The child was curiously watching Santa standing in the road. Because he seemed to be lost, he took his hand, determined to show him the way. Santa trudged along with the bag on his back, hunched by time. When they reached a shabby house they stopped. Santa, use the door to go in, because the chimney is unstable. And, please, don't be stingy, leave as many presents as possible. There are four pairs of boots, right by the door. But child, this isn't your home, said the old man. You know the way to my house, Santa, because you came by every year; they are the ones you never found.
Florina Hegedüs
Jim was the building's doorman. Where streets X and Y cross. He was hired in spite of the unappealing, huge brown spot that covered his cheek. As a pensioner, he wanted to add to his income. Eager to help, discreet, he earned our respect. Knowing he was alone, we stopped to share stories with him, to ask for his advice. One day, the men advised him. For Christmas, we gathered in the building hallway. All of the men, even the younger ones, had beards. Jim also. He was charming. He smiled to me, we danced. Since that winter, it's been a continuous spring for us.
George Dometi
It is the end of December. Already. I wonder if they will shave me or not? I flutter about the room. The floor boards creak. They are probably still drying. This small house seems chafing to the touch. Last month I planed three, this year I'm only doing this one. I sometimes wonder how comfortable is the silence of the bark, since man chose to be covered by its woody belly? I feel a cold shiver. I drag my helplessness to the writing desk. I write - This is my last Christmas with you. The tests show inoperable life.
(Translated by Ruxandra Adriana Dodoiu / 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.