Six boys on the mini-football field. They had just played a game of cricket. Too muddy. To the left is Sile. He left us first, struck by lightning. Up on the mountain. Next to him, Gachi. Killed last summer by diabetes. The lanky on the right is Sorin. In a few years, a heart attack would find him in the director's chair. Bottom left, Dan. Fatal perforated ulcer. On the right, Mishu. Cancer. Between them, with a loop on his forehead, is El. He hadn't grown a moustache yet. Should he cry or be glad he's the only one who can hold the yellowed picture between his fingers?
Camelia Popescu
Water's no good even in boots, my grandpa said, clinking a glass of plum brandy. Trekking through the Tatra Mountains was the only reference he made to the war. He came back in one piece. He wandered through the country a lot, made babies with strangers, but also took care of his family. I look at the weather-eaten photographs. He kept his cheesy smile and jokes till old age. My mother always tells me that I'm always leaving home just like him. I go via ferrata in the Dolomites. I'll have a pint of beer with my friends in your health, grandpa.
Alina Panazan
Aunt Măriuca lived alone. When she opened the door, the smell of stale and cigarette smoke wafted down the corridor and lingered for minutes on end. I greeted her more out of intimidation than politeness. She'd say something, but I couldn't tell if it was a greeting, a curse, or just mumbling. Aunt Măriuca died on a Tuesday. Shortly afterwards, an inheritor was found, who was busily removing the old woman's junk from the house. From a bedside table, from which hung a drawer, fell a photograph, a man, a woman and a child on a toy horse.
(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.