He picked me up from my front door and took me to a fancy restaurant. I was looking at the menu as if it were a book written in Hebrew. The prices were outrageously high, my dress too modest. I let him order for me. Every bite made my stomach knot and my heart clench with guilt. At one point, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. I quickly grabbed a napkin, stuffed the whole roast into it, then stuffed it into my bag. That evening, my little girl ate beef for the first time.
Ana Vlad
Last time he opened his mouth too, and as the narrow, sharp belt snaked down his stiffened back, he told him everything he felt. His father stopped, sat down in a chair and didn't move. He found him at dawn, hanging from the beam with the belt he was beating him with. He stared angrily into the other world, just as he had lived. He untied him, put the belt on a hanger, and every year since then he's lit a candle and cut another stripe on the belt. It's ten stripes since it's been quiet, but he still feels a needle in his heart: if only he'd shut up.
Amalia Melnic
Orlando is German and likes children. He has liked them since he was little. He used to play with them until he stole their innocence. Today is his 70th birthday. He hears of Romania in the 1990s, where free children were plentiful. He comes like a wolf in sheep's clothing and donates to orphanages. He's happy. Here a five-year-old girl, over there a seven-year-old boy, he rips their souls apart with his dirty hands as he laughs. Remorse. He doesn't. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing. People call him the Paedophile. It's no use. The police are silent. Oh, he's Satan. Be gone.
(Translated by Adrian-George Ilinca / 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.