Sanda Burță
That's how I met him. Under the linden tree, in the middle of the square, wrapped in the patched cloak, with his voice gushing out of his body like a spring hold for too long under a stone barricade. Nessun dorma, he would sing and people would rush past him throwing to him either a penny or a look. Crazy old man. Guardi le stelle, his song rose up in the sky making leaves, ring doves and an angel who was swinging his scraped knees on the edge of a cloud tremble. A child stopped and then the old man sang from all his heart, as if he sang for a crowded room, vincerò.
George Dometi
When they found him, some kids were throwing stones at the skull now full of holes. They dragged him through thistles and gravel. The yawning wounds were dry, devoid of life, just small resonating holes. It all started like a buzz, but the harder they pulled and the more the bones cracked, the more the murmur turned into a pleasing rustle to the ear. Whatever hole they made, the sound spurted out. As if that scrawny corpse were an organ. Some say that he was the conductor of the former philharmonic, bombed during the Great Deafness.
Cristian Nedelcu
Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do, do, si, la, sol, fa, mi, re, do, ended his vocal lesson Emil, the talented baby crocodile, applauded by Jamila the crocodile. Well, now that you have finished, let's practice playing the instrument a bit as well, interfered Hassan the crocodile, the piano teacher. Proud of himself, Emil nodded approvingly, focused and plunged his nimble claws into the keyboard. Neigh, neigh, stop it Emil, I am ticklish, jumped very frightened Deborah the zebra, who was enjoying basking in the sun on the river bank.
(Translated by Irina Vild / 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.