Here's what we're going to do, I'll buy all of your raspberries, but I also want your freckles. The chick was reluctant. She's six years old at most, her pigtails are blonde like a dry ear of wheat, her eyes are blue like the water in a well's bucket, and she has a plethora of freckles on her cheeks. The freckles are not for sale, mister, she sighs. Where did you get them from, I want some too. Mum said they're imp horns poking from the inside. What do you think they are? I say they're her kisses which bloom at night and by morning they wither and only their seeds are left in my cheeks.
Ina Moldoveanu
She was frail as a reed, ginger and her face filled with speckles. Come here, Dumitrache, we want to play with you. She was happy to be a part of their circle, even if it only meant suffering. Follow the motion of the wheel. Idiot, move your eyes. Now strangle that skinny girl until she falls asleep. Don't run. Call the teacher. We only played with her. She fainted out of hunger. Her mom's a janitor. Dumitrache is poor and didn't have a sandwich to eat during the break. Her mother burrowed her head in the ground. We are top of our class. The wreath means we're good children.
Titela Durnea
She jams on the brakes. She pulls over. The music is at max volume. She glances mesmerised at the sunflower field. Flashbacks take over her mind. She firmly grips the gearshift, grinding her teeth, remembering the hits she took. The black bruise wallows beneath her eyes, blending into her golden freckles. She replays the moments which marked her life: the day she was born, the day her mother died, the day she met Tudor. She sticks her soul to the windshield and erases the last year. She puts on lip-gloss, then drives away, her smile hanging from the mirror.
(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.