If you're like me and want to read in peace, you have to be careful in choosing where to sit at the beach. Early in the morning, while the beach is still empty, I scan for a spot and find one near a couple of elderly folks. Better to listen to culinary recipes and complaints about the healthcare system than the screaming of spoiled brats. I sit down, open my book and feel the sun and the sand. Bliss. Then the grandchildren arrive and they don't have enough space beside their grandparents due to my towel, so they sit on the other side but keep up a very loud conversation. Over me.
Cristina Daniela Dumitru-Pascal
The orphanage stood between the graveyard and the pub. It smelled of urine, alcohol and alleyway sex. No one ever left. They just disappeared suddenly. The girl was hiding in the neglected garden, filled with flowers grown on top of one another, rotting with the heavy stench of death and decomposition. Rancid. The ground in the yard is overpopulated, let's send them to the crematorium first. She ran away when she heard that. The garden withered. Nothing can be born of ashes. Years later, a botanical garden appeared on the site of the orphanage. With carnivorous flowers.
Carmen-Ecaterina Ciobâcă
I open the door and walk straight into the laundry hanging to dry, tripping over the heater. The scene before me is heart-warming: on the left is Ina, her head resting on Alex's chest, above them hangs Dora's bra and Relu's hairy leg. On the right, Costi is sprawled out, while Mia is crouched close against the wall. Up above, Vic's baritone snoring blends with Ana's high-pitched one. Watch out, here comes the inspector. At that, four groggy boys put on their pants and jump out the window, into the bushes. Mine is skinny: I hid him in the closet.
(Translated by Bogdan Nicola / 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.