He told me to undo my bun and lean against the birch. Then he told me to lie among the flowers. A white butterfly settled on my shoulder. Wait, don't move, he whispered as he was fixing his lens. When we got home we looked at the pictures. Flowers, birches, butterflies, and not a trace of me. Why did you take me with you if I'm not in any of the pictures? For the perfect light, he said smiling. Now the white butterfly is exhibited in the biggest gallery in the world. A man stares at the photo fascinated. What do you like best? I asked him. The light.
Razvan Dițescu
I look at the photograph. A woman's face behind contorted irons. Her blonde curls are smeared with blood trickling down her face. A pair of blue eyes say pleadingly: Save me. Click-click. I had been waiting for two hours outside the restaurant when they came out. Click-click. They get into the black Mercedes. Click-click. They speed off. Click-click. I start up the scooter and follow them. A Fiat passes us in the tunnel. Powerful flash. I blink. The Mercedes hits a pillar. I stop next to the wreck. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.
Daniel Popa
I keep wondering whether back in the old days a picture replaced 1,000 words. Because I keep wondering why the expression is with 1,000 and not 958. Or 113. Are the spaces between words like the dark matter in the universe? Without it, would planets crash into each other? Like the words? Or would they fall? Where? I wonder which was the first word? Surely not something trivial. Or was it? And what language would it have been in? I beg your pardon? Well, are you ready? Everyone was smiling but him. Like he knew I had a gun in my camera. Smile please, Mr. President.
(Translated by Adela Neacșu / 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.