My magnolias are black and white. 34 years ago magnolias were just as beautiful. We had just got rid of Ceaușescu and all of us felt like blossoming, probably we all had magnolia blood and saw everything in pink. And then, a God to whom even now I am indebted with a punch in plexus, decided that my grandfather should die. And I know he did it to himself, but that's how it was back then. That's why my magnolias are black and white. Though they're not to blame. I see a red door and I want it painted black.
Anca Socaciu-Man
You will pick 72 white magnolias with pure, untouched petals. Praying for the last time, he fastened his explosive belt to his waist, walked out of the small mosque, out of a small village with smelling like spring, being beguiled by the promise after martyrdom. He headed straight to the car. The driver was waiting for him with the engine running. They were going to throw themselves into the crowd, kill them then kill themselves, get in as soon as possible. The virgins were waiting for them with their hymen ready to bleed. He closed the door, at which point I hear an explosion.
Ana-Maria Butuza
He couldn't listen anymore to his parents arguing about him anymore. As his right hand was busy writing his first novel, which they knew nothing about, he stuck a left finger in his ear to muffle the voices. He felt something warm, soft, sticky. He took out the wax and made a round little ball, stuck his right finger in and gathered wax for another little ball. Now he had two. A warm breeze brought the scent of magnolias into the room and he sneezed. A dry booger stuck to his nostril. He made another little ball. Now there were three. He happily noted the title of the last chapter. Little Balls.
(Translated by Florina Georgiana Țîncu / 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.