They pulled me out of the watermelon by my ears, my hands and shirt full of juice. A seed had stuck in the corner of my mouth, undeniable proof of the crime I had committed. I was eight years old. I waited in fear for my punishment. Whose kid are you, you little tosses? they asked, half amused. I told them. They knew that Pop had his own plot where he grew melons. We'll tell your big daddy to kick your ass so you won't steal again. They had no idea that my grandfather had taught me to eat melons from other people's fields, for we sold ours for good money at the market.
Monica Ciurea
Always, she whispered in his ear. She's an incurable optimist, he thought. But always has its limits always. After a while, always became that much. She stopped whispering in his ear, now she shouted at him. She has a strong personality, he thought. But that much became even more. It became a vital need: for air, for space, for freedom, for leave me alone, you're suffocating me. An eternal malcontent, he thought. Only leave me alone smelled of indifference and reproach. She's just being a woman, he said. Never let the seeds stop you from enjoying the watermelon.
Sanda Vaideș
Dungă's son passed his baccalaureate with straight A's. At the graduation party held at the Cultural Center, his mother dressed him in a greenish suit, a beige shirt and a chartreuse bow tie. His redcheeks, sweat and freckles made him look like a slice of pickled watermelon. He didn't dare to protest, he had his reasons, for for the past 12 years since he had been going to school, all he had heard from his mother was this: We may be watermelon growers from Dăbuleni, but I won't leave you without a degree. Let them just say that your education rests on watermelons.
(Translated by Mihaela Stănilescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by dr. Nadina Vișan, edited by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.