At the Demon Gate, three men were sheltering from the storm: a Buddhist monk, a woodcutter and a strange passer-by. What's bothering you, the weirdo asked, does something seem strange? I don't understand, the woodcutter stuttered. I don't understand anything anymore. Nothing at all. What don't you understand? I've never heard such a strange story. Why don't you tell us about it, we happen to have a wise priest in our midst. So do you know something about this strange story? No, it's a strange country. No one would believe it exists.
Nelida Holban
Auntie Raica was the only one in the apartment building with a sewing machine. She shortened our uniforms, our trousers, made us costumes for the festivities and clothes for dolls. The children in the building were close in age, we played, fought, made up, spoke the same language, went to the same school. "Where are you going? To Auntie Raica's. I have to take a streamer to school. Me too, Dietmar said. Me too, said Endre, but we won't have the same one. Right? You, blue, you, yellow, me, red. We'll make the flag. That's how our country used to grow. Mixed. Not sorted by ethnicity.
Adina Colțea
I carried it since I was a baby, first in my arms, like a toy, then I snuggled into it, as if in a fabric woven for me. Later on I wore it around my shoulders, like a shawl during autumn. But after a while it got too small for me and I put it in a chest. I still have it, carefully folded next to my childhood memories, in a little bundle attached to the handle of my suitcase, the one that held my hand all the way here, where it never snows, it only rains sometimes at the edge of the day, otherwise, it's warm and nice.
(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.