Picture of the Year

Dan Banu
It was a second-rate hotel. The room was stern, with only a photograph on the front wall. By the woman's clothes, it seemed to be from the late 19th century. Her face was a lake to bathe in, and her iris, a sky to float in. He woke up hungover. It had been a hellish day and he couldn't remember how he got to bed at night. On the sheets he found traces of wine and lipstick. Next to the bed, two overturned glasses. In his hand there was an earring. He recognized it. He looked up. The woman in the painting had one just like it.

Cristina A. Ieșan
Sudan, 1993. Desert. Arid land. Dust, a hot wind. A child, a baby, crouches on the ground. Waiting to die. He never got to live, but he awaits his death. In the distance, an eagle is watching him. I say it's watching out of pity for the little baby human. Actually, it's waiting for its meal. A few minutes pass. The little human child has given his last breath. And the eagle, the eagle can eat at last. Photograph of the Year, as voted by the art critics. Then, in that second, we lost our humanity. We lost God.
 
 Paul Dârvariu
I have a new boyfriend. I met him online. He's American, a retired general. Nah, girl, he ain't old, you know they retire early. Especially since he served in Afghanistan, Iraq, all that, stuff. He's coming Saturday. I told him I'd wait for him at the airport, but he, a gentleman, didn't want to bother me and met me at the hotel. Look at him in the photo: determined chin, piercing eyes, a moustache. Tattoo on his shoulder: Love Rapid, Fuck Steaua[1]. In America, it's the other way around: Rapid is the army team and Steaua is the team of the train drivers.

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