Ugly the coyote had a micro-business, but his powers were oversized, he declared. He looked cool as he walked cockily through the door, looking down on two bunnies and a hedgehog, his employees. Until one day when the bunnies felt more and more like tempting fate due to the nerves. Tough job. They couldn't stand it any longer and ran off without notice. Only the hedgehog remained, though he had offered to scratch his colleagues for free, as he had no thoughts of leaving, relying on having the spine to put the boss in his place.
Caterina Tudorache
Yo, the director rumbled, scratching his belly through his split, scared-to-death buttons. Yo, what are we doing here? Scratching oxen? Shearing flies? You fools. The 21 eyes in the boardroom didn't blink. For example, what do you do, George. All day long you're rubbing leather. You too, John. Basil sprays it with a splash. Yo, I brought you here to rub it well, you hear? To scrub. To make it ritzy, yo. To be like my wife when I ask her for this and that. Yeah, man. Pass out. All of them, man. F A I N T. John coughed. What, she doesn't turn you down?
Georgiana Gabriela Fodor
A glass of wine and two drops of blood were enough to be convicted. The ringleader remained anonymous. Bread and blood were written on the newspaper he'd wrapped around himself in the park when the police hauled him off and locked him up for about twenty years. The first few years were awesome, the tattooed skin and comrades in misery, sleepless hours, and forced labour, but he behaved by the book. After ten years, he was moved to another prison under the open sky. Island of Hope. The smell of freedom. And of man.
(Translated by Adriana-Maria Botea / 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.