Caterina Tudorache
The dormouse gave a long whistle. Doll, what are you doing? The spider looked at him with crossed eyes, who knows where and squirmed. Hey, mouse, aren't you feeling well? Do you hit on delicate beings like me? I'm a European arachnid and I have rights. I want to walk around without worry of possible physical assault. The dormouse swallowed dryly. The dromedary sat down next to his friend, not noticing that he had a spider, that had been full of rights, glued to his ass. Sucker, you're so stupid. As soon as you see freckles, you melt. The dormouse muttered something, transfixed. He'd just seen a ladybird.
Cristian Dumitru
Irish. Redheaded. High cheekbones, big mouth, freckled face. Hair falls on the forehead as it pleases, rarely lifted by the hand between whose fingers she holds a joint. Dressed randomly. Somewhere, not quite in sight, though the prying eye of the operator manages to catch her repeatedly, alcohol bottle. Sometimes she forgets where it is, pulls it out in plain sight and takes a swig. None of what she appears to be: the braids, the shabby clothes, the gossip, the cheekbones, the freckles, interests her. She picks up the microphone and sings. And connects soul to soul.
Alexandra Buhudini
Grandpa painted the Stone Cross in the heart of Heaven. Fireflies of paint fell to the ground on the faces of the heroes' graves. Mothers kissed their freckles and dug their fingers into the ground just to catch the war by the collar and melt it into curses and tears. At night, God came out of his work overalls as a thought. He took needle and thread and sewed every mother who crossed His threshold to His linen coat. They were mother-buttons. Every morning, he would unbutton his shirt to his chest and embrace the Stone Cross.
(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.