God has never answered his letters. He might not like the epistolary genre, Adam thought to himself. But that didn't stop him from persevering. Every morning he sat in front of the white hut. Every day he got up from the writing table only after the sheet was covered with a mound of words. And so days, weeks, years passed. When the spring from which all writing comes began to dry up, he addressed one last letter to the Supreme Recipient. It contained seven words: I thank you, Lord, for your always being silent.
Cecilia Fofiu
Mirsa, realm of the Qna galaxy, ritual on the 725th day of the year for collective telepathy. Resources are drastically rationed and there is only one solution, to teleport somewhere in the universe. Sacred day, adored by the purple Myrmidons who stick their bodies to the Mass to find out. Earth is of interest, with minimal effort we can adapt the living conditions to our needs, what do you know about the inhabitants, asks the Great-Mir. They are primitive, informs a group of opions, they communicate by gestures, sounds and chaotically write down thoughts. Graphomaniacs, easily impressed.
Șerban Răzvan
I have murdered my baby. I did it out of duty. I wrote a lot and was happy with what came out, but they told me it was stupid and pointless. Writing about love is stale, like moldy syrup, they said, and complaining about how hard life is, like your weak characters do, is even worse. When my son came home, I gave him a chocolate, kissed him on the forehead and, after telling him how much I loved him, I shot him. Now I'm writing about the father who murdered his child. With this book, no one shall call me a graphomaniac again.
(Translated by Adela Neacșu / 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.