Critical low battery

Laura Stanciu
Rip had been sleeping on his stomach for two days. Wake up, his wife whispered in his ear. She shook him, turning him from one side to the other. Three more days passed. Rip snored continuously, heartly. She called for an ambulance. The doctor said he must have been exhausted and was recovering. The family called the priest. Even the Word of the Lord couldn't wake him. Life went on. Rip Van Winkle opened his eyes on the morning of April 3rd, 2044. He grabbed the remote control, landed on a news channel, and had a heart attack.

Dan Banu
Xi had stolen the heart of Princess He. Without a processor, she fell into a deep lethargy, like a Ferrari in a junkyard. Ka, the princess's father, promised half his kingdom and her power cord to anyone who would find her heart. The brave metal warriors searched the Universe and shook off the weathered folds, but the processor was nowhere to be found. Just when the King was reconciled with the thought and spiders began to grow on the princess's chassis, Mo appeared with an identical processor from the Flea Market.
 
 Cristina Daniela Dumitru-Pascal
A weak ray settles on your face. You blink. You remember. The claw in your throat. Painful. Unescapable. One breath. Not air. A gasp. Not air. Words don't come out. Fear. Terror. Suffocation. Drops of sweat. No air. Beads. Cold. Tensed muscles. No pain. You feel. You know. You come to know. You lift your head. Sky. Cloud. White. No air. You can't see yourself. You can hear yourself. A bird above. A butterfly nearby. Wind. You raise your hands to your throat. No air. You let them fall down, resigned. You hit the ground. A ray rests on your forehead. Like a red line. Another one.

(Translated by Miruna Baicu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)