About us
Narrativa.bar is an independent, digital, and multilingual publishing house that focuses on publishing fiction, non-fiction, poetry, opinions, and reviews from marginalized writers.
Our main goals are to break the literary canon, democratize the access to publishing, and decolonize narratives.
Narratives
Opinion |I first listened to Bon Iver back in 2008 as a child. I was eleven, and in some way, I knew he would be great.
Non-Fiction | The heat from the sun strikes the dusty path, and invades my eyes. Feet and paws float for milliseconds above the dirt just to pound back down and push the rest of the bodies forward. He’s panting, I’m panting, the girl with a calf
Non Fiction | The story of the season was how efficient the Lakers were in transition. Reggie Miller made sure to point it out every single game.
Poetry | Maybe? Maybe it wasn’t real. Just maybe. We shared the gelato, Or did you eat it alone? Your almond shaped eyes, the hazelnut color, just like mine. How can I erase that smile? What if I don’t want? What if you kiss me and we fly? The silent
Non Fiction | Second person: You were 23 years old, lonely as only you could be comfortable with. You and that beautiful dog. You had lived a lot, ups, downs, love, sadness, but for some reason the depression at 23 was unbearable.
Poetry | The wet gray haze is covering everything from the river, all the way up to the cathedral. The air is cold and thick, making every inhale painful. If you stretch your arms, your eyes can’t see the tip of your fingers, giving the environment a sense
Fiction | Jose was breathing heavily, chest warm, jaw clenched, and he felt the weight of the entire town crushing him. The seatbelt left a sweat mark across his body. He had driven through the Bosques, Fuentes, Montes, and was crossing the first Writer in Polanco.
Fiction | On the east of the plane the vast body of water of the Gulf of Mexico; under the brown earth; on the west the volcanoes, fuming their fiery breath elegantly; and me floating in the air, above the cotton candy clouds. I am this country. This country is majestic. I’m not.
Poetry | As you walk through the forest, between the cedar pines, you catch a glimpse of something unnatural. A pink knitted hammock hanging from two shorter cedars.
Narrativa.bar
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