Born in Lima (1964). Graduated in law from Catholic University of Peru, Pedro Castillejo won an important mention in the story contest Gabriel Miró, Spain. He also won the Short Story Competition "Open Book." Board member of the legendary magazine Imaginary Art. Many of his stories appeared in cultural magazines and in the anthology called "10 for 90 writers." Even when states away from the literary activity, from time to time, Castillejo surprises us with interesting stories that reveal his narrative talent and writers and the themes that obsessed.
AS BIRD OF PREY
will deposit without content, soft, weak, on the old couch in the old hall. They had crossed the hall and come to the site. Perhaps this time the detours and false answers are not sufficient. You feel bad, you tell the story a thousand times and despair. • How, why? -Questions, and answer you heavily, with the weariness of sterile search of eternal disappointment. "Mr. Saldaña, his work is really better, but still lacks something, perhaps that dose of vehemence with which you seem not to meet its creation ... it is too cold, I do not know ... maybe the next" and then - leaving-the sly whisper of the secretaries behind you sensed that this is the same comments and derision of so many times, and then, a good editor, silencing asolapada mockery that you will try not to listen, and you hurry and run away with your manuscripts wrinkled, crestfallen.
Then I suddenly got that feeling disgusting and only taking over you. That smelly sweat soaking up as an FMD adheres to everything, like a bird of prey appears to devour the life as it is more like carrion. Your failures are the carrion, which have been repeated so yourself. At heart, I sensed that it was inevitable that appearance disgusting, because you had never felt so bad. Today, you had no impetus to even ask for the mystery contained existence, why that particular odor, or why you had chosen just you. Just remember to always reach drives you to death, answering your most intimate questions with answers that appear and gather around the void which has agreed to call "your life" so that we end up concluding that you should remove it, because it that it does not exist, I repeat, almost savoring the phrase.
Before, you could beat that sweat staining infect your losses, because you had few illusions about life that gave you the strength to defend it, but today, early, the editor and the mocking laughter definitely been buried, leaving you vulnerable and lost. Sense, then, that burning fluttering wet, hot, from the pit of my stomach, up arbitrarily to your head, where suicide would be the final and conclusive. Because you were sure: this time had no mitigating failure had you cornered.
However, as never before, that moisture was short and strange, however, appeared to grant you all that stream out of frustration in his survival, to the endless chain of demerits and empty. And I rejoiced, even though-as usual-musty taste you tongue was indelible. Recently, after a while you perceived that bright and new conviction, that you had given aqueous shame the key to escape from all your mediocrity: you were about to write the great work of your life. Finally, you saw the light at the end of the tunnel: success.
With accelerated still breathing, we fail to rejoice, and wondered for the uniqueness of the event and, without you reach the time to question anything, ran as fast as your old permit, you took a pencil, a notebook and came back to the old hall, sitting in front of the small coffee table that attracted it to you, to undertake the writing. As always, you forgot to close the door into the street and allowed the entry of this trickle of air so upset at first, and now completely forgotten before acquiring your dedication.
you take a pencil in his hands and you sit down on the overstuffed furniture. The feeling of serenity I recalled the unexpected visit of Charles, the beloved friend who liked to sit in the chair so that you had chosen and giving back to the door.
You could have questioned the fact, but the fact is that with pencil in hand, felt that everything was like writing a story and start writing in your mind. There too the character sketch, the environment, and chose a tone, nor to any other item. Just start typing.
"There is Borges called him" old, stubborn and lonely. His lean figure is outlined against the dim light of a candle, in the corner of small room glows dull and ambitious. Dry your face rejects the light beam unsuccessfully strives for depth of your wrinkles, drowned in darkness forever timeless. In the light of the lamp and the old table, a dusty mountains of paper are the animografía of failure, of many hours of lost development. Borges looks on and laughs without desire "all that failure behind us, today I feel I'll do the best story ever been written."
Lost in a total effort Borges, is available to resolve the fate of a story, build your delusions of paper. In the darkness, swirling ideas, without knowing exactly how, his talent began to draw profiles of a face: he was born Ramón Arenas. It was conceived and realized on the street Maldonado, deep breath and take a trip. He had bloodshot eyes, a huge body and a damn quality recurring. Borges himself smiled fascinated by his work. Ramon Arenas
just nodded before walking through the streets family sincerely newly invented for him. Then he saw, without gasping, with the sound of the sun in his huge shoulders. Not even the stifling traffic noise around him made him question. Created perfect, flawless, had scheduled a clear intention: to intercept the Norwegian ambassador's funeral, just as he crossed the street Anthers in Quarter reputed as "intellectuals", San Alfonso de Parné. To be around, locate the ambassador's wife and murder for an offense that could not remember, but its existence was strangely safe, stay paid. Then run aimlessly.
walked stealthily into the city center, dodging cops coming in the opposite direction, using a rare instinct was not born of experience, they had virtually no past. Boarded a bus, which crossed the entire city. When it was paying for the trip, the jugular always about to explode and aggressive smile full of rotten teeth, seemed to frighten the collector; down without any problem, without even a warning. I was in a poor neighborhood near a large market. Was hospitalized with a narrow alley and played a battered door. The vagueness of a known face never invited him. Minutes later came out with a small but heavy lump in her right hand, wrapped in a manila envelope. Then, Ramon Arenas returned to their departure, to meet their paper chains.
long walked the streets of a major thoroughfare, saturated colors that should be recognized in spite of its novelty. The bulge in the hand increased their weight as time passed. When it was discovered in the right corner, thought the ambassador's wife and something else. Borges is generated here, the first mystery, but pretending not to miss the meeting, he continued, most comfortable in the chair and approached the lamp to see better and keep writing.
Ramón Arenas made a horrible grimace, he turned and began walking east. Borges this time could not overlook that repeated disobedience before he wanted to think of the ambassador's wife but not in that "something else" and that would not turn around and leave the place where it was executing the murder. Then he stopped writing and he resumed only when came to the aid of his confusion the words of his late professor of literature: "In the works of art, the real, the author is exceeded and reduced to the role of a mere facilitator." With the sound of that memory resumed the letter, even more excited than before.
tiles on the sidewalk passed beneath the feet of Ramón Arenas quickly. Despite his large body, almost did not make noise when stepped on, and that apparently was very pleased. Changed direction multiple times, as if trying to mislead anyone. The role that the package was wrapped and moist and the contours of the gun began to be noted, however, the night and disgust that reflect prevented passers set you look. Turn right, two blocks from front, one on the left. In a macabre moment, Borges looked down his pen, like slow motion, hitting the floor like a discordant drum. He thought the worst thing was that last face twisted with it knew it all, Borges had no doubt. He had finally recognized what site was Ramon Arenas, Borges knew he inexplicably was only a few blocks from her home. They attacked many of feelings, fear, curiosity, "Is it possible?" Rationality, coldness, "the creations always be dominated, and ultimately destroyed, if so, destroyed."
absolute Intrigue was built in his eyes very old, that they asked a thousand things. His trembling hand picked up the pen and shaking violently reproached infinity of fears that it monopolized. "Hey Borges, said that his job is on the" provinces ", which you will never be an intellectual, his writings on art is not interested in anyone who has no talent, creativity ... ¨ Do not expect the newspaper says you letters, is not it? ".
Never, never, he said. His eyes are deeply old captured all the resentment of years and Borges resumed his work, wanting to regain control and demonstrated many, many things. No longer cared that the latter face revealed that his creation came to kill him, I knew that today was able to dominate and not allow more insubordination. Borges set his sights on the role, his eyes filled with push and decided to war against this monstrous character who wanted to kill him. So, back to stamp words on the sheet. He ordered her to return, to pull his gun to stop, he smiled kindly. Got nothing. For the first time felt really panicked, it was as if he could not break the dynamics of his own story, as if somehow he started writing his own death. If your life was still subjected to a macabre curiosity, his sickly social revenge. Borges submitted it all and held a new trial. Settled the boom to almost tear the paper, making them gnashing his teeth sharply, led to his obsession with dark boundaries, which suddenly ended up relaxing. Suddenly stopped fighting, just threw his body back, and with a touch of resignation apparent Ramón Arenas allowed to reach the door of your house, climbing stairs slowly, at length, placed in front of his bent back and pointed a gun directly to the neck. Just then, Borges calmly drop the pen on the table and starts to laugh, thinking it would never be a failure and did not lend itself to carry out his own death.
The scene you play spiritual and icy. Your final was also another, pathetic, a Borges getting killed by their complex and its traumas. But Borges did not want to write, I did not capture his last words mortuary. You wanted to comfort you thinking the wrong time against the editor in the morning and the effort to write the novel, I had been tiring that I had caught in a prison where the bars are your fantasies horizontal and vertical, fatigue. Most did not understand what was happening. And you worked, wanted to go against the instinct of conservation and Borges got to live again, "almost made it," you said, and he takes the pen again, gripping his fingers, points on the last line, you write with your left hand covering the blade, you can not see, will not let you, "What makes?" writes and do not know what, you're curious and terrified ... exhausted, but you do not you stop.
eyes before now appear recalcitrant mocking Borges. And you: you think so many things. Borges feels a few steps away, the sound of the door behind her, and she smiles again but you can avoid it. Think again so much. Borges laughs last. Then feel the trickle of air at your back is huge, because your door has been opened, you are almost sure of that. You're afraid. You see a human shadow on the huge project dusty mountains of paper on your table. The fear grows, the taste of mold making your throat and you decide you still turn around.
Finally, your novel published along with the following editor's note:
"The writings of the work we are pleased to deliver to you on this occasion, Mr. Reader, were found by Carlos Bustamante, intimate friend of the author in circumstances that make it more exciting to read.
The following is a news story that illustrates in some way the death of so skillful writer:
"The body of dark writer Pedro Saldana, age 65, has a gunshot wound back. Ulna was found on a small table with his hands covering his head and some sheets of manuscript paper and disorder, presumably because of the violent impact caused by the projectile.
is not yet known the identity of the murderer.
A fact that has long intrigued researchers in the homicide division, is the stinking humidity impregnated onto the body and the manuscripts found at the scene. The authorities speculate that the deceased had suffered from a rare disease that causes profuse sweating and feverish apparent.
are unknown motives for the crime. "
Then I suddenly got that feeling disgusting and only taking over you. That smelly sweat soaking up as an FMD adheres to everything, like a bird of prey appears to devour the life as it is more like carrion. Your failures are the carrion, which have been repeated so yourself. At heart, I sensed that it was inevitable that appearance disgusting, because you had never felt so bad. Today, you had no impetus to even ask for the mystery contained existence, why that particular odor, or why you had chosen just you. Just remember to always reach drives you to death, answering your most intimate questions with answers that appear and gather around the void which has agreed to call "your life" so that we end up concluding that you should remove it, because it that it does not exist, I repeat, almost savoring the phrase.
Before, you could beat that sweat staining infect your losses, because you had few illusions about life that gave you the strength to defend it, but today, early, the editor and the mocking laughter definitely been buried, leaving you vulnerable and lost. Sense, then, that burning fluttering wet, hot, from the pit of my stomach, up arbitrarily to your head, where suicide would be the final and conclusive. Because you were sure: this time had no mitigating failure had you cornered.
However, as never before, that moisture was short and strange, however, appeared to grant you all that stream out of frustration in his survival, to the endless chain of demerits and empty. And I rejoiced, even though-as usual-musty taste you tongue was indelible. Recently, after a while you perceived that bright and new conviction, that you had given aqueous shame the key to escape from all your mediocrity: you were about to write the great work of your life. Finally, you saw the light at the end of the tunnel: success.
With accelerated still breathing, we fail to rejoice, and wondered for the uniqueness of the event and, without you reach the time to question anything, ran as fast as your old permit, you took a pencil, a notebook and came back to the old hall, sitting in front of the small coffee table that attracted it to you, to undertake the writing. As always, you forgot to close the door into the street and allowed the entry of this trickle of air so upset at first, and now completely forgotten before acquiring your dedication.
you take a pencil in his hands and you sit down on the overstuffed furniture. The feeling of serenity I recalled the unexpected visit of Charles, the beloved friend who liked to sit in the chair so that you had chosen and giving back to the door.
You could have questioned the fact, but the fact is that with pencil in hand, felt that everything was like writing a story and start writing in your mind. There too the character sketch, the environment, and chose a tone, nor to any other item. Just start typing.
"There is Borges called him" old, stubborn and lonely. His lean figure is outlined against the dim light of a candle, in the corner of small room glows dull and ambitious. Dry your face rejects the light beam unsuccessfully strives for depth of your wrinkles, drowned in darkness forever timeless. In the light of the lamp and the old table, a dusty mountains of paper are the animografía of failure, of many hours of lost development. Borges looks on and laughs without desire "all that failure behind us, today I feel I'll do the best story ever been written."
Lost in a total effort Borges, is available to resolve the fate of a story, build your delusions of paper. In the darkness, swirling ideas, without knowing exactly how, his talent began to draw profiles of a face: he was born Ramón Arenas. It was conceived and realized on the street Maldonado, deep breath and take a trip. He had bloodshot eyes, a huge body and a damn quality recurring. Borges himself smiled fascinated by his work. Ramon Arenas
just nodded before walking through the streets family sincerely newly invented for him. Then he saw, without gasping, with the sound of the sun in his huge shoulders. Not even the stifling traffic noise around him made him question. Created perfect, flawless, had scheduled a clear intention: to intercept the Norwegian ambassador's funeral, just as he crossed the street Anthers in Quarter reputed as "intellectuals", San Alfonso de Parné. To be around, locate the ambassador's wife and murder for an offense that could not remember, but its existence was strangely safe, stay paid. Then run aimlessly.
walked stealthily into the city center, dodging cops coming in the opposite direction, using a rare instinct was not born of experience, they had virtually no past. Boarded a bus, which crossed the entire city. When it was paying for the trip, the jugular always about to explode and aggressive smile full of rotten teeth, seemed to frighten the collector; down without any problem, without even a warning. I was in a poor neighborhood near a large market. Was hospitalized with a narrow alley and played a battered door. The vagueness of a known face never invited him. Minutes later came out with a small but heavy lump in her right hand, wrapped in a manila envelope. Then, Ramon Arenas returned to their departure, to meet their paper chains.
long walked the streets of a major thoroughfare, saturated colors that should be recognized in spite of its novelty. The bulge in the hand increased their weight as time passed. When it was discovered in the right corner, thought the ambassador's wife and something else. Borges is generated here, the first mystery, but pretending not to miss the meeting, he continued, most comfortable in the chair and approached the lamp to see better and keep writing.
Ramón Arenas made a horrible grimace, he turned and began walking east. Borges this time could not overlook that repeated disobedience before he wanted to think of the ambassador's wife but not in that "something else" and that would not turn around and leave the place where it was executing the murder. Then he stopped writing and he resumed only when came to the aid of his confusion the words of his late professor of literature: "In the works of art, the real, the author is exceeded and reduced to the role of a mere facilitator." With the sound of that memory resumed the letter, even more excited than before.
tiles on the sidewalk passed beneath the feet of Ramón Arenas quickly. Despite his large body, almost did not make noise when stepped on, and that apparently was very pleased. Changed direction multiple times, as if trying to mislead anyone. The role that the package was wrapped and moist and the contours of the gun began to be noted, however, the night and disgust that reflect prevented passers set you look. Turn right, two blocks from front, one on the left. In a macabre moment, Borges looked down his pen, like slow motion, hitting the floor like a discordant drum. He thought the worst thing was that last face twisted with it knew it all, Borges had no doubt. He had finally recognized what site was Ramon Arenas, Borges knew he inexplicably was only a few blocks from her home. They attacked many of feelings, fear, curiosity, "Is it possible?" Rationality, coldness, "the creations always be dominated, and ultimately destroyed, if so, destroyed."
absolute Intrigue was built in his eyes very old, that they asked a thousand things. His trembling hand picked up the pen and shaking violently reproached infinity of fears that it monopolized. "Hey Borges, said that his job is on the" provinces ", which you will never be an intellectual, his writings on art is not interested in anyone who has no talent, creativity ... ¨ Do not expect the newspaper says you letters, is not it? ".
Never, never, he said. His eyes are deeply old captured all the resentment of years and Borges resumed his work, wanting to regain control and demonstrated many, many things. No longer cared that the latter face revealed that his creation came to kill him, I knew that today was able to dominate and not allow more insubordination. Borges set his sights on the role, his eyes filled with push and decided to war against this monstrous character who wanted to kill him. So, back to stamp words on the sheet. He ordered her to return, to pull his gun to stop, he smiled kindly. Got nothing. For the first time felt really panicked, it was as if he could not break the dynamics of his own story, as if somehow he started writing his own death. If your life was still subjected to a macabre curiosity, his sickly social revenge. Borges submitted it all and held a new trial. Settled the boom to almost tear the paper, making them gnashing his teeth sharply, led to his obsession with dark boundaries, which suddenly ended up relaxing. Suddenly stopped fighting, just threw his body back, and with a touch of resignation apparent Ramón Arenas allowed to reach the door of your house, climbing stairs slowly, at length, placed in front of his bent back and pointed a gun directly to the neck. Just then, Borges calmly drop the pen on the table and starts to laugh, thinking it would never be a failure and did not lend itself to carry out his own death.
The scene you play spiritual and icy. Your final was also another, pathetic, a Borges getting killed by their complex and its traumas. But Borges did not want to write, I did not capture his last words mortuary. You wanted to comfort you thinking the wrong time against the editor in the morning and the effort to write the novel, I had been tiring that I had caught in a prison where the bars are your fantasies horizontal and vertical, fatigue. Most did not understand what was happening. And you worked, wanted to go against the instinct of conservation and Borges got to live again, "almost made it," you said, and he takes the pen again, gripping his fingers, points on the last line, you write with your left hand covering the blade, you can not see, will not let you, "What makes?" writes and do not know what, you're curious and terrified ... exhausted, but you do not you stop.
eyes before now appear recalcitrant mocking Borges. And you: you think so many things. Borges feels a few steps away, the sound of the door behind her, and she smiles again but you can avoid it. Think again so much. Borges laughs last. Then feel the trickle of air at your back is huge, because your door has been opened, you are almost sure of that. You're afraid. You see a human shadow on the huge project dusty mountains of paper on your table. The fear grows, the taste of mold making your throat and you decide you still turn around.
Finally, your novel published along with the following editor's note:
"The writings of the work we are pleased to deliver to you on this occasion, Mr. Reader, were found by Carlos Bustamante, intimate friend of the author in circumstances that make it more exciting to read.
The following is a news story that illustrates in some way the death of so skillful writer:
"The body of dark writer Pedro Saldana, age 65, has a gunshot wound back. Ulna was found on a small table with his hands covering his head and some sheets of manuscript paper and disorder, presumably because of the violent impact caused by the projectile.
is not yet known the identity of the murderer.
A fact that has long intrigued researchers in the homicide division, is the stinking humidity impregnated onto the body and the manuscripts found at the scene. The authorities speculate that the deceased had suffered from a rare disease that causes profuse sweating and feverish apparent.
are unknown motives for the crime. "
.
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