Horațiu Dudău
I loved my country. I had done until I started loving the world. I put the borders nicely in a painting hanging on my good shoulder and carried them with me, afraid that someone might throw them away in the grass again. But in plain sight. Holding my kid's hand, I washed away the sins of those who had died for our nation. Because they didn't do it for the country, they did it for its borders. I found out there are no foreigners. There are only other us, in some other language. The moment I was hated for having been born between certain lines. Drawn where some horses grazed.
Vero Anttheia Teodoru
Woken up at an inappropriate hour, the exiled poet spoke: the brutes among which I happened to be make some horrible noises with their tibia utricularis. This is what keeps me awake, and my verse is no longer vanishing. Venus, you gave me the gift of the great word, the art of my misfortune, could you pour forgiveness in my royal heart? Many have sang love, from Homer and Euripides to Lucretius and Tibal. But I'm the one to have the gift of writing on the seashore? At Tomis, you're the only one who's by my side, Poetry.
Aurelian Țolescu
Who says that the biggest drunkards are in Russia, clearly haven't met China. Their famous stinky, yet tasty drink, Mao-Tai, has a large variety of prices and designs, but it surely does get you drunk with great precision. When a thin Chinese man, Lu, came to me to do Kanpai with 200 milliliters of liquor, I thought about what and how much I ate. Enough. Both of us gulped it down and took a seat. A few minutes later, Lu was carried to the refreshing area, and I was missing our plum brandy.
(Translated by Cristina-Andreea Dobre / 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.