My child, when you have a rusty God and you can't get out of bed, all you have to do is to take a step. And then another one. And so on, until you feel the blood talking to you. I've read that there's no such thing as a Must, it's just another form of manipulation, like the one about the Saviour who must come, I think our saviours died too soon and there's no one left to carry our crosses. That's what I'm saying, you're reading nonsense, the saviour is in you and there's no shame in wearing your wounds on display. Fine, I'll get up.
Augustin Bănică
Like when I was playing in the 5th league in a small village in Buzău. On the left was the river bank. The river that only took one ball that game. You'd have had to roll about 7 meters if you were a bushwhacker and you were walking crooked. To the right sat Mr. Ion. He'd started his ethylic sports and verbal aerobics early in the morning. Behind the gates other houses. The ball kids had fence jumping in their job description. Sort of hammer, anvil, rail and Styx. The death of passion. Hard times create strong people and only uncle Ion seemed to know this.
Cristian Nedelcu
Everything about him seemed otherworldly. Many did not even think of him as human, believing him to be an apparition of the Evil on Earth, endowed by him with the irresistible power to seduce. Soon, rumors began to spread. Some said he had sold his soul, others that he had bestially murdered his beloved, using her soul to make a pact with the Evil. Another even swore with his hand on the Bible that he had seen his horns and tail. Nonsense. He was just a violinist in another league.
(Translated by Iulia-Mihaela Țugulea / 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.