For the past few days, in the neighbourhood pharmacy, more and more women are lining up, asking for the same small bottle of pungent-smelling liquid. Many children's heads are going to be surprised. I didn't escape either. My mom sat me on a high chair, planted her elbows on my shoulders to immobilize me, and with scissors, she cut all my tangled locks. The next day, all the kids were Depeche fans, judging by the haircuts. Years have passed, and I rebelled. I am Ileana Cosânzeana with fiery hair, listening to AC/DC, still searching for myself, lice reflex.
Paul Dârvariu
through my pockets. In the pants, in the jacket, even in the coat I haven't worn in two years. Nothing. I check my bank account. Still nothing. Well, almost nothing, because 12.49 lei won't even cover a small shawarma. What the hell happened? Did these people mistake my identity for that of a homless person's? I check my ID. The name matches. Let's say the picture does too, although that guy in there seems to be smirking too much. Something's not right. Let me open Facebook, it never lies. Wow, 126 likes? I'm back on track. Life is beautiful.
Gheorghiță Mircea
When he stayed like that, without any apparent reason, speechless, his eyes fixed on the ground, everyone told him to look for himself, maybe there's something wrong. An MRI Scam, they found nothing. The doctors shook their heads and recommended Cognitive Behavioural Therapy; they needed to examine the relationship between thoughts, emotions, and behaviour. As he no longer thought and couldn't remember anything, everything failed miserably. They told him to find a purpose. He bought a tuba kept in good shape, created a YouTube account, and checked daily how many subscribers he got. Slowly, he found himself. Still searching.
(Translated by Ioana Grințescu / 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.