With seven kingdoms and thousands of stories, Shi Huangdi built and empire. A country, an emperor, a story. That was the saying and the people obeyed. But not the stories. They sprung like weeds on the side of the road, they adorned the pages of books and travelled like yellow cold from reader to reader. For disobeying, the written ones were burnt at the stake. The pox died out only when flaming letters lit up the skies. The erudite figured out the message. It went like this: the most captivating stories are yet to be written.
Ionuț Tuhoarcă
In the afternoon, a man would come. I found out later that he was called the in-law. The key to the small window was in a shoe, under a slipper, under a pile of shoes. This guy knew, but he pretended not to. And I knew. And I also pretended not to. What did I care? I would climb down from the tree with a green apple in my hand. Grandma was away. He would take out cheese and tomatoes from his briefcase. He would cut them carefully. He would hand some to me, with bread. Here you go, boy, maybe you're hungry. To be fair, I was hungry. Wise guy he was.
Monica Aldea
The little house at the end of the village had sunk away into the ground with time. Under the balmy sun or during the harsh winters, the elders would go all the way to the church, climbing Golgotha hill every Sunday. Forever bonded, as fate had willed it, they would descend the Valley of Tears and set foot in the church just in time for mass. Then, following the old rites, they would visit the small cemetery. Calmly, next to the cross with photos from their youth, they would fall silent in unison. Death didn't frighten them even for one second, after all they had braved life together.
(Translated by Ioana Grințescu / 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.