Lien Estrada

I had a horrible headache. I’ve always suffered from them, but of course now they’re more extreme.

I had just set up my bookstand on the sidewalk when some inspectors came around and told me I couldn’t be there.

Sometimes you feel like crying, you hold it in, and no one notices your feeling of helplessness. Other times, you can’t hide it.

Every afternoon, kids from who knows how many places known and unknown congregate to play soccer on the dirt street in front of my house.

While walking down Maceo Street in Holguin, I noticed a poster for the 3D Room, formerly the video screening auditorium.

In my experience as a bookseller, I know which books will sell quickly, which ones will sell over time, and which ones will never sell.

When the text of “Objective Lies” came into the hands of my poet friend, he was so fascinated by it that he wanted a copy.

Relatives living in West Palm Beach, United States, are kind enough to help us with an occasional box or two of food.

Now, it’s not just the counterrevolutionaries, the scum, the poor, it’s everyone who can: the green, the partially ripe, and the mature.