My child, my child, the poor woman wailed, eaten up by life and by the slots'slavery put on her shoulders by the apple of her eyes, her only son. Handsome as never seen in those parts, the maidens were after him like bees after honey. She talked her mouth raw so he would learn to read, she walked in rags, she's old and worn out. She paid his first loan, his second, his third, she didn't know which way to turn. When she paid his last loan, his heart broke. After the funeral they found him hanging from the rafter.
Cristian Nedelcu
She ditched the cape and chose a black evening gown, tight over her luscious body. She leaned her scythe against the closet wall. She had plenty of money. She was not in the habit of spending, she didn't have the time, her work consumed all of her the time. She walked into the casino as if she'd always owned it. She warmed up at the slots, then sat down at the roulette table. Bet on black, Mrs. M, the croupier whispered. Who are you? she asked in surprise. Add up all the numbers on the wheel and you'll learn my name.
Marian Bircea
Barely raised, he watched the river rippling beside him, pierced by willows. To be or not to be? A shot of hard liquor, another of stale beer, a smoke from a cigar. As he sits in the shed, alone, no sound of man or beast, hungover, he tries to remember where he got the map on his pants, how he got from the fair to the tavern with slots, but above all, who he really is. Tough dilemma before puking. In a loud voice, he began to labour the point. If it's not me, I found a wagon. If it is me, I lost a horse.
(Translated by Corina-Alexandra Belu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.