The TV was screaming to death. From kitchen were heard slamed , broken dishes, shards. They both screamed at once. She was hiding in her room, under the blanket, between the many old pages, where she escaped crying silently. To be silence, to not see anymore, to not hear anything. And nobody. So many read pages. So many books and unspoken thoughts, that they had to be written. To reach out to all. And to leave from there. A famous author. In her trembling hand she took the pen. To write. About the last hit. When she no longer wanted to defend herself.
Andrei Alexandru Mitică
It was the 51-minute when he started to feel the pain , but he didn't want to leave the football field. As captain he felt responsible to lead his team to the finals. With the broken ligament he manage to finish the match. The doctor told him he couldn't play the final, so he risked never walking again. I'll play anyway, he answered. Why do you want to risk everything only for one match? It is as if I returned in the Colossseum. For two thousand years we are the same gladiators but with other names.
Ruxandra Comșa
The woman flipped over the polenta, took out the cabbage rolls from the oven and grated the cheese. She cut the block butter and uncork the wooden pitcher of plum brandy. When she was ready, went out in entrance hall and shielded her eyes. On the High Bridge burning fire and screams were in full swing. That boy is late again for the dinner, she grumbled. I told him, wake up sooner, Ștefăniță, so that you already work when the morning comes. He no, maybe later because now there is moină[1], the land becomes muddy and I catch them with the shawl trousers around their ankles. I'm going to beat you, if you don't succeed. You won't receive food without my will.
[1] Moină - warmer, wetter weather that follows winter after a period of frost.
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.