Short Story: "The Other", by Felipe Oro

*Traducción al español más abajo.

THE THUNDERS roared, a strong wind lashed out against the casement windows and Mr. Blake was leaning back on his bed. A heavy rain was pouring since midday and, according to the forecast, it would last until next Sunday. All of this, added to his arthritis and an acute migraine, made it impossible for old Tom Blake to sleep that night, as he stayed stock still against the headboard, breathing heavily to make himself heard to the almighty force of nature. It was just Tuesday and his prospects to get any sleep during that night and the others still to go were scarce. He tried to pick up the thread of a novel that his daughter had given him for his birthday: a romantic comedy about vampires who shine at sunlight and werewolves with superb abs; and it was crap. Regrettably, there was nothing else to do. The aerial was not working and he would have to wait until morning for the technician to go and check it out. So he decided it was better to follow through and kept going with the soporific novel. It had the effect of a big jar of warm poppy milk. The man was finally sleeping.

Fragmento: "Astral Tuner", por Felipe Oro

Agosto 13, 200X

Un joven de semblante inexpresivo, pelo negro alborotado, y auriculares con vincha al cuello presiona el timbre de una larga residencia señorial de un periodo pasado. Lleva el uniforme de la secundaria alta local —con la camisa por fuera y la chaqueta abierta— y un maletín al hombro. «¿Diga?» Dice la voz de una mujer a través del aparato. El estudiante se presenta como Saiseki Shin, y señala que está allí por el aviso. 

                Al cabo de unos minutos, una anciana empleada conduce a Saiseki por un camino de piedra hacia el interior de la residencia. Dentro, se quita los zapatos y calza unas pantuflas para invitados, dejando el maletín a un costado. El interior está cargado de un fuerte aroma a incienso, que se intensifica a medida que avanzan a oscuras hacia las habitaciones del fondo. El silencio presente es apenas fragmentado en intervalos cortos, provocados por el arrastrar de las pantuflas de la anciana y un pitido ignoto, casi imperceptible murmura maldiciones al oído de Saiseki. Ya cerca del final del pasillo, se detienen frente a una puerta corrediza con el grabado de unas flores de loto. El resplandor titilante de las velas en el interior de la habitación se filtra a través del wagami y las flores parecen oscilar al compás de las llamas.

Short Story: "Whore House", by Felipe Oro (based on a short story by Gerardo Sanhueza)

I found this picture googling. I couldn't find the artist so as to ask him for proper permission. This story is based on a great short story by Gerardo Sanhueza, which you can find HERE (spanish only) —FO.

Whore House 

We were a couple of lads disappointed of life, love and our ex-girlfriends; especially our exes. We tried to make our way as the soap opera heartthrobs we thought we were, but all we got was to go back home alone, drunk off our asses and with no money. It was then that a single thought struck my head as a divine revelation: “Why don’t we go to a whore house?” So we gathered some money and by the next weekend we were walking down the red-light district. 

     It was a gloomy neighborhood, scarcely illuminated by a few lamp posts and some cracked neon lights outside the dives. Even though the air was cold and dry, most people were barely dressed, as if the only thing they wanted to do was to rip them off as fast as they could. Some whores were outside the hovels. Most of them wore a satin sheen top with mesh leggings and rolls and rolls of fat were leaking out. Many were smoking a joint and their eyes were red and irritated. A few had babies on their fat arms and most seemed very sad and weary. 

Short Story: "The Night of Return", by Felipe Oro

     The Night of Return

     Same night again. A pale, blue moonlight is filtering through the windows and the drawn back curtains of the spacious room. An old woman applies makeup in front of the mirror at the dressing table. She is dressed up in blue tones; a light blue jersey and a dark blue skirt. An older man is behind, sitting at the lower end of the bed. He snorts at times while his head tilts back and forward as the pendulum of a cuckoo clock.

     
     As the air becomes rarefied because of the pompous quantities of powder and perfume, the old man wakes up.

     
     "Why are you so smart and tidy? Are you expecting someone to come or something?" He asks, sniffing phlegm into his throat.

     "Indeed. We are expecting visitors this night. Don't you remember, dear?" She answers, well-mannered and calm, still applying makeup at the dressing table.

     The old man remains silent for a moment and frowns a bit, like trying to remember what he just ate for lunch. Then, his expression rapidly turns from a drowsy one to a gloomy one: