On the sonogram, the fetus was anything but beautiful. As a baby, he was a darling, considering the cost of diapers. His mother had grown fond of him; although she wasn't sure he was hers. He could have been Vasile's. The kid didn't stand out in anything. As a man, he was the soft guy, bald and picky. He married her, sour, but with big breasts that ensured their marriage's success. No idea how, technologically speaking. He died on a Thursday. What a good boy he had been. Did you meet him? No, ma'am, but that's what people are saying.
Paul Dârvariu
My Gramps told them to me, to fall asleep, but I instantly forgot them. I can only remember the characters: The hen, which was driving the handcar, the old man who took his rooster to the market, the cow, which (excuse me) poops. Gramps' stories would die out with my first yawn. When I asked him to repeat the story from the night before, he would smile sheepishly: Kiddo, do you think I remember all the nonsense that comes to mind? Clearly, I take after him. When Facebook reminds me of a post from years ago, I always ask myself a question: Did I really write that nonsense?
Ramona Ungureanu
So hot, that the old wooden desk had started melting, the secretary was dripping softly on her sweaty body. I saw a white-collared cold beer. At home, shopping, marital clashes, I pretended to forget. His tiny eyes were the only thing keeping me alive and supporting me like that rotten stake the entire year's harvest depends on. And? And this guy looking for happiness had reached the end of the Earth. And? And he jumped into the void and that was it. Actually, he sat on the edge and drank a beer. Darling, do we have beer?
(Translated by Ioana Grințescu / 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.