She loved to write. She just forgot to do it for a while. They reminded her, supported her, advised her, read her pages, laughed and cried over them together. They watched over her writing hand and the sleep stirred by the burden of thoughts. And today she was launching her book. About them. About family. About the people she loved. She waited for them, but she knew they wouldn't come. And so, she went. With her arms full of flowers and the book still smelling of ink. She put them on the grave and walked away. She was tired of living in two worlds.
Silvia Ștefan
Ever since they poured dirt on me, the walls have been cramping me. I've been sitting here in the dark for a decade. Buds sprouted out of my arm and cracked the side of the coffin. As soon as the sapling comes out, it withers. I'm still alive, the soul is inside me, it flickers faintly. I can see you from here, all of you who water my cross with sincere tears and prick the weeds that grow beside the rose bush. Only the heart has risen to the surface. Mine and those who have the red flower in the middle of the mound. Caress the roses, please. Can anyone hear me? Hey.
Viorel Spinu
Are you crying again? What's wrong? The tablecloth was too coarse and itbothered him, but how could he tell his mother? He put his hand in his pocket for pebbles. The pebbles were beautiful. He wished he could take them out on the table to show her, but he knew better. He was a special child, that's what his parents had told him. He loved pebbles. He collected them from everywhere and always filled his pockets. He took them home and kept them, all of them. He would sit on the floor all day surrounded by pebbles. Only then was he all right.
(Translated by Andreea Ciubuc / 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.