This ill mind has to heal, this ill mind has to heal, this ill mind has to heal. Stop it - thought, images - let me feel. An acute pain, like a cut, begins to sting and becomes more and more intense, more and more unbearable. I feel like nothing makes sense anymore. I'm tired of all the responsibilities, of being available for everyone with no time to be myself. Then Imane Khelif stepped on the third step of the podium.
Rozalia Cristea
Ten small hands were rummaging through a drawer. There is no more bronze left to paint the fir cones and walnuts. We won't have a Christmas tree. No money for oranges, bread and candy. No wood for the fire. There will be no Christmas, the children said. In the candlelit room, their mother embraced them, tearing up. She knew. Christmas is coming anyway, with the carollers at the gate, the neighbours bringing cabbage rolls and cozonac[1], and the yard tree is full of stars and from the top hangs the bronze received by the youngest child for the most beautiful dreams and you can hear the Star Above Rises carol.
[1] Cozonac is a traditional Romanian and Bulgarian cake, cooked for Christmas and Easter.
Alex Caragian
Simian roars were coming from the sky, a ceiling of deadly haze. The echo was coming from multiple directions and he understood that he is trapped between walls even if he only caught a glimpse of them. Smoke was floating around his steps and under the ceiling above. Just like Heaven and Earth. The walls of the spiralling shell were making him choke on shimmery tin and bronze notes. Even if the night is an illusion here it became a reality you could feel with all your senses. A hint of steel dust was lingering on his tongue.
(Translated by Cristina-Paula Grosu / 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.