On the Crosswalk

Gladiola Chete
I complained daily that, in spite of my work, I was always ignored and the only proof that somebody still read me was admin scolding me that I hadn't followed some rule. Then, I see myself published on the website along the good ones and my perspective shifts. I make some phone calls, gather some people, beer, good food and lots of wine bottles. Acknowledgement as a writer, you say, what a reason to party! Whip out another table, we will occupy the entire street. Really, what are you up to, neighbour? I am celebrating myself. I will bring a table too. I will set it on the crosswalk, there is nobody moving about anymore anyway.

Răzvan Dițescu
He suffered from dromophobia. A pathological fear of crossing. As a child, he would hold his parents' hands, follow them, but something undefined told him that evil would befall him when he reached the other side. Now, in old age, he stood alone, frozen in front of the Crossing. I'm scared. Can I hold Your hand? he asked. No. But I will hold your hand. Well, what's the difference? If you hold my hand and something bad happens, you'll let go. But if I hold your hand, no matter what happens, I won't let go.
 
 Toni Mirica
We were sitting at the crosswalk, me on one side and you on the other. A precipice was standing between us, and the world was drifting further apart. The sleeplessness of questions tore me apart. What if? Then I waved them away. Dusk had fallen on my mind and fear on my soul. But bravery is not the lack of fear. It is doing it in spite of fear. Do it scared, that is what it means. I started towards you, my heart thumping. We meet silent in the middle, with gazes, with hands, with fear. I love you, you said first. And the fear melted.

(Translated by Ioana Grințescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)