His palm came down heavy on her wrinkled cheek. His fingers remained red on her face. A trickle of blood appeared in the corner of her mouth. The old woman wiped her tear in a napkin and handed the last money that she had to the young man in front of her. Maybe this would be enough. She'd worked at the neighbour's for these pennies or she'd have pissed him off. The next day, he doesn't remember a thing. He says he gives up drinking, he's crying. She forgives him. He's her nephew. She pulled her coat over her bruised body and left to find some work for the day. She has to buy meat to make him a broth.
Sorin Rizeanu
I'm mostly interested in what the writer hasn't written. Sitting by the window with a book and a coffee, the gods are missing me again today. It's not sunny, but I like it that way, I'm waking up from the drunken light. I am possessed by absences that beg to be filled, my soul by boredom, my mind by laziness. Worry is the absence of faith, the writer thinks. I'll turn another page. Reading is my poor relative of paradise, nothing is more divine than words. It's raining quietly, and I celebrate my absences, with a book and a cup of coffee.
Bogdan Mihai Bati
Do we have goalkeepers? One for each team. Any quarterbacks? Two on the right, two on the left and four in the centre. Midfielders? A pair on each side, plus a pair in the centre. What about forwards? That's what we found. Six, two on one wing, two on the other, and two in the middle. Coaches? We have two. So? Why don't they play? No referees? I found some. Four, as required by the rules, with one as reserve. I don't understand anything. If everyone's here, why aren't we playing football? The ball was stolen.
(Translated by Andreea Cristina Moise / 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.