Pen and paper. He had finally decided to write his story. But as he finished writing a word, instead of sitting quietly on the paper, it came out the opposite end of the pen and floated like a cloud in the air. He switched rooms, too. Now the whole house was full of disjointed words. The story doesn't add up, he told himself, it's like mayonnaise. The lemon was useless. On the paper he could only spell out the point. So he had a long dotted line in front of him. Your story is to live, not to write, his soul whispered.
Monica Stoian
Once upon a time there was a story no one told. Her people now lived in other stories. She couldn't tell herself, but she couldn't stop being, either. She was sending signs to them. A sunbeam on a Sunday morning, the smell of ink, a dream, the smell of snow. People smiled for no reason, woke up wiping a tear from nowhere. The story lived mutely through them. I am the man of the story. I found myself writing in my own handwriting, neatly. Read it and pass it on. Let's handwrite.
Georgiana Gabriela Fodor
I'm a writer. Big. Young and handsome to boot. In the past, writers and poor philosophers were all ugly. With nothing to do, they wrote. Manuscripts. Then operas. Then masterpieces. We Generation 4.0ers are updating the mystery of creation. It's all spontaneous, my darlings. I write as I breathe. No manuscripts, no erasures, no blips. I've been through everything from creative writing to inspiration courses. I shed my human skin like an old, worn-out coat.
(Translated by Victor Albei / 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.