That's what the message on my laptop says. Meaning if I don't hurry, the laptop is going to die. Just like dad did, at the rehabilitation centre. The `battery` ran out on him. First the brain, then the lungs, then the heart. Regardless of the illness, we all die by heart reasons the nurse said. I held dad's hand when he said: Kids, I'm dying. I often loved him, and I hated him a few times too. He was a cold man in his youth and surprisingly kind towards the end. In the end, he prayed to God to forgive him. And he was forgiven.
Roxana Catana Tarhon
Beetles mixed with mud, sprinkled with spray. That's the taste I feel in my mouth. What day could it be today? We started drinking on Friday, and it seems that at some point Mihai said he was going home because the next day was Monday and he had to go to work. But we kept going. Man, how good a sour soup would be right now. With a lot of vinegar. Or borscht. Or whey. Anything, just as long as it's sour. He slipped out into the balcony among bottles, empty bags of chips and feathers from his old pillows. The scream that came from there shook the studio: Who ate my pickles?
Titela Durnea
Trust me, Lara. She looked at his strong hands, with phalanges that seemed ready to break through her copper skin. The fire cast shadows on his face, chasing away demons. He radiated calm. Soon he began to beat the drums. Lara stood up, swaying her body to the tribal rhythm. She danced for hours on end, dressed in the night that devoured the air like it devoured the poison from her body. I'm only 27. Why me? she shouted in utter despair. By morning, she fell asleep. Ayan whispered to her above the embers, Nothing is lost, my dear. We are recyclable souls.
(Translated by Miruna Baicu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.