Răzvan Drăgoi
The psychiatrist's corpse was still quite warm. Damn those Romanian pistols, I had to hit him in the head with it because it had jammed. The nurses formed a game of tic-tac-toe on the floor, according to how I wielded the katana. It crossed my mind that the red on the floor didn't match the green of the walls. I'd cut the phone lines since there were no mobile phones back then. The guard had tried to call the police. Bad idea. And the last one. They told me I might have toys in the attic. Whoever believes this, leave their name and address. I'm coming.
Alina Ilie
No one has lived there for a long time anyway. I moved everything to the basement, into the heart, what's all this analysis for? My whole life I've run experiences and especially decisions through the filter of rationality, and it hasn't helped me much, I'm still alone. Often, life beats any logic, you analyze, compare, make all sorts of assumptions and scenarios, look for tangible, real solutions, but most of the time, you really can only choose with your heart, so the attic is pointless. I offer it for rent, serious inquiries only.
Elena Fermuș
I still don't believe that palaces are large and have attics with glitter on top, it would mean burying the story and killing the princess I once was in the little white house shaded by the walnut tree and sung by sparrows; my palace with four tenant hearts. In the little white house, you climbed to the loft, that's what it was called back then, on a fragile wooden staircase, and mixed in yourself the smell of the sky with that of hay flowers, you could see how eyes grow on kitten's faces, or how the rain sounds when it murmurs on the roof. Of the four hearts, only one remains today. It laughs and cries in silence.
(Translated by Laurențiu-Gabriel Niculae / 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.