The residents of the lazaret had died one by one. When I wanted to write the reportage, there was only one old woman left. Bald, with boils, with a smile like the crack of a damp wall. There was nothing to document. If she had ever been endowed with anything human, she was now a walking corpse. She was plump, she was loved, she was a lady. That's all I could get out of a caregiver who was also a good patient. Not one article came out. Not even a newspaper announcement. Just an image stuck in my mind. A smile like a crack in a wall.
Iulia Vîși
Grandma drew a fish and I put my palms around it. She told me this was my homeland. Every year my grandfather took me to the military parade to remind me that heroes never die. With my parents I visited the castles of Transylvania and felt protected from political tricks. When I fell in love for the first time I felt The Kiss of Brâncuși on my soul. When I first broke up he sang Enescu to me. I read a lot of Blaga. Maybe a lot more Stănescu. Tonitza stripped the women of my nation of their inhibitions and painted them. Land with longing.
Nicolae Popescu
Mitruț ties the black cloth to the gate. He tightened his hilic on his small body and walked hard through the snow. He entered the house and sat down at the newspaper-covered table. A book lay beside the empty bowl. He had bought it in town, after working for the priest Andrei during the day. The wind snuck through the cracks and shook the fire from the lamp. Mitruț dimmed the flame. If it went out, there was nothing to light it again. He stared longingly at the empty sheet. He grabbed the pencil and wrote resolutely: Mother, don't come again. I'll bury grandpa, sell the cow and come.
(Translated by Victor Albei / 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.