In your hands I'm a blank piece of paper on which you write various stories. When I don't like a narrative thread, you scribble with the pen in my soul and it hurts me. Sometimes you make me think that I am the author. You make a wish come true, you listen to one of my thoughts. Then, again, the control remains in your hands. I struggled for some time, but I understood there's not a lot I could do, that everything you keep in your head is written on my paper. Do your remember when I shouted a clear No? I still wonder what you were thinking, why you hadn't punished me.
Amalia Melnic
Bigu and Crângeanu. Rivals. Bigu, talented and a genius. He wrote. Day and night. He wrote novels as if he were in ecstasy. He wouldn't let his head rest until everything was in order, down the last dot. Crângeanu was a son of the party with fox traits. His head was filled only by stealing. He spied on his manuscript until he got his hands on it and that's how he became known. The hatred between them went on for years, ending on an april evening, when Crângeanu got a hold of Bigu's wife. And nobody has seen her ever since.
Iulia Vîși
After people came inside his soul with their boots on, he decided to clean it up. When love doesn't reach deep inside the wound, you tend to look for it in the most humiliating desires. Then he opened a notebook to close it with lyrics. I rarely meet him, in obscure places, dusted with regret. I'll write to you tomorrow, take care of yourself. And I wait for him to write a new identity on my soul with his fingernail. I open the palm I used to caress his chest, it reeks of the lies he never wrote me. The humiliation in his kiss, another empty page.
(Translated by Maria-Ilinca Darie / 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.