At the Demon Gate, the last temple, almost collapsed, three men took shelter from the storm: a Buddhist monk, a woodcutter and a strange passer-by. The strange man was writing coldly. What are you writing? asked the one with the axe. A play. About? Hope. Do you believe in that? Look around. The war destroyed everything. Maybe that's why. All the plays were played by men, the same plots, desires, passions. Revenge. Death as an ending. In my play, the birds play. No one will believe that. Yes, they will, said the Buddhist.
Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
There are millions of voices. Maybe even a collective voice. All existing in my head. I'm losing both a heart and a hand. Then I rearrange myself. No. Not in the mirror, but in the hands of those who touch me. Under their fingernails. You look like Kooning's Woman-Ochre, a boyfriend said to me yesterday, as I threw everything there was to be felt at that moment at him. Anyway, it didn't sit well with him. Because I wasn't impressed. I wasn't smiling at his jokes. Fuck you, I told him and returned to the form before him. No. This is not an existential crisis.
Titela Durnea
Why are you surprised? I promised I'd come again. I keep my promises. But I'm still upset. I still wake up at night and make plans. I still dream that we're two people making plans. For three. You told me not to give up the dream with the black eyes and chubby little hands. I haven't. I got a sketchbook and some faber castell pencils. Mom's fine. She had cataract surgery. I got her a ticket to the thermal baths. Say hi to dad. Tell him to put out the cigarette, there's always smoke between your memorial crosses. I'll leave you the drawing, I hope the wind doesn't blow it away. Her name is Chiara.
(Translated by Cătălina Colibaba / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.