From the stage you can't see clearly in the audience. It looks like a bunch of headless people, with only one spectacle lens shining brighter. Autumn, by Demostene Botez, come on, your turn. I peek from behind a wall and hope her lens shines in the hall. Ah, there she is. Oh, no, it's a man with a beard. Come on, go. There, that's her, it's not. Come on in. All those who all summer long. Mom's not coming. It's hard for her to understand at this age. Who's she waving at? Mom, you're here. I always will be. You can't even know them by their name. Applause
Ana-Maria Butuza
In autumn, the courtyard in the hills of Burgundy becomes overcrowded for the families who gather to pick grapes. Dozens of acres cultivated with the same variety, Nebbiolo, for over 200 years. Mornings in the dew find us in the fields and evenings around the fire listening to the stories of the elders. At the end of the harvest, the wine festival begins. The young girls are washed on their feet, wiped with white towels and climbed into barrels full of grapes. From their maidenly dance begins to flow the must, the future Barolo wine.
Andra Toropoc
She imagined pulling them out of their lacy little baskets, worshipping them and dreaming of tasting each one. He was so greedy that, as the poet said, he'd eat an entire orchard at once, so he started pasting Hustler posters around the house. He was happy until the day his wife returned from her delegation, saw his exploits, and convinced him to give up that mess. Very sad, he stroked, kissed and then peeled off each picture, singing softly: salade de fruits jolie, jolie, jolie.
(Translated by Maria Cătălina Moisescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.