On a rainy day, in Ploiești, Tristan from the trends department hasn't come to work. Alone and sad, he passed out drunk in a bar, with his head on the table. The big boss was roaring and huffing. He called the guy from the obituaries to make something up to fill up the space. Today, a fashion creator found her dog dead. She called her boyfriend, who got into an accident and died. She called her lover, who drowned. The woman was so afraid that she fainted, and gone she was. The written press from the city has never seen such success, barely alive as it was.
Tatiana Crețu
Grandpa sat down with a sigh on the clay porch. He grabbed his pipe and the tobacco bag from the windowsill. His simple gestures spread the joy around. He inhaled the fragrant smoke eagerly and smiled. It was story time. One year, the sun had melted and dripped into our orchard, sonny. Your mee-maw ran inside for the holy water. Her mind thought it had found the solution. Meanwhile, I smoked until the clouds of my pipe lifted the sun back into the sky. When the story was over, I was scouring the orchard for the bits of melted sun.
Bogdan Sebastian Burjan
When and what was the world made from. What was before the world. What would come after the world. Who was first and how was it the first since no one else was around. How would the sky exist if there was no land. And how would the land exist if there was no sky. What of there could be water without fire. Or if the desert froze over in the summer. What if rain sparked every fire. What about the two of them. How did they meet. Tomorrow, without seeing each other, or ever know each other. Sentences instead of questions. A beautiful everlasting story, written in a star at night. A shooting star.
(Translated by Adriana-Maria Botea / 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.