This wasn't how she had imagined life with him. She had given him everything. He gave fits of rage, regret, and promises of love. The children had turned her into a lioness. She endured. Tears. Violence. Emotional terror. On the beach, he was repulsed by her and the children. With bloodshot eyes from all the beers he'd consumed, he gazed longingly at other women. If the little one makes another sound, I'll kill him right here on the beach. She left with the children, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks. That night was peaceful. Toward dawn, the sea brought a man's body to shore. Unidentified.
Alex Caragian
The ice cube bangs against the glass walls. The dog lifts the tip of its ear. That's all the movement it's willing to make. A drop of condensation lazily slides down the squarish glass, taken a few minutes ago from the poolside minibar. The wind has stopped. For about two days. The air burns so intensely that it feels as if the sun hasn't set since then. Z. slaps himself hard. He smears the mosquito across his cheek. A few extra drops of blood on top of those acquired from the corpse under the lounge chair.
Florina Hegedüs
Upon learning that he was mutilating himself through writing, Death brought him a catalog of offers. Bodies hanging from beams. Bathtubs filled with clotted blood, swollen corpses in marshes, bones broken by trains. Frightened, he said, You know, I want to die in my sleep, in my own bed. Eternal silence looked at him, looked at his books, and asked, What will you give in return? They came to an agreement in just a few words, and he kept writing until he grew bored and fell asleep, for good. Smiling. There were no more worries-he had signed over his copyright to Death. Poor thing didn't know that no one read him.
(Translated by Briana Guriță / 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.