No one thought the pile would be finished. Faced with the multiple colours the child's inquisitive face had been struck by the most terrible weariness. So the thieving little hands curled up under a blanket, snoring the unrepentant sleep. Now the old man was sitting on his knees, with his bleeding fingertips, oblivious of time, but each colour was carefully placed in its box. All the Lego pieces were already organized. Through his tears he remembered he was alone since the day he had welcomed his only grandchild to play.
Horațiu Dudău
Wrapped. Like this, in the heart. I go among people. It's beautiful. For him to be seen by people. They are watching. I have the feeling of not being born. With the placenta almost stinking, I keep rolling down on the deserted streets full of people. I got it. It's an ugly, untreatable century. In the blink of an eye, they all pass near me, invoking self love. Otherwise, everything else is amendable. They were united, and I was alone. I would like to be God, to smash with a fist the monolith, to be shattered into people. Pieces of them. I was marveled by the unimportance with which I was born.
Răzvan Dițescu
I am five years old. I've been riding the bike for a while now. Today, my father called me a man. We will remove the training wheels. I may be a man, but I still cried a bit. I'm afraid that I am going to fall. No. You will not fall. Trust me, like I trust you. He holds my bike. I climb on it. He takes his hand off the handlebar. Here we go. He holds the saddle with his right hand. I can hear him running behind me. Suddenly it's silence. His footsteps can't be heard anymore. I look behind me. He's far away. He smiles. I am pedalling alone. I am pedalling alone. Freedom. Freedom.
(Translated by Mihaela Stănilescu / 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.