The skin was oozing from the bare hand. The boy was stroking it. You'll never die, Mother. You'll stay with me. You hated me, but I rejuvenated you. I rewrote you. You're my work. My mystical manuscript. He looked at the hollowed eye holes, black and dull. Blue eyes I must find again. I'll make you some tea. He stood up and stumbled over the still body of a girl. I'll throw you out tonight. All I needed was your hair. From the armchair, my mother seemed to be watching him. A disjointed doll made of different body parts.
Diana Andrasi Zarnoveanu
Pens are out of print, Gutenberg is dead and buried, recycling is the staple activity on planet Amazon. And me, perched on the 37th floor, in front of a door with a 24-hour entry code, generated by the system based on the form signed and approved by the search committee. To read something on almost decomposed, untouchable paper without gloves, by the light of a strange bulb and guarded by an academic Cerberus who hasn't blinked since ink was invented. I'd give anything for html.
Vero Anttheia Teodoru
He forgot to walk, he didn't recognize his wife, he was a child again. He wrote in a notebook. His mind had become a palimpsest on which new information was being written. The letter G slowly crept to the bottom of the page. Then others followed. He laughed happily, waiting for a nod of approval. Sometimes his smile disappeared suddenly and he sank into silence. At other times they would find him drooping. He tried to walk away, wanting to learn to walk again, but his legs wouldn't listen. Only his right hand filled in rows of unfamiliar letters.
(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.