miércoles, 13 de febrero de 2013

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. 

jueves, 7 de febrero de 2013

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: