We all jump in fear and curl up under the blanket like plastic in boiling water. Whether it's the fear of the microwave oven, the conspiracy of the Americans, the unseen face of the unknown, or Dad's unforgiving belt buckle when he comes home, angry that he's not drunk enough. When you're scared, you couldn't care less about finals or Lyla's teary tits. I fear 6 o'clock in the morning and parsley in soup. Dust is afraid of Powder. Powder is afraid of Grandma's cigarette, which she inhales all the jazz from New Orleans with.
Marian Bircea
We step out of the cornfield. Only in shorts, sweaty and barefoot, our skin itches, and the mosquitoes swarm around us. The sun is setting, and the dust and ashes of the road powder are a blessing for our feet. We throw dust at the insects. At home, they made us wash with water from the pump, as cold as ice. I scratch the dirt with my nails. Outside, the table is set: bacon, cheese, bread, onions, and garden tomatoes. And boiled corn. Will you say Grace? my dad encourages me. After the prayer, we dig in. I laugh with my mouth full. Does God know that He made man out of dirt?
Vlad Mușat
When I lost my dad, I felt like I belonged to no one. Death never asks the loved ones if they are ready. Apparently, we held a funeral, but in reality, we cremated him. Every year, on his birthday, I do what I heard Keith Richards did, except I use very little. I hope it'll last me at least 10 years. The feeling afterward is cool, as I dream of another special day we spend together. Today, he holds his grandson, who, during the hairlock-cutting ceremony, chose the urn from the tray.
(Translated by Alin-Marian Mărgescu / 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.