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Sylvester Pilgrim posted another story!

Sylvester Pilgrim

The afternoon was warm but slightly overcast. On the horizon, dark clouds could be seen approaching; bringing a storm with them. School had just ended and most of us were engaged in the usual activities of young boys; playing tag, dodge ball or scampering around. I had just finished chasing my best friend Neal and we were laughing in our comradely way when from behind I heard someone say, “Get him!”

My first thought was of another game of chase until I felt the fingers close around my throat. Again I thought nothing of it until they started to apply pressure. I struggled to get free but they maintained their vice-like grip. The tips began to dig in and crush my windpipe. I gasped and sank to my knees as spots danced before my eyes.

I heard Neal say, “Leave him alone, Randolph!”

It was then that I knew…

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Rita Indiana Novel, First Spanish-Language Book to Win This Prize

Congratulation RITA INDIANA!

Repeating Islands


As a follow-up to our previous post, DOMINICAN REPUBLIC AUTHOR RITA INDIANA WINS CARIBBEAN LITERATURE PRIZE, which announced that Dominican author Rita Indiana Hernández was awarded the Grand Prix Littéraire Région Guadeloupe, here is a post by Adriana Cataño (Remezcla):

Just last year, Rita Indiana earned a nomination for the Premio Bienal de Novela Mario Vargas Llosa – an award seeking to energize the Spanish-language contemporary genre – for her novel, La mucama de Omicunlé. And though Chilean Carlos Franz ultimately took home the prize, Rita’s novel continues pushing Spanish-language literature forward. On April 8, 2017, La mucama became the first book written in Spanish to win the Grand Prix Littéraire Région Guadeloupe – an award given out by the Caribbean Writers Congress, according to EFE.

La mucama de Omicunlé explores issues of identity and gender, and focuses on the Caribbean. “With this novel, I am starting a…

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Interview with Festival Director Tiger Moon (THROUGH MY EYES)

Film makers and book publishers support each other! #nwhp

Festival Reviews

TRIBE Project presents Through My Eyes, a festival of short films created by indigenous minorities from all over the world. The films range from narrative triumphs to poignant documentaries and vivacious animations. Collectively, these are stories of resistance, courage, and hope.

Matthew Toffolo: What is your Film Festival succeeding at doing for filmmakers?

Tiger Moon: Through My Eyes is showcasing independent short films from all over the world — specifically, from filmmakers who consider themselves members of indigenous minorities worldwide. The festival includes films from six continents, celebrating “indi-geniuses” whose work is often overlooked by the mainstream film industry.

What would you expect to experience if you attend the festival this year (2017)?

We hope that every audience member learns something s/he never knew before, temporarily experiencing the world through the eyes of a stranger whose culture may be completely unfamiliar — and opening his/her own eyes to the…

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HERstory: A celebration of leading women in the United Nations (features the Dominican Republic’s Minerva Bernardino)

Repeating Islands

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A celebration of women’s achievements has been taking place at United Nations Headquarters in New York this month, through photography. On 13 December 2016,  UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon and Secretary-General-designate António Guterres attended the launch by the Group of Friends for Gender Parity of an historic exhibit to illuminate some of the crucial contributions that women have made throughout the world body’s history – or, as they refer to it, ‘herstory.’

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“Through today’s exhibition, the Group has managed to capture both the impact of women at the highest levels of the UN and an historic push for gender equality in employment and decision-making that goes far beyond these halls,” said Peter Thomson, President of the UN General Assembly, during the exhibition’s launch ceremony.

The exhibition: HERstory: A Celebration of Leading Women in the United Nations highlights a host of women’s “firsts” at the UN – such as the first woman…

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Cathy Sultan blog

In this excerpt from A Beirut Heart: One Woman’s War I address the issue of PTSD. While its symptoms can be treated and lives seemingly return to normal, war never leaves you

When my husband left Beirut to attend a medical conference in Boston he insisted the children and I move from our dangerous neighborhood to the relative safely of my sister-in-law’s apartment. When the fighting stopped the children and I returned home. I thought we had handled this latest round of fighting quite well. So when classes resumed I was surprised when Nayla refused to get out of bed.

“I can’t go to school, Mommy,” she said. “Please don’t force me to go.”

“Okay, darling, you can stay home today but…”

“No, Mommy, you don’t understand,” and she began to cry. “I can’t go back there again, ever.”

After she had fallen back to sleep I called my husband…

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Sylvester Pilgrim

She looked up when I walked in. Bruises lined her face, her swollen eye; cracked lip. She’d been crying. I didn’t know how long but could only imagine. She huddled protectively over our son. I walked over to them both and reached out to stroke her once lovely blonde hair but she shrank from my touch. My heart ached at the sight.

My son looked up at me and I was transported back to when I was his age and I had looked at my father with the same innocence and fear. My father had been a violent drunk. We’d paid the price.

I tried again to touch her and this time she allowed the contact, though a shiver ran through her body. She turned and looked into my eyes and started to cry. Pulling her close, I stroked her tangled and matted hair. My throat was dry. My voice…

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How to Forgive Yourself [For Not Writing]

A young writer comes to understand the real world of being an author. We are proud!

Word Salad

Arrives around midnight, an itch on the inside of the skull. A nag– a voice of a friend or professor, perhaps editor if you’re lucky. “You should be writing.”

So you drag your sorry corpse from the sheets and sit before a blank screen, fingers poised. Wait, you need to drink something, not anything too caffeinated. You still must work tomorrow, the “real work,” whatever that means; you feel less as if you’re producing anything there than spinning your wheels, making enough money to rent an apartment where you may write. Where you may store the books you buy and never read, neglected friends forlorn on the shelf. But of course it is past midnight, and the story or the novel or the poem remains unfinished. An aching empty, a white space suggesting brilliance but yielding nothing.

David Foster Wallace once said, “If your fidelity to perfectionism is too…

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