He had finished scrubbing the second floor's toilet. Look, Volodea, one of yours. An old woman, with a floral skirt and silvery hair. He recognized her by her eyes. Ward eight, palliative, she asked him. That night by the fire came back to his mind, her pearled smile, the spark in her eyes when he leaned in to kiss her, the chest that sighed when she told him she was another's. If he would've kept the coin from her braids, maybe she would've been his. But, like Judas, he took it to the policeman. In return, he got the studio flat. And a shitty job.
Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
We share everything just like brothers, Luca said to Mihai, then he dropped the handkerchief with money. They hoped they had enough for the train tickets and something to eat. Mihai's mother had died and he had to return to his village. When he ran away for the capital, he had only wished to escape his father's punches, but didn't imagine he would lose his mother instead. We only have for one ticket, but I won't leave you by yourself. I'm coming too, no matter what, said Luca. Or we don't eat anything and then we'll have enough. Boys, I have something for you, too. It was the cop.
Raluca Maftei
His mother prepared the suitcase with the good clothes. Out there, in the city, amongst the good men, her boy must be well-dressed. He was the only gipsy from the village to ever leave for college, her heart and soul. His dad wanted to keep him home, to carry on being a blacksmith, but he had always dreamed of studying the planets he studied when he covered with a blanket of stars and clear skies. Rubbish, his dad used to say while spitting on his rough hands, what will become of your pleophonies. He left with his lucky coin from the chain and got to NSA.
(Translated by Andreea Sorana Oltean / 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.