Lina, a cheerful and fierce woman, was responsible with the transfer of her parent's earthly remains from one gravesite to another. She went to the cemetery, she paid the priest, she treated the gravediggers and left with two, not too heavy, bags. When at home, pending the release of the other gravesite, her parents lingered in the cellar next to the wine bottles made from the vineyard her father had planted. In the evening, she'd drag her tired legs and pour herself a glass. Cheers, mom and dad. Our dainty wine is tasty. Have no worries. Soon enough, we'll move in together.
Cristina Daniela Dumitru-Pascal
A child was writing stories. To put grown men to sleep. That's because parents forgot about children's need for fairy tales. To be tucked in before bedtime. To be kissed good night. So, he decided to help them. Ineffective. Books were rotting on the bedside tables. So, he wrote bedtime stories for adults. The children read and the grown-ups doze. They do however, spend more time together. In a world where we are born with an old soul, we forget to be children and the grown-ups become blinded by money, the end is taunted. It has nothing else to wreck.
George Dometi
Welcome to a new edition of the Debacle and Dust literary circle, the only place where we support you into throwing shade at your own texts. We've got an unpublishable example. Taken right out of the trash. Open-air funerals are regretfully organic. The other day I ate some butterflies just to feel in love. It left maggots in my teeth. I won't kill myself for it, only looking forward. That's why I'm drunk on cold dihydrogen monoxide. I hooked my contrasts to this wispy, gloomy person, but they fell off and stalled. That's all.
(Translated by Andreea Georgiana Bogdan / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.