Her skin began to smell of death and she clung to his back, this time, without reluctance. The image of the young girl who had torn her veins with her teeth after the first client suddenly flashed through her being as if it existed within him too. She pulled down the belt, tightening it even tighter around his neck. She watched his tattoo dance nervously across his taut muscles. He was trying to escape, clawing at his neck like an animal caught in a snare. For a second, she felt the weight of his lifeless body collapsing. Who's the boss now, mother fucker?
Sorin Rizeanu
You, apple and bergamot, white orange blossoms. A scent dreamt of by Hugo Boss on a beach in Denderah. Me, jasmine, sweet as rot. A scent of leather manuscript from a dark library in old Alexandria. We'll meet in the world's filthiest city, next to a pyramid. We'll run through the streets in amazing danger, riding a motorcycle. Wild and red. On the shaded boat, I'll rip off your corset and you'll lose my shirt. The old Nile knows us. You, an ice Cleopatra, me, a burning library.
Arthur Ianosi
He was hanging from a noose on the scaffold where the heads of the other robbers were exposed. The wooden stool was blood-splattered and full of flies, delighted that the feast was in full swing. The town square was empty now, only the executioner was sharpening his machete blade preparing to carve up the body of the one who had been the head of the house robbers. You could see the joy in his eyes. The bone handle was still hot. He carved him from top to bottom and then cut off his ring finger to pocket the golden band. Who's the boss now, huh?
(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.