tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65587922011-11-27T18:29:03.045-05:00Welcome to Joel C. Font's short story blog. Related to the Cuban and Cuban-American experience, the stories posted here are representative of the more than 20 short stories Joel Font is preparing to publish in book format soon. Each story is between 4500 and 8000 words and are inspired by auto-biographical events in Cuba and the USA. To find out when new stories are posted join the Cuban Stories Yahoo Group or RSS feed.Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.comBlogger101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1165593303771870942006-12-08T10:51:00.001-05:002010-05-13T10:08:35.377-04:00

Dear Readers,I have been fine tuning five new stories since the last posting and will be uploading them to the blog soon. (c) Copyright by Joel FontAll Rights ReservedFor Usage Rights Contact the Author---------------------------------------------

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1086293954134561202004-06-03T16:18:00.001-04:002010-05-13T10:32:24.959-04:00

After my Saturday morning duties as a “Shabbats Boy” for the Ocean Parkway Moroccan Synagogue, I often biked over to Manuel’s house in Brighton Beach where his mother waited for me with a snack. Like in Cuba, condensed milk, crackers and “café con leche” were a great way to treat a child to a temporary heaven. Manuel, his sister Elena, his older brother Ricardo, and their parents where for a

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1084378517248253622004-05-12T12:10:00.002-04:002010-05-13T10:25:02.900-04:00

Cuban Quakers? You must be kidding! Is the response I get from both Americans and Cubans, when I mention that I come from a Cuban Quaker family. Cubans tend to add the “what’s a Quaker?” question, which then forces me to explain the profound differences in outlook and religious practices that Quakers have compared to Catholics and most other Christians. This lack of familiarity with the

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1084132604406311552004-05-09T15:56:00.001-04:002010-05-13T10:34:25.586-04:00

My fathers’ third job in the U.S.A. after our stint in Harlem, turned out to be back in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My uncle Fernando learned that a superintendent’s position had opened up a block away from his house, and was able to convince the landlord to give my father a chance at the job, even though he lacked some of the required qualifications. Fernando also arranged for several Cuban

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1081911292722664862004-04-13T22:52:00.001-04:002010-05-13T10:38:35.191-04:00

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and we were all very excited about our trip to El Jiqui. My father Joel P. Font, had spent several hours the previous day cleaning and waxing our 1953 two-tone Chevrolet. Now wearing our best weekend clothes, my mother, my baby brother, and I waited for him as he loaded the trunk of the car with several portable radios, and a large weekend valise. Each radio

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1081779327450772672004-04-12T10:14:00.001-04:002010-05-13T10:40:10.609-04:00

“Oh my god, there’s that car again”, said the peanut vendor. Slowly the green 1947 Buick moved forward covered with all types of placards, advertising posters, and pulling a long rope with half a dozen empty cans making a loud noise as they scraped the road. On the roof, two huge trumpet like loudspeakers blasted the rhythmic sounds of “Los Hermanos Ajo, y su Organo Oriental”. After a few

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078525037012788782004-03-05T17:16:00.002-05:002010-05-19T18:05:49.840-04:00

There was nothing special about that night. My family had gathered around our television set and we had watched an interesting episode of the “Vikings”, followed by a documentary on the “Internationalist Brigade’s Sacrifices for the Valiant People of Algeria”. These programs were followed by the news, which showed the usual footage from the United States, where German shepherd dogs handled by

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078416653043104822004-03-04T11:08:00.002-05:002010-05-19T18:04:45.612-04:00

As the six uncomfortable wooden chairs of “La Avispa” (The Wasp) bounced, we squeaked and rolled on the hot metal railroad tracks at more than 60 miles per hour, and it felt as if all five of us where going to crash and die at the next big turn. For a skinny boy of 10 in Oriente province, this was my Coney Island. The driver of this uncovered bus like railroad contraption was a jovial fat

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078246394589365302004-03-02T11:52:00.002-05:002010-05-19T18:03:43.681-04:00

“Mira, no te preocupes”, look don’t worry, said my mother. Every ten year old boy in Chaparra can’t be in love with the same girl. Looking at my mother as she combed my hair, I though, “yes, every boy I know in school is in love with Idania Aued. She is the most beautiful girl ever.” “Stand over there now. Let me look at you.” My mother instructed. “Tell me what you see in that mirror?” She

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6558792.post-1078178533305259102004-03-01T16:53:00.000-05:002004-03-02T12:12:18.250-05:00

Short Stories from Cuba, and the Exile Experience in the US. The first group of stories are about experiencing the Cuban revolution as a young boy in Oriente province during the 1960's. The second group is about arrival in the US, and adjusting to American culture as a teen ager and young adult. The third group is about social and political observations of American culture from the

Joel Fontnoreply@blogger.com0