I kiss my wife for a long time, I give the little boy a peck and I ruffle the hair of the older girl. I go outside the door. A suspicious van smelling painfully hard of sweets stops beside me, and three stout men put a bag over my head and tie it up with tape and they throw me on the back seat. The newspapers are roaring. Renowned factionary gone missing. I faked my own kidnapping to enjoy a little notoriety. Is just that the hooligans I hired lost the contact data of the place where I am currently lying tied up and with my mouth gagged.
Dan Banu
Mr. Larsson drags behind him a bag filled up with memories. They are all sorts of memories, but most of them are shiny. He stops in the doorway of a virtual house. The light is off. It seems like a little empty cell from a honeycomb full of golden honey. Mr. Larsson leaves and comes back after a couple of days. Then again and again. One night he finds the house's windows brimming with a brown light, like the honey of wild bees that fills the honeycomb to the last cell. He sits on the sidewalk and take a teaspoon out of his chest.
Carmen Tot
I searched first in the places where I was certain I would have been able put it. I searched in the phone notes app, I searched in the notebook from my bag, I searched in the paper tissue pack on which I write on when I don't have something to write on. Then I searched in the drawers, on the table, under the table, in the pockets of the jeans that I wore when we last saw each other. Then I searched in my head; sometimes, a glance from the corner of the eye keeps a memory, a word. But there was nothing. That was when I understood that I had to forget you.
(Translated by Jessica-Polixenia-Cristiana Copilaș / 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.