It wasn't just a box. And it wasn't just a body. Just as there was no room in my eardrum for consolation. Or in my soul for another. With her gray fur, I was burying part of my childhood. She had fallen asleep one December, but the memory of the sun then sadistically scratched at my memory: the curly black clump plucked from my grandfather's breast. He lived long. She was 20 springs old, but one day that winter, two overly sad eyes asked me: Mommy, why is Linda ignoring me? I didn't answer. I took the box without her seeing me.
Laura Stanciu
It's discrimination, Santa said after Matthew recited Curly-haired Puppy to him in a mall lobby. Why didn't you also prepare the child with some pro-puppy poems? he asked the clearly embarrassed parents. Why not? Matthew jumped up, happy to say a few more verses. I know a lot of laces. "Who's the most flamboyant in the land? The Danube's a dunnaule and the barnacle's a dunnaule. He's a hen in the henhouse, and he's all in a blush, for I've plagued him with you. Come down, you little duck. That's it. That's good, Santa's son.
Nelson Ciotoi
I leave the disco in the middle of the night, on foot, over the hill. The darkness was knocking at the door of my eyes and refused to move aside so I could see where I was going. Well. Tiptil, with the trail under my soles, I feel movement behind me. The hair has done its duty and it's all ruffled. Movement back, movement side to side, the hair on my hand joined the hair on my head. The shepherd's dogs, hidden behind the darkness, rushed in mercilessly. I had a choice: should I sing Curly-Haired Puppy or the Lord's Prayer?
(Translated by Victor Albei / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.