Sorin Rizeanu
I'm but a poor assassin. Poor not because I'm not being paid enough, my treasure is on pair with that of the dragons. I don't even work that much, only about four times a year. I'm responsible for killing the seasons -someone has to do it and the gods picked me. This year I shot Spring in the head. I pushed Summer into Lacul Morii. But this Autumn, oh, this Autumn. Her eyes are moist and golden, equal parts light and darkness. Her lips like must, her hair like amber and her chest so bountiful. Come on, you think assassins can't fall in love?
Ruxandra Comșa
On the day the fire consumed his harvest, Ollin raised his eyes to the sky and shouted to the Feathered Serpent: Bestow upon the fair man all you have bestowed upon me and send him far away. Back then he didn't know the fair man served a queen untamed by her king. Had the queen wished for a real king, the fair man wouldn't have crossed the seas to bring them death. The old man stopped narrating and turned towards the girl whose jaw dropped whilst listening to him: you, Nina Pinta, pay attention to my hands. This corn requires that its husk remain here, on the field.
Carmen-Ecaterina Ciobâcă
I'm not going back. Although they're waiting for me with their curious eyes wide open and filled with October's light. Today the cold creeped inside my bones and the rain is pouring lead on my brain. I walk the streets like a broken machine. I cross the street by the columned house. That's where the sand bag is. The box ful of nails. And Death is holding its everlasting torch. Hey, prof, I hear a voice. I jam my hat on the head, raise my collar, and hasten my pace. Damn intellectual. That's how my oppressor would sometimes call me. His spit on my right cheek hurts like a wound.
(Translated by Laurențiu-Gabriel Niculae / 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.