I don't understand those who fear death. I've never felt more alive than in the 2 years since I died. It's true, it's cramped between these planks, but I'm already stuck and I don't pay rent. I have a friend, she visits me weekly. She's a necrophile. She says that death is her life. Spending time with me relaxes her. When she sees me, she says that I remind her of her father. He used to act. She killed him as well, you know, under the ground the word travels like the dead: fast. Stop watering those flowers or I'll catch a cold.
Aurelian Țolescu
A couple of days before the entrance exam, I met a well-known university professor. Ihad a guitar in my hand and everyone knew me as a sort of a small local celebrity. Are you applying to college or something? Yes, electronics. How in the world will you rascal apply there, when only the best get in? I'm simply trying, Professor. I got in, I studied and played all throughout college, in various ways. Then came my career, and after a break of over 25 years, I find myself with my music, in my little studio, with no audience.
Bogdan Sebastian Burjan
At 15 years old, she started working on her first musical sheet. Smooth piano chords. She imagined violins surrounding the piano, in perfect harmony; with a conductor at the front, who she would raptly follow. But Johnny wasn't a conductor. He was the vocalist. Especially when he came home at night, drunk. Then he slammed and smashed. At first glasses, then the tableware. She only took with her wounds and her musical sheets. Staggering, knife in hand, he caught up with her. After 15 years, he stayed the night. To finish the piece for her. It was foggy and it was raining lightly.
(Translated by Maria-Ilinca Darie / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by prof. dr. Nadina Vișan, Edited by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.