A mournful creaking sound cut the peace of the midnight vigil. The two shadows trembled. Man, the door to the narthex is yet again not oiled, said a spirit. Now we're rolling the devil's bones, but tomorrow night I'll go and grease it with the oil from the candle. Come on, give me a six-six. And don't forget to stop shoving me in your pit till dawn when we're gambling till dawn, for I don't like the pillow your wife put on your head. It's full of sores, and it makes my bones ache. You get in your pit and nail the lid on, for I'm going to catch a cold.
Cristian Palade
Mărin woke up early, ate some bacon with pita and onions, took his scythe and his rucksack and headed off to the meadow. At noon, my man sat down under an old walnut tree, pulled out the goods and ate. Then he began to whistle a merry tune. Suddenly, from behind, something snapped him in the back of the head. He saw her, as if in a dream, in an ugly black robe, standing over him, mumbling: I take one day off in a thousand years, and you come along, you hit me on the head and take my scythe. You asshole! And then the old woman took the scythe, and all he heard was a harrumph.
Răzvan Dițescu
Dig, he commanded. I complied. At gunpoint, I had no choice. I started digging. The ground was soft and I was moving fast. When the hole reached my waist, sweat beading on my palms, I hear: Stop. Give me the shovel. I turned round and with a lightning movement stuck it under his jaw. When I pulled it back, blood splattered all around. He dropped the gun. With amazement in his eyes and holding his hands round his throat, he fell into the pit. He was still gasping when I started throwing dirt over him.
(Translated by Andreea Georgiana Bogdan / 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.