She's an hourglass woman. Life drains out of her slowly, like grains of sand. Hourglass women were also those before her. After holding seven babies at her breast, the grandmother silently clothed herself in a lapel. Then he left. Not wanting to repeat the story, the mother spoke. But too late. She ended up being swallowed by the womb in which she had carried her children. Now it's his turn. With a strange eye, she looks at the asexual being in the mirror and, under the bandage that wraps her torso, her heart sinks when she thinks of her daughter.
Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
And we loved each other, and we hated each other, and we forgot each other. If it hadn't been, it wouldn't have been told. But I don't remember very well. I only know that I have loved enough for several lifetimes. I have also suffered. To be honest, I wouldn't have come back here if it wasn't for love. Now I await Nirvana, as promised to me by that clairvoyant monk whom I met between the worlds. And I'm still waiting, like a fool, because nothing happens between these walls, where I should be meditating. I hear a knock on the wall. Nirvana? Off. Not.
Alex Caragian
And the hero died. The auditorium froze. How to start the story like that? Well, how to die? From the beginning? Well, what else is it about? What story is this? Let me finish. You'll see. So, I was telling you: And the hero died. Wait a minute. He's not just your hero. We need a hero. He can't die because you want him to. And from the beginning. Know something? He's not even your hero. You're just talking about him. He is our hero. You don't even need it. We know better anyway. Come on, start over. And the hero died.
(Translated by Andreea Maria Liceanu / 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.