On Sunday afternoon the café was full. They were waiting for Her. No one knew who she was, or where she came from, she didn't speak to anyone. She would come in, have a coffee, read the newspaper and leave. The same as today. She was so beautiful that men forgot to breathe. Women bit their lips. She drank her coffee, folded the newspaper and left. Once home, she took off her wig, stripped herself naked, caressed her body which seemed drained of life, and then looked at herself in the mirror. How easily you can fool people that everything is fine when only appearance matters.
Alex Caragian
Her name was Desdemon, but often she was more of an angel than a demon. Although she was nicknamed Des, the Deceiver, Des disappointed all week long. Of course, on Sunday there was a total debauchery. A day for the worship of the god's laurels and the polishing of the flame chariots. They were flapping. Her wings. A cosmic wind blew from Eden in the Month of MARS. Her destiny was somewhere above and not among her fellow mortals, for she had invested satellites. She wanted to leave the mortals some guiding words. Out of weariness, she published them posthumously: The Gospel According to.
Florina Hegedüs
I shall name it. It has a slightly rough velvet cover, the hue of Chinese green, just like the door frame and the window of the house I left one weekend, many, many years ago while the phone was ringing desperately. Why? What I now know, I couldn't recognize back then. He was too kind, I was too rude, swimming through tangled weeds towards the shore, and during this time he suffered. He died of sorrow. Daily, I will look at the green journal as a form of self-flagellation, and only on Sunday afternoons I will write in it and forgive myself.
(Translated by Bogdan Macarie / 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.