I have my foot on the starting line and then I shoot off like a rocket. I focus on the track ahead; in my head I can hear my mother: it's not the destination that's important, it's the journey; don't be afraid of failure, be daring; don't despair if your girlfriend leaves you, what matters is that you've experienced love; blah-blah-blah. I can't feel my legs anymore, just hang on, a bit more. I reach the finish line with my hands in the air and the stars above me. I walk off the track, I jump over the stadium fence and I run home because mom is waiting for me.
George Dometi
The book was bought. The door was opened. The street was crossed. The car was hit. The man was thrown out of the car. A policeman was called. A statement was taken. A pencil was sharpened. The portrait was drawn. The license had been. The cost of insurance was increased. The book I read was captivating. The injured healed. She spoke freely. The victim was loved. The marriage was blessed. The shirts were wrinkled. The iron was thrown. The face was mutilated. The ways had been split.
Mihaela Scânteie
Maya has been shooting as a sport since she was ten. She didn't believe in the Olympic spirit, only in winning. She started up in the Steaua club and now she was part of the national team. She had sacrificed so many things that she didn't really have an idea about what a normal childhood looked like. Now, two weeks before the Olympics, she knew that her work would be rewarded. She's been dreaming about it for a couple of years. Since she had found a pastime outside of sports. When the competition started, while the anthem was playing, Maya took aim and shot. The president fell.
(Translated by Alina Bâznă / 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.