Manuscript

Monica Bologa
After each scandal, he would go down to the basement and stay there for hours. He blamed me for the tension between us. Then one day he told me he wanted me gone forever. It's true, I was causing all those fights. To help him. I knew that this is the only way he gets the inspiration to write. He had no idea that I knew that down there, in the basement, he was writing a novel in an A4 notebook. I packed my bag and left. Now he sits all day with the notebook in front of him and can't write a single word.

Carmen Tot
At the last chapter I got stuck, the ending seemed illusory. All the previous meanings that had managed to rise in the citadel, today seemed only playing cards, fighting the gravity of the imagination. I invited my character to a coffee in the garden, but we argued so bad that when I left, he spitefully pulled me out of my own reality and dragged me into the story. I am your fantasy, he cried, as you made me so you have me. Then a hand took the pen. Don't be stupid, I told him, I'm the author, don't end like that, I can still create a happy-end.
 
 Amalia Melnic
He was wearing new clothes. They were a decade ago new. It was patchy. All of him. From head to toes. A snowstorm of problems had surprised him in the very winter of life. He had lost his home and his family, but he had heroically saved the library. From mind and soul. When they discovered him frozen in the fog of day, he had an object with him. The journal. No one laid flowers on the grave. What is the use of crying for an anonymous. A hundred years pass and the tomb seems unchanged. With one exception. A single sentence was written on the cross. X. Poet. National treasure.

(Translated by Ioana Andreea Radu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)