Ah, her feathers seemingly freckled with light had won him over. He puffed his feathers, he twirled around her, he danced. He almost touched her, but she pulled away, staring into nothingness, beak up, like nymph of happiness. He would have given up, but he saw her turn her head towards him: what are you doing, aren't you coming? He flew towards her. He spun. He clung to her. They touched in plain sight. They chirped. A crow yelled at them: Go somewhere else, there are children here. Girl, she said to the dove, first let him build you a nest, or you won't end up well.
Radu Gramatovici
There was something about freckled girls, those little dots gave them an innocent air that turned him on, but since the sunbursts he couldn't find any, because fair-skinned women hid their faces under a thick layer of make-up, so that with this girl, after he had put her to sleep, instead of taking her straight like the others, he stayed up all night tattooing her freckles, only she woke up with a burnt face and terrible pain and then he, being merciful, put a pillow over her mouth thinking it wasn't so bad, the next one would turn out better.
Julia Sandu
It had been raining for months, everything was rotting under the ground, people were rotting above. Water dripped through holes in the slate roof. She sat, staring into nothingness. It was so quiet that only the cigarette butts could be heard sizzling. With one hand on her belly, she watched the last two potatoes. In bed, a small body. Reddish curls drooped over freckled cheeks like quail eggs, damp and wind-blown and fate-burned. It's better like this, she thought. She went out and didn't close the door. If they don't die they'll fill America with freckles and red hair.
(Translated by Corina-Alexandra Belu / 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.