The elders are the ones who make sure that the old customs don't die, sweetheart. Ilie from up the hill, Anuța from the valley, the old priest Vasilache, Didina Iftode, they all live for this. For all of the customs, grandma? For all of them. Those who do not follow them, do no respect their ancestors, the old lady took a puff off her cigarette, taking a step back. Then, with the paintbrush dipped in red paint, she added two more strokes to the flower on her white sheet stretched out on the easel, and she hung it next to the others, giggling: it's a good thing I cannot see well anymore.
Monica Bologa
The beach is empty. I swim for a while then I get out of the water, take off my swim suit and I lay it on top of the hay umbrella to dry. I lie down on the sunbed and I close my eyes. Suddenly burst of high wind awakens me from my daydreaming, it yanks my swim suit off the umbrella, rising it towards the sky. A giant wave slams me onto the sand and pulls me in the water. My bottoms have clung to my angel's wing, hindering his flight. God cannot see me. He has my bra stuck to his face and his eyes are sunken into the cups. I'm drowning.
Titela Durnea
She was eleven years old when it happened. It did not matter that he was her stepfather, her mother still made her call him father. She has been having his smutty sweat marks all over her for 20 years. In the alcohol reeking air, it hurts where the rough hand is rummaging through her, destroying her innocence. She falls asleep under the filthy smirk of the doll which he used to trick her. The schooner she used to get away is drifting. She climbs the mast in vain, groping for a sunrise long gone. Her sails have been torn away. And it has gotten in too deep into the sky within.
(Translated by Cristina-Paula Grosu / 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.