Me? I'm a creator. My words were sweet kisses, caresses, arrows, backstabbing knives. They made you happy, sad, fairies, Vikings, Indians in Shambala. You were even laughing or crying for free on the internet at some PDFs that were stealing my work. And when I died, I made you live that moment. I broke down to pieces, in the middle of the square, in broad daylight. I, like Icarus, fell right at your feet. I splashed your polished shoes with my being. You traitors, I deserved more than a bronze cross.
Elena Fermuș
Her body was to die for. You couldn't even tell that she had a baby recently. Not even that her soul was dirty. Her tan was impeccable; made at the tanning salon, very noticeable. She wished it was natural, or none at all, but she had no choice. Natural was no longer a constant in her life. From behind the window taller than her, she was forcing herself to smile to the lecherous men who were buying her by the hour. Sometimes the end justifies the means, and hers was the surgery of her child, one described by two adjectives: vital and expensive. Then she will leave everything behind and peacefully let the sun kiss her.
Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
Aya suddenly woke up from her nightmare, and to her surprise she wasn't in her bed anymore but on the hard ground, circled by people dressed in animal skin and armed with bronze weapons. The sky seemed clearer and the air cleaner, but full of smoke from the fires. Confused, she felt how the wind was carrying the smell of the wild vegetation. She looked at her tattooed hands, now trodden by an antique reality. In her heart, whose beats aligned with the rhythm of the ceremony drum, Aya understood that she was the prisoner of another time.
(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.