Mr. Popescu had fallen ill due to the splinter which pricked his finger. The illness, mysterious and unheard of, was worse than measles: Mr. Popescu was stiff as a board next to the windowsill, manifesting a bizarre entropy which drove him to sunlight. Disgusted, Mrs. Popescu dusted him off for a while, marveling at the wooden texture of his skin. She only called the doctor when her husband grew a flower from the very top of his head. Slightly confused, the doctor recommended daily watering and whitewashing up to his waist.
Ruxandra Comșa
I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, last night I started smoking again, I'm waiting for the weekend so I can drink. I'll come home on Friday and lock myself inside until Monday. If I get hungry, I'll eat junk. Chips, peanuts, chocolate. I'll watch TV shows relentlessly and most likely not read anything. I'm not in the mood. With my eyes glued to the ceiling I'll lie to myself, reinventing the story. But in my heart, I know where I got lost. On the bench in the park, on the night I've had the best sex of my life. The bench was old and full of splinters. Between the two of us, I was the one who got hurt.
Ruxandra Donose
His eyes were dark as coal, his body full of muscle; he was a Greco-Romanwrestling champion. Handsome boy, fierce. And an alcoholic. Pleadings and ultimatums amounted to nothing. His eyes twinkled as he ran away from it all and hid himself in the bottle, like a black spell. He tenderly held his son, his refuge, the apple of his eye, and the child felt his strong arms like a warm protective steel pitcher. After he passed away, his son grew as tall as a tree, handsome, mighty, eyes of coal. Upright. Until he fell under the same black spell.
(Translated by Marian-Cătălin Niculăescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.