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Writer's pictureElidio La Torre Lagares

«El día que llovió dinero en Adjuntas»: in the short story anthology *No es cuento*


The anthology No es cuento, recently published in Spain by Univerisad de Zaragoza, offers a compelling glimpse into the evolving landscape of 21st-century Puerto Rican narrative. The anthology does not dwell on the past but instead aims to capture the present and immediate future



It's not storytime. But it is. "El día que llovió dinero en Adjuntas," one of the short stories from Septiembre [2000]) is the opening story in this anthology compiled by Aníbal Salazar Anglada, titled No es cuento. Anglada also pens the preface, which is titled "Una isla en crisis o el cuento de nunca acabar."


Of course, it had to happen in September.


The anthology No es cuento, recently published in Spain, offers a compelling glimpse into the evolving landscape of 21st-century Puerto Rican narrative. According to its cover, this anthology does not dwell on the past but instead aims to capture the present and immediate future. It focuses on "the structural crisis that Puerto Rico is experiencing, exacerbated in recent times," using diverse literary styles to express this complex reality.

The collection includes an array of voices, from established to emerging authors, each offering a unique lens on the island's socio-political and cultural challenges. José Liboy Erba’s "Me he dado cuenta" grapples with personal realization amidst collective upheaval, while Moisés Agosto Rosario’s "Matilde" delves into intimate loss. Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro's "Moridero de olas" presents the constant ebb and flow of Puerto Rican identity, likened to waves crashing against a precarious shoreline.


Sofía Irene Cardona’s "Un hombre que llora" challenges traditional masculinity in a society in crisis, and Francisco Font Acevedo’s "Se busca dueño de mascota" is a satirical exploration of abandonment and belonging. Max Chárriez’s "La hora cero" evokes a sense of temporal collapse, where time becomes a metaphor for the disintegration of both personal and national structures.


Further entries, such as Juanluís Ramos’ "La confesión de sor Josefa de Todos los Santos," juxtapose religious and existential crises, while Luis Negrón’s "Por Guayama" paints a portrait of a town lost to historical erasure. Rubis Camacho’s "Réquiem para una muerta urbana" narrates the decline of urban life, and Janette Becerra’s "El experimento" confronts ethical dilemmas in a decaying world.


The anthology also includes pieces like Ernesto Quiñónez’s "Turistas," which critiques the commodification of Puerto Rican culture, and Tere Dávila’s "Cómo colgar un cuadro en el Viejo San Juan," which reflects on the weight of history in a crumbling colonial city. Cezanne Cardona Morales’ "Una escopeta sobre la hierba" is a visceral tale of violence and survival, while Gabriel Carle’s "Los filis que nos unen" contemplates the fragile ties holding people together.


Vanessa Vilches Norat’s "Una casa es un lugar lejano" touches on the diaspora’s yearning for home, and Sergio Gutiérrez Negrón’s "Gente que va sola a la playa" portrays the isolation felt by individuals even in collective spaces. Alexandra Pagán Vélez’s "Apocalipsis" imagines the end of a world already fractured, and Manolo Núñez Negrón’s "Cocktail" blends humor and despair in the face of collapse.


Finally, Josué Montijo’s "Mirate" closes the collection with a reflective meditation on identity and self-perception amidst societal fragmentation.


Through these narratives, No es cuento offers a vital and nuanced examination of Puerto Rico’s ongoing crises, where the line between fiction and reality blurs, and literature becomes a tool for both artistic expression and social commentary. The anthology stands as a testament to the resilience of Puerto Rican voices and their capacity to confront and reimagine the future.

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