lector+Esp-1.jpg" width="510" /></a></div>
Los diez <b>derechos </b>del <b>lector</b> por Daniel Pennac<br />
Ilustrado por Quentin BlakeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-78940334317563671992012-10-09T19:27:00.000-04:002012-10-09T19:27:46.067-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8f4knmUOlXfkyp4ehqxos9Jik3wX1fTGQGjGrsq2iDZPLhWvb_oYu5t5C1bIUykIIW_xXbxii88_nmvHp9XrQSvsub-R56qj0iIvx_YA-ZqQntbC1XuZGYbQ8aF8RPj_-cFwIqZjHbnxX/s1600/PromoTallerCeiba-1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8f4knmUOlXfkyp4ehqxos9Jik3wX1fTGQGjGrsq2iDZPLhWvb_oYu5t5C1bIUykIIW_xXbxii88_nmvHp9XrQSvsub-R56qj0iIvx_YA-ZqQntbC1XuZGYbQ8aF8RPj_-cFwIqZjHbnxX/s640/PromoTallerCeiba-1.gif" width="492" /></a></div>
Preparo las fechas para los talleres del año próximo. Para aquellos que quieran tomarlos me llaman o me escriben.<br />
Exploro la posibilidad de ofrecer otros talleres de escritura. Comparte tus inquietudes literarias conmigo.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-65769165705940350122012-09-20T19:41:00.000-04:002012-09-20T19:41:04.409-04:00Taller práctico de escena en la narrativa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPIADwxH9XW_54cCOp6SrerqvXh2xKr0U5ob5wjwmJeXehvaEMAasvx9STiVn_CzQwpSTVPgmRVUqMy9r2T1AAK9VM99-2uKd-fhii5JdAcsU1zkPYUjgvPUBuI_57c-Twx20B4rFOi08/s1600/Flyer3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPIADwxH9XW_54cCOp6SrerqvXh2xKr0U5ob5wjwmJeXehvaEMAasvx9STiVn_CzQwpSTVPgmRVUqMy9r2T1AAK9VM99-2uKd-fhii5JdAcsU1zkPYUjgvPUBuI_57c-Twx20B4rFOi08/s320/Flyer3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Con gran entusiasmo y muchos deseos de adelantar sus proyectos narrativos ocho futuros escritores comenzaron el taller práctico de escena el sábado 15 de septiembre. Como toda primera reunión allanamos el camino de las inquietudes y disipamos dudas sobre la capacidad para escribir. El ambiente acogedor y humano de la San Juan Community Library contribuyó al éxito de esta primera sesión.<br />
Entre los comentarios cabe señalar la pregunta sobre la fe. En este caso no se trata de un concepto religioso, a menos que consideremos el oficio de escritor una religión, si no cómo ignorar y en el mejor de los casos neutralizar, esa duda que nos murmura tras la oreja que nuestras ideas son banales, trilladas, en resumen, incapaces de engendrar una historia. <br />
Cómo contestar esta pregunta. Es como asegurarle a un niño que en el clóset no hay monstruos. Mi estrategia es admitir que sí, que dentro de ese lugar oscuro hay un ser maligno que nos quiere comer si se lo permitimos. Entonces abrimos la puerta del clóset en el que vive y lo invitamos a pasar a la habitación. Le pedimos que se siente a nuestro lado, que nos acompañe. No cerramos los ojos, no pretendemos que no está. Es más, le ofrecemos de nuestra taza de café. Le preguntamos si está a gusto. Pronto el monstruo se pone flaco, se aburre y se echa a dormir. Nos deja tranquilos con nuestras ideas. Es cuestión de no alimentarlo con su golosina favorita, el miedo y la duda. Es preciso aceptar a manera de ejercicio de calentamiento que lo que escribiremos no sirve. Ya. Dicho. Ahora, sin expectativas ni sueños de grandeza, nos sentamos a clavar una tras otra, tras otra, las palabras que construirán nuestra historia. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-25214068226816962642012-09-06T16:48:00.002-04:002012-09-06T18:42:21.494-04:00A Jury of Her Peers, Susan GlaspelComparto este magnífico cuento sobre las "tonterías" de las mujeres.<br />
<h2 align="CENTER">
<span style="color: #330000;">A Jury of Her Peers</span></h2>
<h4 align="CENTER">
<span style="color: #330000;">by Susan Glaspell (1876-1948)</span></h4>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round her head her eye made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no ordinary thing that called her away--it was probably further from ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County. But what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted.</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too--adding, with a grin, that he guessed she was getting scary and wanted another woman along. So she had dropped everything right where it was.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Martha!" now came her husband's impatient voice. "Don't keep folks waiting out here in the cold."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look like a sheriff's wife, Peters made it up in looking like a sheriff. He was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff--a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-criminals. And right there it came into Mrs. Hale's mind, with a stab, that this man who was so pleasant and lively with all of them was going to the Wrights' now as a sheriff.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"The country's not very pleasant this time of year," Mrs. Peters at last ventured, as if she felt they ought to be talking as well as the men.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale scarcely finished her reply, for they had gone up a little hill and could see the Wright place now, and seeing it did not make her feel like talking. It looked very lonesome this cold March morning. It had always been a lonesome-looking place. It was down in a hollow, and the poplar trees around it were lonesome-looking trees. The men were looking at it and talking about what had happened. The county attorney was bending to one side of the buggy, and kept looking steadily at the place as they drew up to it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I'm glad you came with me," Mrs. Peters said nervously, as the two women were about to follow the men in through the kitchen door.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Even after she had her foot on the door-step, her hand on the knob, Martha Hale had a moment of feeling she could not cross that threshold. And the reason it seemed she couldn't cross it now was simply because she hadn't crossed it before. Time and time again it had been in her mind, "I ought to go over and see Minnie Foster"--she still thought of her as Minnie Foster, though for twenty years she had been Mrs. Wright. And then there was always something to do and Minnie Foster would go from her mind. But <i>now</i> she could come.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The men went over to the stove. The women stood close together by the door. Young Henderson, the county attorney, turned around and said, "Come up to the fire, ladies."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters took a step forward, then stopped. "I'm not--cold," she said.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
And so the two women stood by the door, at first not even so much as looking around the kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The men talked for a minute about what a good thing it was the sheriff had sent his deputy out that morning to make a fire for them, and then Sheriff Peters stepped back from the stove, unbuttoned his outer coat, and leaned his hands on the kitchen table in a way that seemed to mark the beginning of official business. "Now, Mr. Hale," he said in a sort of semi-official voice, "before we move things about, you tell Mr. Henderson just what it was you saw when you came here yesterday morning."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The county attorney was looking around the kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"By the way," he said, "has anything been moved?" He turned to the sheriff. "Are things just as you left them yesterday?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Peters looked from cupboard to sink; from that to a small worn rocker a little to one side of the kitchen table.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"It's just the same."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Somebody should have been left here yesterday," said the county attorney.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh--yesterday," returned the sheriff, with a little gesture as of yesterday having been more than he could bear to think of. "When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy--let me tell you. I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, George, and as long as I went over everything here myself--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, Mr. Hale," said the county attorney, in a way of letting what was past and gone go, "tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale, still leaning against the door, had that sinking feeling of the mother whose child is about to speak a piece. Lewis often wandered along and got things mixed up in a story. She hoped he would tell this straight and plain, and not say unnecessary things that would just make things harder for Minnie Foster. He didn't begin at once, and she noticed that he looked queer--as if standing in that kitchen and having to tell what he had seen there yesterday morning made him almost sick.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes, Mr. Hale?" the county attorney reminded.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes," Mrs. Hale's husband began.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Harry was Mrs. Hale's oldest boy. He wasn't with them now, for the very good reason that those potatoes never got to town yesterday and he was taking them this morning, so he hadn't been home when the sheriff stopped to say he wanted Mr. Hale to come over to the Wright place and tell the county attorney his story there, where he could point it all out. With all Mrs. Hale's other emotions came the fear now that maybe Harry wasn't dressed warm enough--they hadn't any of them realized how that north wind did bite.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We come along this road," Hale was going on, with a motion of his hand to the road over which they had just come, "and as we got in sight of the house I says to Harry, 'I'm goin' to see if I can't get John Wright to take a telephone.' You see," he explained to Henderson, "unless I can get somebody to go in with me they won't come out this branch road except for a price <i>I</i> can't pay. I'd spoke to Wright about it once before; but he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet--guess you know about how much he talked himself. But I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, and said all the women-folks liked the telephones, and that in this lonesome stretch of road it would be a good thing--well, I said to Harry that that was what I was going to say--though I said at the same time that I didn't know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Now there he was!--saying things he didn't need to say. Mrs. Hale tried to catch her husband's eye, but fortunately the county attorney interrupted with:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Let's talk about that a little later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that but, I'm anxious now to get along to just what happened when you got here."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
When he began this time, it was very deliberately and carefully:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I didn't see or hear anything. I knocked at the door. And still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up--it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, louder, and I thought I heard somebody say, 'Come in.' I wasn't sure--I'm not sure yet. But I opened the door--this door," jerking a hand toward the door by which the two women stood. "and there, in that rocker"--pointing to it--"sat Mrs. Wright."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Everyone in the kitchen looked at the rocker. It came into Mrs. Hale's mind that that rocker didn't look in the least like Minnie Foster--the Minnie Foster of twenty years before. It was a dingy red, with wooden rungs up the back, and the middle rung was gone, and the chair sagged to one side.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"How did she--look?" the county attorney was inquiring.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well," said Hale, "she looked--queer."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"How do you mean--queer?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
As he asked it he took out a note-book and pencil. Mrs. Hale did not like the sight of that pencil. She kept her eye fixed on her husband, as if to keep him from saying unnecessary things that would go into that note-book and make trouble.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Hale did speak guardedly, as if the pencil had affected him too.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, as if she didn't know what she was going to do next. And kind of--done up."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"How did she seem to feel about your coming?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Why, I don't think she minded--one way or other. She didn't pay much attention. I said, 'Ho' do, Mrs. Wright? It's cold, ain't it?' And she said. 'Is it?'--and went on pleatin' at her apron.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, I was surprised. She didn't ask me to come up to the stove, or to sit down, but just set there, not even lookin' at me. And so I said: 'I want to see John.'</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"And then she--laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said, a little sharp, 'Can I see John?' 'No,' says she--kind of dull like. 'Ain't he home?' says I. Then she looked at me. 'Yes,' says she, 'he's home.' 'Then why can't I see him?' I asked her, out of patience with her now. 'Cause he's dead' says she, just as quiet and dull--and fell to pleatin' her apron. 'Dead?' says, I, like you do when you can't take in what you've heard.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin' back and forth.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"'Why--where is he?' says I, not knowing <i>what</i> to say.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She just pointed upstairs--like this"--pointing to the room above.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I got up, with the idea of going up there myself. By this time I--didn't know what to do. I walked from there to here; then I says: 'Why, what did he die of?'</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"'He died of a rope around his neck,' says she; and just went on pleatin' at her apron."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Hale stopped speaking, and stood staring at the rocker, as if he were still seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before. Nobody spoke; it was as if every one were seeing the woman who had sat there the morning before.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"And what did you do then?" the county attorney at last broke the silence.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I went out and called Harry. I thought I might--need help. I got Harry in, and we went upstairs." His voice fell almost to a whisper. "There he was--lying over the--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I think I'd rather have you go into that upstairs," the county attorney interrupted, "where you can point it all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He stopped, his face twitching.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"But Harry, he went up to him, and he said. 'No, he's dead all right, and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went downstairs.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She was still sitting that same way. 'Has anybody been notified?' I asked. 'No, says she, unconcerned.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' said Harry. He said it businesslike, and she stopped pleatin' at her apron. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You don't<i>know</i>?' says Harry. 'Weren't you sleepin' in the bed with him?' 'Yes,' says she, 'but I was on the inside. 'Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' says Harry. 'I didn't wake up,' she said after him.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We may have looked as if we didn't see how that could be, for after a minute she said, 'I sleep sound.'</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe that weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff. So Harry went fast as he could over to High Road--the Rivers' place, where there's a telephone."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"And what did she do when she knew you had gone for the coroner?" The attorney got his pencil in his hand all ready for writing.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She moved from that chair to this one over here"--Hale pointed to a small chair in the corner--"and just sat there with her hands held together and lookin down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone; and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me--scared."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
At the sound of a moving pencil the man who was telling the story looked up.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I dunno--maybe it wasn't scared," he hastened: "I wouldn't like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He said that last with relief, and moved a little, as if relaxing. Everyone moved a little. The county attorney walked toward the stair door.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I guess we'll go upstairs first--then out to the barn and around there."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He paused and looked around the kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"You're convinced there was nothing important here?" he asked the sheriff. "Nothing that would--point to any motive?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The sheriff too looked all around, as if to re-convince himself.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Nothing here but kitchen things," he said, with a little laugh for the insignificance of kitchen things.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The county attorney was looking at the cupboard--a peculiar, ungainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned kitchen cupboard. As if its queerness attracted him, he got a chair and opened the upper part and looked in. After a moment he drew his hand away sticky.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The two women had drawn nearer, and now the sheriff's wife spoke.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh--her fruit," she said, looking to Mrs. Hale for sympathetic understanding.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She turned back to the county attorney and explained: "She worried about that when it turned so cold last night. She said the fire would go out and her jars might burst."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters' husband broke into a laugh.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder, and worrying about her preserves!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The young attorney set his lips.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I guess before we're through with her she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority, "women are used to worrying over trifles."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The two women moved a little closer together. Neither of them spoke. The county attorney seemed suddenly to remember his manners--and think of his future.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"And yet," said he, with the gallantry of a young politician. "for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The women did not speak, did not unbend. He went to the sink and began washing his hands. He turned to wipe them on the roller towel--whirled it for a cleaner place.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Dirty towelsl Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He kicked his foot against some dirty pans under the sink.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"There's a great deal of work to be done on a farm," said Mrs. Hale stiffly.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"To be sure. And yet"--with a little bow to her--'I know there are some Dickson County farm-houses that do not have such roller towels." He gave it a pull to expose its full length again.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they might be.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Ah, loyal to your sex, I see," he laughed. He stopped and gave her a keen look, "But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Martha Hale shook her head.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I've seen little enough of her of late years. I've not been in this house--it's more than a year."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"And why was that? You didn't like her?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I liked her well enough," she replied with spirit. "Farmers' wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then--" She looked around the kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes?" he encouraged.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"It never seemed a very cheerful place," said she, more to herself than to him.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No," he agreed; "I don't think anyone would call it cheerful. I shouldn't say she had the home-making instinct."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, I don't know as Wright had, either," she muttered.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"You mean they didn't get on very well?" he was quick to ask.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No; I don't mean anything," she answered, with decision. As she turned a lit- tle away from him, she added: "But I don't think a place would be any the cheerfuller for John Wright's bein' in it."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I'd like to talk to you about that a little later, Mrs. Hale," he said. "I'm anxious to get the lay of things upstairs now."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He moved toward the stair door, followed by the two men.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does'll be all right?" the sheriff inquired. "She was to take in some clothes for her, you know--and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The county attorney looked at the two women they were leaving alone there among the kitchen things.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes--Mrs. Peters," he said, his glance resting on the woman who was not Mrs. Peters, the big farmer woman who stood behind the sheriff's wife. "Of course Mrs. Peters is one of us," he said, in a manner of entrusting responsibility. "And keep your eye out, Mrs. Peters, for anything that might be of use. No telling; you women might come upon a clue to the motive--and that's the thing we need."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mr. Hale rubbed his face after the fashion of a showman getting ready for a pleasantry.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"But would the women know a clue if they did come upon it?" he said; and, having delivered himself of this, he followed the others through the stair door.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The women stood motionless and silent, listening to the footsteps, first upon the stairs, then in the room above them.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Then, as if releasing herself from something strange. Mrs. Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I'd hate to have men comin' into my kitchen," she said testily--"snoopin' round and criticizin'."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this on." She gave the roller towel a pull. 'Wish I'd thought of that sooner! Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up, when she had to come away in such a hurry."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She looked around the kitchen. Certainly it was not "slicked up." Her eye was held by a bucket of sugar on a low shelf. The cover was off the wooden bucket, and beside it was a paper bag--half full.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. HaIe moved toward it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She was putting this in there," she said to herself--slowly.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She thought of the flour in her kitchen at home--half sifted, half not sifted. She had been interrupted, and had left things half done. What had interrupted Minnie Foster? Why had that work been left half done? She made a move as if to finish it,--unfinished things always bothered her,--and then she glanced around and saw that Mrs. Peters was watching her--and she didn't want Mrs. Peters to get that feeling she had got of work begun and then--for some reason--not finished.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"It's a shame about her fruit," she said, and walked toward the cupboard that the county attorney had opened, and got on the chair, murmuring: "I wonder if it's all gone."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
It was a sorry enough looking sight, but "Here's one that's all right," she said at last. She held it toward the light. "This is cherries, too." She looked again. "I declare I believe that's the only one."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
With a sigh, she got down from the chair, went to the sink, and wiped off the bottle.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She'Il feel awful bad, after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She set the bottle on the table, and, with another sigh, started to sit down in the rocker. But she did not sit down. Something kept her from sitting down in that chair. She straightened--stepped back, and, half turned away, stood looking at it, seeing the woman who had sat there "pleatin' at her apron."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The thin voice of the sheriff's wife broke in upon her: "I must be getting those things from the front-room closet." She opened the door into the other room, started in, stepped back. "You coming with me, Mrs. Hale?" she asked nervously. "You--you could help me get them."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
They were soon back--the stark coldness of that shut-up room was not a thing to linger in.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"My!" said Mrs. Peters, dropping the things on the table and hurrying to the stove.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale stood examining the clothes the woman who was being detained in town had said she wanted.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Wright was close!" she exclaimed, holding up a shabby black skirt that bore the marks of much making over. "I think maybe that's why she kept so much to herself. I s'pose she felt she couldn't do her part; and then, you don't enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively--when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls, singing in the choir. But that--oh, that was twenty years ago."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
With a carefulness in which there was something tender, she folded the shabby clothes and piled them at one corner of the table. She looked up at Mrs. Peters, and there was something in the other woman's look that irritated her.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She don't care," she said to herself. "Much difference it makes to her whether Minnie Foster had pretty clothes when she was a girl."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Then she looked again, and she wasn't so sure; in fact, she hadn't at any time been perfectly sure about Mrs. Peters. She had that shrinking manner, and yet her eyes looked as if they could see a long way into things.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"This all you was to take in?" asked Mrs. Hale.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No," said the sheriffs wife; "she said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want, " she ventured in her nervous little way, "for there's not much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. If you're used to wearing an apron--. She said they were in the bottom drawer of this cupboard. Yes--here they are. And then her little shawl that always hung on the stair door."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She took the small gray shawl from behind the door leading upstairs, and stood a minute looking at it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Suddenly Mrs. Hale took a quick step toward the other woman, "Mrs. Peters!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes, Mrs. Hale?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Do you think she--did it?'</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
A frightened look blurred the other thing in Mrs. Peters' eyes.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh, I don't know," she said, in a voice that seemed to shink away from the subject.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, I don't think she did," affirmed Mrs. Hale stoutly. "Asking for an apron, and her little shawl. Worryin' about her fruit."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Mr. Peters says--." Footsteps were heard in the room above; she stopped, looked up, then went on in a lowered voice: "Mr. Peters says--it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in a speech, and he's going to make fun of her saying she didn't--wake up."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
For a moment Mrs. Hale had no answer. Then, "Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake up--when they was slippin' that rope under his neck," she muttered.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No, it's <i>strange,</i>" breathed Mrs. Peters. "They think it was such a--funny way to kill a man."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She began to laugh; at sound of the laugh, abruptly stopped.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"That's just what Mr. Hale said," said Mrs. Hale, in a resolutely natural voice. "There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't understand."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Mr. Henderson said, coming out, that what was needed for the case was a motive. Something to show anger--or sudden feeling."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
'Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here," said Mrs. Hale, "I don't--" She stopped. It was as if her mind tripped on something. Her eye was caught by a dish-towel in the middle of the kitchen table. Slowly she moved toward the table. One half of it was wiped clean, the other half messy. Her eyes made a slow, almost unwilling turn to the bucket of sugar and the half empty bag beside it. Things begun--and not finished.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
After a moment she stepped back, and said, in that manner of releasing herself:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Wonder how they're finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red up up there. You know,"--she paused, and feeling gathered,--"it seems kind of <i>sneaking:</i> locking her up in town and coming out here to get her own house to turn against her!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"But, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife, "the law is the law."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I s'pose 'tis," answered Mrs. Hale shortly.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She turned to the stove, saying something about that fire not being much to brag of. She worked with it a minute, and when she straightened up she said aggressively:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"The law is the law--and a bad stove is a bad stove. How'd you like to cook on this?"--pointing with the poker to the broken lining. She opened the oven door and started to express her opinion of the oven; but she was swept into her own thoughts, thinking of what it would mean, year after year, to have that stove to wrestle with. The thought of Minnie Foster trying to bake in that oven--and the thought of her never going over to see Minnie Foster--.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She was startled by hearing Mrs. Peters say: "A person gets discouraged--and loses heart."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The sheriff's wife had looked from the stove to the sink--to the pail of water which had been carried in from outside. The two women stood there silent, above them the footsteps of the men who were looking for evidence against the woman who had worked in that kitchen. That look of seeing into things, of seeing through a thing to something else, was in the eyes of the sheriff's wife now. When Mrs. Hale next spoke to her, it was gently:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. We'll not feel them when we go out."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters went to the back of the room to hang up the fur tippet she was wearing. A moment later she exclaimed, "Why, she was piecing a quilt," and held up a large sewing basket piled high with quilt pieces.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale spread some of the blocks on the table.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"It's log-cabin pattern," she said, putting several of them together, "Pretty, isn't it?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
They were so engaged with the quilt that they did not hear the footsteps on the stairs. Just as the stair door opened Mrs. Hale was saying:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Do you suppose she was going to quilt it or just knot it?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The sheriff threw up his hands.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"They wonder whether she was going to quilt it or just knot it!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
There was a laugh for the ways of women, a warming of hands over the stove, and then the county attorney said briskly:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, let's go right out to the barn and get that cleared up."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I don't see as there's anything so strange," Mrs. Hale said resentfully, after the outside door had closed on the three men--"our taking up our time with little things while we're waiting for them to get the evidence. I don't see as it's anything to laugh about."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Of course they've got awful important things on their minds," said the sheriff's wife apologetically.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
They returned to an inspection of the block for the quilt. Mrs. Hale was looking at the fine, even sewing, and preoccupied with thoughts of the woman who had done that sewing, when she heard the sheriff's wife say, in a queer tone:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Why, look at this one."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She turned to take the block held out to her.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"The sewing," said Mrs. Peters, in a troubled way, "All the rest of them have been so nice and even--but--this one. Why, it looks as if she didn't know what she was about!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Their eyes met--something flashed to life, passed between them; then, as if with an effort, they seemed to pull away from each other. A moment Mrs. Hale sat there, her hands folded over that sewing which was so unlike all the rest of the sewing. Then she had pulled a knot and drawn the threads.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?" asked the sheriff's wife, startled.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Just pulling out a stitch or two that's not sewed very good," said Mrs. Hale mildly.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I don't think we ought to touch things," Mrs. Peters said, a little helplessly.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I'll just finish up this end," answered Mrs. Hale, still in that mild, matter-of-fact fashion.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She threaded a needle and started to replace bad sewing with good. For a little while she sewed in silence. Then, in that thin, timid voice, she heard:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Mrs. Hale!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes, Mrs. Peters?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
'What do you suppose she was so--nervous about?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh, <i>I</i> don't know," said Mrs. Hale, as if dismissing a thing not important enough to spend much time on. "I don't know as she was--nervous. I sew awful queer sometimes when I'm just tired."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She cut a thread, and out of the corner of her eye looked up at Mrs. Peters. The small, lean face of the sheriff's wife seemed to have tightened up. Her eyes had that look of peering into something. But next moment she moved, and said in her thin, indecisive way:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
'Well, I must get those clothes wrapped. They may be through sooner than we think. I wonder where I could find a piece of paper--and string."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"In that cupboard, maybe," suggested to Mrs. Hale, after a glance around.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
One piece of the crazy sewing remained unripped. Mrs. Peter's back turned, Martha Hale now scrutinized that piece, compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks. The difference was startling. Holding this block made her feel queer, as if the distracted thoughts of the woman who had perhaps turned to it to try and quiet herself were communicating themselves to her.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters' voice roused her.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Here's a bird-cage," she said. "Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
'Why, I don't know whether she did or not." She turned to look at the cage Mrs. Peters was holding up. "I've not been here in so long." She sighed. "There was a man round last year selling canaries cheap--but I don't know as she took one. Maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters looked around the kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Seems kind of funny to think of a bird here." She half laughed--an attempt to put up a barrier. "But she must have had one--or why would she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I suppose maybe the cat got it," suggested Mrs. Hale, resuming her sewing.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No; she didn't have a cat. She's got that feeling some people have about cats--being afraid of them. When they brought her to our house yesterday, my cat got in the room, and she was real upset and asked me to take it out."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"My sister Bessie was like that," laughed Mrs. Hale.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The sheriff's wife did not reply. The silence made Mrs. Hale turn round. Mrs. Peters was examining the bird-cage.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Look at this door," she said slowly. "It's broke. One hinge has been pulled apart."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale came nearer.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Looks as if someone must have been--rough with it."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Again their eyes met--startled, questioning, apprehensive. For a moment neither spoke nor stirred. Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"If they're going to find any evidence, I wish they'd be about it. I don't like this place."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"But I'm awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale." Mrs. Peters put the bird-cage on the table and sat down. "It would be lonesome for me--sitting here alone."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" agreed Mrs. Hale, a certain determined naturalness in her voice. She had picked up the sewing, but now it dropped in her lap, and she murmured in a different voice: "But I tell you what I <i>do</i> wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I wish--I had."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale. Your house--and your children."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I could've come," retorted Mrs. Hale shortly. "I stayed away because it weren't cheerful--and that's why I ought to have come. I"--she looked around--"I've never liked this place. Maybe because it's down in a hollow and you don't see the road. I don't know what it is, but it's a lonesome place, and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now--" She did not put it into words.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, you mustn't reproach yourself," counseled Mrs. Peters. "Somehow, we just don't see how it is with other folks till--something comes up."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Not having children makes less work," mused Mrs. Hale, after a silence, "but it makes a quiet house--and Wright out to work all day--and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Not to know him. I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Yes--good," conceded John Wright's neighbor grimly. "He didn't drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him--." She stopped, shivered a little. "Like a raw wind that gets to the bone." Her eye fell upon the cage on the table before her, and she added, almost bitterly: "I should think she would've wanted a bird!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intently at the cage. "But what do you s'pose went wrong with it?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I don't know," returned Mrs. Peters; "unless it got sick and died."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door. Both women watched it as if somehow held by it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"You didn't know--her?" Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Not till they brought her yesterday," said the sheriff's wife.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She--come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and--fluttery. How--she--did--change."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things, she exclaimed:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale," agreed the sheriff's wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple kindness. "There couldn't possibly be any objection to that, could there? Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in here--and her things?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
They turned to the sewing basket.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Here's some red," said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth. Underneath that was a box. "Here, maybe her scissors are in here--and her things." She held it up. "What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was something she had a long time ago--when she was a girl."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Instantly her hand went to her nose.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Why--!"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters drew nearer--then turned away.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. Hale.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"This isn't her scissors," said Mrs. Peters, in a shrinking voice.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. "Oh, Mrs. Peters!" she cried. "It's--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters bent closer.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"It's the bird," she whispered.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"But, Mrs. Peters!" cried Mrs. Hale. "<i>Look</i> at it! Its <i>neck</i>--look at its neck! It's all--other side <i>to</i>."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She held the box away from her.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The sheriff's wife again bent closer.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Somebody wrung its neck," said she, in a voice that was slow and deep.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
And then again the eyes of the two women met--this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs. Peters looked from the dead bird to the broken door of the cage. Again their eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door. Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The county attorney and the sheriff came in from outside.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, ladies," said the county attorney, as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries, "have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We think," began the sheriff's wife in a flurried voice, "that she was going to--knot it."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on that last.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, that's very interesting, I'm sure," he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the bird-cage.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Has the bird flown?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We think the cat got it," said Mrs. Hale in a voice curiously even.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
He was walking up and down, as if thinking something out.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Is there a cat?" he asked absently.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale shot a look up at the sheriff's wife.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, not <i>now,</i>" said Mrs. Peters. "They're superstitious, you know; they Ieave."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She sank into her chair.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The county attorney did not heed her. "No sign at all of anyone having come in from the outside," he said to Peters, in the manner of continuing an interrupted conversation. "Their own rope. Now let's go upstairs again and go over it, picee by piece. It would have to have been someone who knew just the--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The stair door closed behind them and their voices were lost.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The two women sat motionless, not looking at each other, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they spoke now it was as if they were afraid of what they were saying, but as if they could not help saying it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"She liked the bird," said Martha Hale, low and slowly. "She was going to bury it in that pretty box."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
When I was a girl," said Mrs. Peters, under her breath, "my kitten--there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes--before I could get there--" She covered her face an instant. "If they hadn't held me back I would have"--she caught herself, looked upstairs where footsteps were heard, and finished weakly--"hurt him."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Then they sat without speaking or moving.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I wonder how it would seem," Mrs. Hale at last began, as if feeling her way over strange ground--"never to have had any children around?" Her eyes made a slow sweep of the kitchen, as if seeing what that kitchen had meant through all the years "No, Wright wouldn't like the bird," she said after that--"a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that too." Her voice tightened.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters moved uneasily.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Of course we don't know who killed the bird."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I knew John Wright," was Mrs. Hale's answer.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale," said the sheriff's wife. "Killing a man while he slept--slipping a thing round his neck that choked the life out of him."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale's hand went out to the bird cage.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We don't <i>know</i> who killed him," whispered Mrs. Peters wildly. "We don't <i>know</i>."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale had not moved. "If there had been years and years of--nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful--still--after the bird was still."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
It was as if something within her not herself had spoken, and it found in Mrs. Peters something she did not know as herself.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I know what stillness is," she said, in a queer, monotonous voice. "When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died--after he was two years old--and me with no other then--"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale stirred.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"How soon do you suppose they'll be through looking for the evidence?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I know what stillness is," repeated Mrs. Peters, in just that same way. Then she too pulled back. "The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale," she said in her tight little way.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I wish you'd seen Minnie Foster," was the answer, "when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons, and stood up there in the choir and sang."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The picture of that girl, the fact that she had lived neighbor to that girl for twenty years, and had let her die for lack of life, was suddenly more than she could bear.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh, I <i>wish</i> I'd come over here once in a while!" she cried. "That was a crime! Who's going to punish that?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We mustn't take on," said Mrs. Peters, with a frightened look toward the stairs.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I might 'a' <i>known</i> she needed help! I tell you, it's <i>queer</i>, Mrs. Peters. We live close together, and we live far apart. We all go through the same things--it's all just a different kind of the same thing! If it weren't--why do you and I <i>understand</i>? Why do we <i>know</i>--what we know this minute?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She dashed her hand across her eyes. Then, seeing the jar of fruit on the table she reached for it and choked out:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"If I was you I wouldn't <i>tell</i> her her fruit was gone! Tell her it <i>ain't</i>. Tell her it's all right--all of it. Here--take this in to prove it to her! She--she may never know whether it was broke or not."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
She turned away.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters reached out for the bottle of fruit as if she were glad to take it--as if touching a familiar thing, having something to do, could keep her from something else. She got up, looked about for something to wrap the fruit in, took a petticoat from the pile of clothes she had brought from the front room, and nervously started winding that round the bottle.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"My!" she began, in a high, false voice, "it's a good thing the men couldn't hear us! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a--dead canary." She hurried over that. "As if that could have anything to do with--with--My, wouldn't they <i>laugh</i>?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Footsteps were heard on the stairs.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Maybe they would," muttered Mrs. Hale--"maybe they wouldn't."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No, Peters," said the county attorney incisively; "it's all perfectly clear, except the reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing--something to show. Something to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of doing it."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters. Mrs. Peters was looking at her. Quickly they looked away from each other. The outer door opened and Mr. Hale came in.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I've got the team round now," he said. "Pretty cold out there."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I'm going to stay here awhile by myself," the county attorney suddenly announced. "You can send Frank out for me, can't you?" he asked the sheriff. "I want to go over everything. I'm not satisfied we can't do better."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Again, for one brief moment, the two women's eyes found one another.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The sheriff came up to the table.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Did you want to see what Mrs. Peters was going to take in?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
The county attorney picked up the apron. He laughed.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh, I guess they're not very dangerous things the ladies have picked out."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale's hand was on the sewing basket in which the box was concealed. She felt that she ought to take her hand off the basket. She did not seem able to. He picked up one of the quilt blocks which she had piled on to cover the box. Her eyes felt like fire. She had a feeling that if he took up the basket she would snatch it from him.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
But he did not take it up. With another little laugh, he turned away, saying:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"No; Mrs. Peters doesn't need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff's wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Peters was standing beside the table. Mrs. Hale shot a look up at her; but she could not see her face. Mrs. Peters had turned away. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Not--just that way," she said.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Married to the law!" chuckled Mrs. Peters' husband. He moved toward the door into the front room, and said to the county attorney:</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows."</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Oh--windows," said the county attorney scoffingly.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We'll be right out, Mr. Hale," said the sheriff to the farmer, who was still waiting by the door.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Hale went to look after the horses. The sheriff followed the county attorney into the other room. Again--for one final moment--the two women were alone in that kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Martha Hale sprang up, her hands tight together, looking at that other woman, with whom it rested. At first she could not see her eyes, for the sheriff's wife had not turned back since she turned away at that suggestion of being married to the law. But now Mrs. Hale made her turn back. Her eyes made her turn back. Slowly, unwillingly, Mrs. Peters turned her head until her eyes met the eyes of the other woman. There was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in which there was no evasion or flinching. Then Martha Hale's eyes pointed the way to the basket in which was hidden the thing that would make certain the conviction of the other woman--that woman who was not there and yet who had been there with them all through that hour.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
For a moment Mrs. Peters did not move. And then she did it. With a rush forward, she threw back the quilt pieces, got the box, tried to put it in her handbag. It was too big. Desperately she opened it, started to take the bird out. But there she broke--she could not touch the bird. She stood there helpless, foolish.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
There was the sound of a knob turning in the inner door. Martha Hale snatched the box from the sheriff's wife, and got it in the pocket of her big coat just as the sheriff and the county attorney came back into the kitchen.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to--what is it you call it, ladies?"</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
Mrs. Hale's hand was against the pocket of her coat.</div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
"We call it--knot it, Mr. Henderson."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-59670711447106968992012-09-06T16:34:00.001-04:002012-09-06T16:34:35.123-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Nuevo taller</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">La escena como unidad básica en la narrativa</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Inicio: sábado 15 de septiembre de 2012</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Lugar: San Juan Community Library</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Avenida Apolo</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1CeLN8fZQxvDpoO9IuDjRphfb9Ac89pdrjR8j4jXAZJHYnL5DqJ6fILR283Af6E6CNuNq7nY140LwWmn9iT7eCCsxpm3ljQC8db_wGYPlH2pqafsjlX_il17AZT-nEmhdoNfFyTeo3pM/s1600/Flyer3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_1CeLN8fZQxvDpoO9IuDjRphfb9Ac89pdrjR8j4jXAZJHYnL5DqJ6fILR283Af6E6CNuNq7nY140LwWmn9iT7eCCsxpm3ljQC8db_wGYPlH2pqafsjlX_il17AZT-nEmhdoNfFyTeo3pM/s320/Flyer3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">En este taller los participantes obtendrán un concepto específico de lo que constituye una escena en la narrativa, principalmente en la novela, y redactarán una escena de acuerdo a su proyecto narrativo. Exploraremos la caracterización, la trama, el punto de vista y la descripción, elementos medulares de una escena.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">El costo es de $160.00 por el curso de seis sesiones. Incluye los materiales.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Contacto: 787 360 6106/ mdzamparelli@gmail.com</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-41831148993067323442012-06-28T13:35:00.001-04:002012-06-28T13:35:08.811-04:00Ojos que no ven<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="ES-TRAD">Ojos que no ven<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Yo no lo vi. Sólo escuché la historia. El muchacho
falleció. Llegó con el cerebro fuera de la cabeza el domingo en la tarde
después de celebrar un cumpleaños de familia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Yo no lo vi, sólo lo escuché. Su madre conducía otro
automóvil unos carros más adelante. Él la llamó para decirle que lo chocaban
una y otra vez por detrás. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">¿Qué hago?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Ella le dio alternativas, instrucciones, imaginando lo
peor sin que hubiese sucedido, implorando en algún lugar de su mente que no,
que no le hicieran daño, que estaban cerca, que ella lo protegería. Que Dios,
por favor, Dios, protégelo. Tal vez ya era tarde cuando lo pidió, unos
segundos, una fracción de segundos, ya le habían disparado. ¿Escuchó ella el
disparo por el celular? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Ella llegó, encontró a su hijo con la cabeza deshecha.
¿Qué quedaría de esa frente que ella besó, de esa cabeza que acarició, de esa
mente que cultivó, guió, enseñó? Cargó, con seguridad abrazó, ese cuerpo que
durante nueve meses fue parte de ella, esa criatura que ayudó a caminar por
primera vez, a la que le celebró sus primeros dibujos, sus primeras letras, sus
primeras lecturas. La cabeza deshecha… </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Yo no lo vi. Sólo lo escuché… Imaginé… los cristales
salpicados de sangre y cerebro. Imaginé las manos de ella, ensangrentadas,
recogiéndolo, cargándolo… </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Yo no lo conocí. Hoy lo vi por primera vez. Un niñito,
como cualquier otro, sentado junto a otro en una foto de la niñez. Una foto
como la que yo le tomé a mi hijo en su field day, como la que tú le tomaste al
tuyo en la graduación de kinder, como la que ella le tomó al de ella
chapaleteando en un a piscina, como la de nosotros, la que cada uno de nosotros
tiene en algún álbum de familia para recordar la niñez de los nuestros. ¿Qué
pensará ella, el padre, la hermana, la abuela, el abuelo cuando vean la cara de
ese niño en las fotos de familia?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Yo no lo vi, yo no lo conocí. Ojos que no ven, corazón
que no….siente.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-48609261896998706882012-06-27T14:28:00.000-04:002012-06-27T14:29:04.012-04:00El juego<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">El juego de la ruleta rusa en Puerto Rico</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Por qué?¿Por
qué asesinaron a madre e hija en la floristería?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Porque estaban
atendiendo el negocio? ¿Porque estaban allí? Porque… ¿porque no había
suficiente dinero en la caja? ¿Porque una se llamaba Rosa, les dio gracia la
coincidencia y tiraron del gatillo? Porque ¿sí…?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Por qué le
volaron de la cabeza de un disparo al muchacho que regresaba de un cumpleaños
de familia? ¿Porque iba en un automóvil caro? ¿Porque era domingo en la tarde?
¿Porque se veía blanquito? ¿Porque iba por la carretera? ¿Porque tenía diez y
siete años? Porque ¿sí…?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Por qué hace
más de cuatro años una madre no sabe por qué su hijo llegó abaleado y muerto al
hospital? ¿Porque el muchacho estrelló su carro contra la verja de un lugar de
cuido? ¿Porque era inmaduro? ¿Porque tuvo mala suerte? Porque ¿sí?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Por qué no se
sabe quién asesinó a un niño es su cama, en su cuarto, en su casa? ¿Porque
tenía siete años? ¿Porque era varón? ¿Porque dormía? Porque ¿sí?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Por qué
asesinaron a una joven y a su novio en un estacionamiento? ¿Porque era de
noche? ¿Porque eran jóvenes? ¿Porque se divertían? ¿Porque se querían? ¿Porque
tenían ilusiones? Porque ¿sí?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Una interminable
lista de porqués.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">¿Por qué me debe
importar a mi o a cualquiera en este país los asesinatos con y sin aparente
sentido de gentes, es su mayoría extraños? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Porque: a todos
nos toca ir al supermercado; porque podemos vernos blanquitos, trigueños o
negros y caerle mal a otro; porque podemos vernos ricos, pobres o indigentes y
no valer nada; porque atendemos el negocio; porque echamos gasolina; porque
recogemos a nuestro hijo o hija en la escuela; porque vamos por el expreso al
trabajo; porque viajamos por la carretera a las dos de la tarde o a las ocho de
la mañana, lunes, martes o domingo; por que vamos a la playa; porque intentamos,
porque necesitamos vivir. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Porque aunque no
sea con nosotros o los nuestros la mancha de dolor, de impotencia, de miedo se
amplía y crece y un día, sin darnos cuenta, estamos dentro del charco y tenemos
los pies y el alma empapados por la desgracia. Porque sí…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Hasta que la
bala no se aloja en la espalda, la cabeza, el estómago de alguien que conocemos
el otro tiene el problema. Mientras no se vuele el seso de mis miedos, de
sentimientos o ilusiones, miro en otra dirección, paso la página, lo resuelvo
con que se maten entre ellos, no merecen compasión. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">El domingo me
reúno con mi cuates del espíritu, rezo por los miembros de mi club, canto,
alabo a Yahvé, a Jehová, a Dios y
a Jesucristo y allá aquellos que no me conciernen hasta un día que el revolver
se dispara y en la camarilla había una bala y revienta la ilusión de que
conmigo, con los míos, con los que conozco no es. Entonces me vuelvo a Yahvé, a
Jehová, a Dios, a Jesucristo y le pido clemencia, misericordia, caridad para
ese que agoniza, que otro creó con su violencia. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Porque vivo con
control de acceso, le pisoteo la dignidad al que intenta pasar por mi
vecindario, afuera cultivo, junto a mis vecinos, una tierra de nadie, un páramo
de violencia por el que tendré que pasar tarde o temprano. Pero eso no lo
pienso. Estoy, estamos seguros… Cierro el portón y me quedo en casa con alarma,
cisterna, planta eléctrica… y pronto, ahora, dependiendo de mi ira contra el
otro, saco un permiso para poseer armas, me apunto para unas clases de tiro y
si se me cruzan los vuelo a ellos… porque a todos nos toca en el momento menos
pensado.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">En Puerto Rico
viven, mal contados, cuatro millones de personas. Apuesto que de cada cinco
tres cargan un arma como herramienta de trabajo. Entonces, de cada cien sesenta
pueden volarnos la ilusión, ya sea por defenderse, por miedo o porque sí, de que
estamos seguros, de que conmigo, contigo, con los tuyos, con los míos, no es. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Pregúntate si la
violencia se trata del otro. Imagina que el arma te apunta y la bala tiene un
nombre que conoces. Esa es la naturaleza del juego. Una ruleta rusa en la que
cualquier es el blanco porque el otro tiene una banda que le cubre los ojos con
el razonamiento de que te mato porque tú no eres de los míos. En la realidad
civil que vivimos todos estamos sentados a la mesa de juego queramos o no
participar. Hemos regresamos, en nuestro oscurantismo social, a los tiempos bíblicos;
pagan justos por pecadores. Me pregunto: ¿hay justos en este juego?</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-48670429515402734502012-05-23T14:22:00.004-04:002012-05-23T14:22:34.766-04:00Para mis fieles lectores.<br />
En el siguiente enlace pueden leer mi cuento titulado <b>El parque</b> el cual sometí al concurso S.O.S 2012.<br />
Que disfruten.<br />
http://la-cesta-de-las-palabras.webnode.es/participantes-s-o-s-2012-continuacion-/Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-20632877678639501062012-05-15T20:42:00.001-04:002012-05-15T20:42:50.278-04:00<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Se me ha roto el corazón.</span></b><br />
Acabo de enterarme de la muerte del escritor mexicano Carlos Fuentes. A pesar de que ni siquiera tengo un libro con su autógrafo siento como si hubiera perdido a un amigo. Tal vez se debe a que con sus novelas, sus artículos periodísticos o con los pocos detalles de su vida privada que salían a la luz tuve la ilusión de que lo conocí. O se debe tal vez a esa admiración que siente un lector deslumbrado. Leí y me maravilló su novela La muerte de Artemio Cruz sobre todas. El uso de el Yo, Él y Tú para levantar al personaje, un hombre complejo hecho de niñez, de ambición, de debilidades y deseos. La maravilla de las palabras utilizadas con maestría, el correr del pensamiento con la puntuación adecuada, la cercanía de un ser hecho de letras que nos convence de su existencia y su humanidad. Todo construido con las meras palabras.<br />
Cuando estudiaba mi bachillerato en la Universidad de Puerto Rico tuve la gran suerte de asistir a una conferencia que ofreció el escritor en el Teatro de la Universidad de Puerto Rico. Nunca olvidaré la energía que emanaba de la figura de aquel hombre desde la tarima en la oscuridad del teatro. Él estaba hecho de palabras, de pensamientos, de realidades de los que quedé perdidamente enamorada. Han pasado muchos años, hemos cambiado de siglo, pero la magia de aquella tarde es el recuerdo más preciado de mis años estudiantiles.<br />
Para concluir la conferencia el escritor recitó un poema de Octavio Paz titulado <b>Las palabras;</b> levantó la mano abierta, agarró el rabo de las palabras; les exigió que chillaran; las llamó putas. Cuando escribo y escapan de mi, recuerdo aquel puño hecho de luz que agarraba el rabo de las palabras exigiéndole obediencia.<br />
A manera de un pequeño homenaje incluyo aquel poema para recordar esa tarde de maravilla en la que Carlos Fuentes me tocó con su pasión por las palabras.<br />
Descanse en paz.<br />
<br />
Las palabras<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">Dales la vuelta,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">cógelas del rabo (chillen, putas),</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">azótalas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">dales azúcar en la boca a las rejegas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">ínflalas, globos, pínchalas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">sórbeles sangre y tuétanos,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">sécalas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">cápalas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">písalas, gallo galante,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">tuérceles el gaznate, cocinero,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">desplúmalas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">destrípalas, toro,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">buey, arrástralas,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">hazlas, poeta,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">haz que se traguen todas sus palabras.</span><div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-30878036425055551792012-05-10T13:49:00.002-04:002012-05-10T13:49:57.346-04:00Séptimo Campeonato Mundial del Cuento Corto Oral<br />
El próximo viernes 18 de mayo se celebrará en la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón el<b> Séptimo Campeonato Mundial del Cuento Corto Oral.</b><br />
El campeonato se ha constituido como una actividad literaria en la que cada año participan más escritores ávidos de presentar su trabajo.<br />
Para acceder a las bases, premios y demás detalles acceda al siguiente enlace:<br />
<a href="http://ciudadseva.com/bases/index.htm">http://ciudadseva.com/bases</a><br />
<br />
¡Nos vemos!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-73835203497283684632012-05-10T13:41:00.000-04:002012-05-10T13:41:25.940-04:00Decimoctavo Certamen Literario de la Universidad Politécnica de Puerto RicoEl compañero de Maestría en Creación Literaria ganó el segundo premio en el Decimoctavo Certamen Literario de la Universidad Politécnica de Puerto Rico por el cuento "En el hormiguero".<br />
Aquí el enlace a su blog. Que disfruten.<br />
<a href="http://puertorricuentos.com/">Http://puertorricuentos.com</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-68637468699115023412012-04-09T18:10:00.000-04:002012-04-09T18:13:05.563-04:00Destino<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Destino<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Llegué poco
antes de que amaneciera. Dos viejos insomnes ya esperaban frente al portón. Mi
presencia inaudita los sorprendió. Dieron unos pasos disimulados para alejarse
de mis tatuajes, de mis aretes, de mi barba oscura. Comprendí su recelo y mantuve
la distancia. Cuando abrieron los dejé pasar. Se apresuraron, casi corrieron
para tirar de la lengüeta en el dispensador de turnos. Cómplices en su vejez
tomaron asiento en la misma fila de sillas plegadizas, de frente a la pizarra
electrónica. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Me senté bajo la
única ventana en la sala de espera; una abertura oscura, tan alta en la pared por la que nada ni nadie podría
introducirse. Esperé. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">La pizarra de
turnos se iluminó. Los viejos la miraron al unísono. Cada uno echó un vistazo al
número que apretaba entre el dedo índice y el pulgar. Se miraron entre si con
el rabo del ojo; la duda empozada en el entrecejo. Miraron la pizarra para
corroborar lo que pensaron haber visto. Clavaron los ojos en el horizonte del
salón; perplejos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Abandoné mi silla. Caminé hacia los
viejos y les dije:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: Symbol;">—</span><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Me toca a mí.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Uno de ellos
cambió el peso del cuerpo de un lado al otro como si buscara erguirse en un
absurdo intento para exigir orden, de contradecir mis palabras. Los viejos, más
que nadie, saben que vivir se trata de llevarle la contraria a la vida. El
viejo recapacitó. Casi se disculpa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Por la ventana
entró el eco de uno, dos disparos. Me llevé la mano al pecho, luego a la cabeza.
La pantalla electrónica se apagó. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 18.0pt;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Los viejos
suspiraron aliviados.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-64072582715102767572012-03-20T19:43:00.000-04:002012-03-20T19:43:29.024-04:00Poema LXVILos gatos<br />
<br />
Charles Baudelaire<br />
<br />
Los amantes fervorosos y los sabios austeros<br />
gustan por igual, en su madurez,<br />
de los gatos fuertes y dulces, orgullo de la casa,<br />
que como ellos son friolentos y como ellos sedentarios.<br />
amigos de la ciencia y de la voluptuosidad,<br />
buscan el silencio y el horror de las tinieblas;<br />
el Erebo se hubiera apoderado de ellos para sus correrías fúnebres,<br />
si hubieran podido ante la esclavitud inclinar su arrogancia.<br />
Adoptan al soñar las nobles actitudes<br />
de las grandes esfinges tendidas en el fondo de las soledades,<br />
que parecen dormirse en un sueño sin fin;<br />
sus grupas fecundas están llenas de chispas mágicas,<br />
y fragmentos de oro, cual arenas finas,<br />
chispean vagamente en sus místicas pupilas. <em></em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-5079250436139874612012-03-20T19:42:00.000-04:002012-03-20T19:42:16.025-04:00Finaliza el primer Taller práctico de novela corta<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Concluye primer Taller práctico de novela corta.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Luego de seis intensos sábados concluimos el primer y único taller en su clase el <b>Taller práctico de novela corta.</b> Tanto los integrantes como las profesoras terminamos exaustos pero satisfechos por una labor bien hecha y mejor aprovechada. A nuestra petición los asistentes nos ofrecieron su evaluación sobre el taller. Recibimos comentarios que merece la pena compartir .</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Marcial Torres señaló que el taller: "...para el escritor novel es un instrumento sumamente útil, de manera que comience a organizarse desde el principio." Y al preguntársele si se anotaría para un nuevo taller respondió sin pestañear: "¡Pues claro que sí!"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Calixta Sánchez nos comunicó su satisfacción diciendo que: "Me encantó el orden y la calidad del material escrito que prepararon para beneficio nuestro. Otros recursos muy útiles fueron la crítica constructiva y los comentarios estimulantes de ustedes dos y de los compañeros." </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Al preguntársele sobre posibles futuros tallers dijo entusiasmada: "Me encantaría tomar otro taller de narrativa con ustedes."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Mariemma Tischer dijo: "Ha sido enriquecedor. Las guías ofrecidas para novela corta serán mi norte."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Los demás miembros se hicieron eco de estas opiniones ofreciéndonos, tanto a Ángela como a mi la satisfacción de haber colaborado con escritores dispuestos a trabajar para encontrar el camino de sus historias únicas.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WSwDDdkZ61Y6iIr9OKqgS_4AodCHnZXdupn3GVjtPOsN240ZJTcMLRNpNy5aM7P5bsMpvKfGfyCMJoEFM1q989zF3CXWFzPzc7WAb9Cy1V83TKUwPR1y0SccosvXKHU1JpkIySGvLT_G/s1600/DSC00544+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WSwDDdkZ61Y6iIr9OKqgS_4AodCHnZXdupn3GVjtPOsN240ZJTcMLRNpNy5aM7P5bsMpvKfGfyCMJoEFM1q989zF3CXWFzPzc7WAb9Cy1V83TKUwPR1y0SccosvXKHU1JpkIySGvLT_G/s320/DSC00544+-+Version+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
De izquierda a derecha: Héctor Latorre, Marcial Torres, Marsi Caraballo, Calixta Sánchez, Mariemma, Diana y la escritora Ángela López Borrero.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1-puHzxKLaAq6vokPtOBMW6ocwMqPvJ9J3FFHh5x9Mmu10LKE0NwDSK5ivfnRb4dDtMB2UdpbmFxbdCykWWLb7Kw8foP02xEgrpwxzcdLSWsahhbJnNbjkoyh4KLcbBRkT0_cb9P9nAb/s1600/DSC00545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo1-puHzxKLaAq6vokPtOBMW6ocwMqPvJ9J3FFHh5x9Mmu10LKE0NwDSK5ivfnRb4dDtMB2UdpbmFxbdCykWWLb7Kw8foP02xEgrpwxzcdLSWsahhbJnNbjkoyh4KLcbBRkT0_cb9P9nAb/s320/DSC00545.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
De izquierda a derecha: Héctor Latorre, Marcial Torres, Marsi Caraballo, Calixta Sánchez, Diana, Mariemma y la escritora María Zamparelli.</div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5275723841898412856.post-78151089547030398992012-03-20T19:18:00.000-04:002012-03-20T19:18:22.201-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Festival Internacional de Poesía </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">"Grito de mujer"</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
El sábado 3 de marzo se celebró en la Universidad del Sagrado Corazón el evento de San Juan para el Festival Internacional de poesía "Grito de mujer" en solidaridad mundial para denunciar mediante la palabra y la poesía la violencia contra la mujer. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbcWFJzi-Hf2bP265YYwLyAzO2oQ8Q4HjZ55-BmuwZgm6-yfPlQPcBsgOYQUYqCowPEY-HczcKlE7AVoN2bi-yoFx8CIE_vVbtS7SlaM9L88CH37zxgDnwBGQwGLeJz7bjlASCLbKHhkkl/s1600/DSC00551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbcWFJzi-Hf2bP265YYwLyAzO2oQ8Q4HjZ55-BmuwZgm6-yfPlQPcBsgOYQUYqCowPEY-HczcKlE7AVoN2bi-yoFx8CIE_vVbtS7SlaM9L88CH37zxgDnwBGQwGLeJz7bjlASCLbKHhkkl/s320/DSC00551.JPG" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Comité organizanizador del Segundo Festival Internacional de Poesía<br />
Grito de Mujer<br />
María Zamparelli (izquierda)<br />
Zulma Quiñones (derecha)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdof9dmkOP26E9lUSqCZroVD_lngQi9Ezp49oAVHfzAtIS51syu61vvAjkXf10Hq86w8Fb_TOZINqp-RmE_0bmN11kT8mg_Ai0WLpKrw0LdHzBnfxmaw3L9lD0-Ahj2YdaSg84fgybawpD/s1600/DSC00547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdof9dmkOP26E9lUSqCZroVD_lngQi9Ezp49oAVHfzAtIS51syu61vvAjkXf10Hq86w8Fb_TOZINqp-RmE_0bmN11kT8mg_Ai0WLpKrw0LdHzBnfxmaw3L9lD0-Ahj2YdaSg84fgybawpD/s200/DSC00547.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zulma Quñones junto al afiche oficial<br />
<br />
<br />
La actividad fue un éxito con una asistencia de cerca de 200 personas. Participaron sobre 60 poetas.<br />
El poeta invitado, Mairim Cruz Bernal<br />
<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13160071942026780708noreply@blogger.com0