The black metal coffin presses against my left shoulder. I stagger, but I quickly pull myself together. I need to make it through. Rares, the band's frontman, lies inside. Everybody mourns. He passed away so young, so proud. Nothing else matters now. It doesn't matter that he stole my girlfriend. Nor that he always called me a tub of lard. Nor that he always spat at me and said that he only kept me in the band out of pity. It only matters that I looked him straight in the eyes and told him he was wrong. He laughed in my face. I didn't; I only waited for the poison in the tequila to do its job.
Monica Bologa
You told me that I was too quiet. I said that I was not very good with words. Then you accused me of having a soul as cold and dark as the blackest metal. Tell me, goddammit, how you feel about me - you shouted one night. After you left, I started pouring those words onto paper. Poems would stack up every day and every night. Now you sit on the bed and read each page of my book, tears streaming down your face. I watch you from above, smiling. That metal isn't socold now, and certainly not black, is it, dear?
George Dometi
I beat the drum. The drumhead is tight, the sound is crisp. Bells jingle with joy. A tossed pig's bladder lies in a corner next to its intestines. Buzzing flies enjoy their meal. A dog occasionally growls at them, but seems more interested in the smell of tochitura simmering on the hearth, covered by the steam of a hearty polenta boiling in blood. Blue cheese filled with worms lies in a tin bowl. Smoke doesn't rise anymore from the chimney of the house the group of carol singers pass by, but they remember: this was the house of that wizard.
(Translated by Alin Sescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.