This glass is obese. I am writing in its shadow. The wine inside is deceitful. I don't stop it. As I haven't stopped you either. A fly keeps hitting my head. I think it has technical difficulties. Worrisome phenomenon. I suspect the bartender of corruption and the cigarette of criminal intent. The sun exaggerates. A flip-flop's broken sole makes a dreadful noise. Everyone is silent. Fingers tremble. It's a fiesta. Hundreds of miles away. The pen lingers suspended in the air. I write to you sprawled on my back. Near the table's amputated leg. Silence.
Bogdan Sebastian Burjan
That text I can't manage to finish, to begin or to continue as I've left it off. The window is open and still I can't see a thing. Not the alley, the trees, the lamppost or even the moonlight. I don't know when the day has started and neither when it has ended. I would've lit a candle, had I known that it would end. But I don't even known when it started. The day or the night. Had they only been one and the same! And still, I'd write. I would write in the shadow of a candle. Which has long since gone out. Without ever burning.
Marilena Demian
my will. Not mine, Mrs. Lorent's. She had three luxury apartments and a cat. She'd leave them to her grandchildren. But they are five. It doesn't add up. Some will wish to keep them, some to sell. They will fight and begrudge each other until death. They will speak ill of her and will end up cursing her for ruining their lives. She is torn apart by doubts. It would be best to sell them and use the money to make a journey around the world, a dream of hers from her youth. However, she wouldn't wish to spend it all. She needs to think of Choupette' future.
(Translated by Ioana Grințescu / 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.