Radu Gramatovici
Româniaaa. Româniaaa. Get over here, bitch. The girl appeared scared. Closer, the man shouted and pulled her by the hand. The girl fell to her knees. With his left hand, he grabbed her hair, yellow as wheatears, and threw her head back. He looked into her clear blue eyes and shuddered. He drew back a little, just long enough to give her a good slap, and looked at her again. Now, from the corner of his mouth, a trickle of blood as red as raw blood ran. He smiled satisfied. I've made you beautiful, girl, he told her as he undid the buttons of his fly one by one.
Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
Back on the plane. Are you going home or leaving home, the stewardess asks me. I don't answer right away, I think for a moment. I'm going to my folks, I tell her. Then your home is here, she adds. The house I share with my child and husband. That's what I thought, but didn't answer. It's a question I've been thinking about for almost 20 years. It's been so long that home has become a choice. I am home where my husband is, where my daughter is, but also where my loved ones are, the loved ones I left behind.
Horațiu Dudău
I'm sorry I'm not coming home. I'll grow old in another language for another year. Please forgive me. Don't send me a holiday package. Just put leaves. From my favorite forest. Don't cut the pig. Let him loose in the garden. Give it a nice name. You can't kill on holy ground. If anyone asks for me again, don't answer. Smile sadly. I won't forget. See to my books. It's all that's left of me in there. Maybe it's time to bring them here. The dogs will bark at me in my absence. Untie them. Leave them in the mountains. They'll find me.
(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.