With long, grizzled hair, Bob sprawls on a park bench. Lifeless, he was caught in the trap of monotony, of a full belly, no more than that. His eyes seldom shine at some adaptation or when he finds a book written as back then, at some market stall. In front of him, on the path, fragrances pass by, robots, ha-has, such a harmony that he could punch himself, but no, it's better to repress his desire, minimal chaos, it's better to comfort memories with good music, rain and girls with loose braids, dancing naked, with jasmine wreaths on their heads. Ahh, Woodstock.
Sanda Burță
One day, Piotr refused to go down into the mine. His dad pinned him against the eastern wall and the Virgin icon was poking his left shoulder. Are you craving the sunlight, boy? shouted the old man and Piotr was silent, staring at that fist blackened by coal. Then, things became clearer, some stayed back to cut open the belly of the earth, one left in search of light. He found it in a blooming shrub, where a blackbird was singing. He felt like flying. Now he's cutting into the belly of the earth again. It's better that way.
George Dometi
Where? In the forest. Who? The woodsman. What? He was cutting. How? With the axe. The where, who, how we can work those out masterfully through the phrase. Well, it was the green chopped up by a skilful hand. We don't ignore the how, we describe it without much detail. Sap spread around, a mess of leaves, branches and bark ravaged by the blade of steel. The tight space has been made. We can see a boot stepping on fragrant flowers, the kind that grow by climbing onto other plants. The woodsman leaves behind the perfume of the flowers mixed with his sweat.
(Translated by Ruxandra Adriana Dodoiu / 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.