The alarm clock of the Romanian sounded. It was that wonderful day of the year on which he became a patriot. Rise, oh wretched ones. He opened the fridge to warm his hands up. The studio had a negative air, kept at room temperature. He took a bite out of the wedge of badger cheese and hit his chest with the stork on his belt. He put on his poor & proud shirt, but instead of proud he had a moth-eaten hole. Only the pioneer tie and Dacian pileus were missing. He added the flag to his profile picture and burped with tears in his eyes.
Marilena Demian
The New York Times published a eulogistic report about him. Illustrious pediatrician, researcher, and practitioner with important, innovative contributions to the treatment of children with Covid. No one knows that in his office on the 45th floor of Park Avenue, filled with medical treatises, notebooks and notes, he keeps an embroidered tea towel, some Horezu plates, and a Romanian flag. When she visits, his mother brings him dried dill and lovage from their garden, meticulously hidden in her luggage. His name is Gheorghe, after his father.
Adina Drag
In '46, we were eating brambles we picked on the pasture 'cause they took our cows and oxen. Your grandfather took out a loan for a new pair of oxen so he could work the fields. When they took them away from us again, during the collectivization, he came into the house and, after taking off his shoes, he cursed and beat me till I collapsed. You brought me here, boy, but Romania is my country. I miss feeling the wind blowing by me again, to feel the fresh soil of home. Remember that apple tree by the gate? That's where I buried my heart that day. Take me home.
(Translated by Adriana-Maria Botea / 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.