No matter how hard I try to escape, it's still there. It prowls around me and drags me to it. I named it the afternoon thought. It catches me, like it would catch a cat, on a street where bellyful people throw leftovers from their balconies, knowing they won't ever have time to go bad. I keep trying to understand what you meant by We'll see each other again when my freckles fade. If only you answered my phone calls so I could tell you about this cryotherapies I found. He sprays you, like that bug spray you left on my door mat.
Ionuț Morariu
She had turned sixty years old when the gentle breeze of a secret thought accelerated into a hurricane that swept everything in its way. She didn't love her husband, and her kids were like unpleasant strangers to her. The shock of this revelation made her blood curdle. She stared at herself in the mirror and wondered how the freckled woman in front of her could feel such awful things. She teared up a little and quickly stepped on imaginary heels over the empty carcass of that whom she used to be. She was already smiling. Because under the sun of truth the prettiest freckles break through.
Monica Aldea
Marcu really enjoyed wandering around the forest. At the break of dawn, grandma filled their bag with goodies. She accompanied them to the woodside and instructed grandpa preventively. Don't let the kid stay in the sun. His freckles might multiply. Come back before dusk. Then she watched them until they disappeared into the horizon. Oh, how time passed. Thirty years later, Marcu returned to the village. Only the freckles resemble the boy he used to be. Today he arrived in the village. His grandparents smiled at him from the rain-washed cross in the old cemetery.
(Translated by Laurențiu-Gabriel Niculae / 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.