The old novelist had a journal his whole life. At first, he would jot down his dreams, interesting goings-on - his or ones he had heard of. Raw material for stardom. He wrote awarded novels, appreciated by the readers. In the journal, the love stories stopped when I, the love of his life, made an appearance. I signed the official documents. As a carer I get a few things. A notebook. I open it at the last page. My name is Mihail. Today, a beautiful woman visited me. She held my hand, her eyes got teary and she told me that she is my wife.
Cristian Nedelcu
The teacher, seeing that the children were no longer coming to school, walked around the village to ask what is happening. The ones who usually warmheartedly welcomed him, now were staring at him. As if they were struck by forgetfulness. He knew he read a book about this, but he couldn't remember which one it was. He then began to read every book he had in the house, writing the titles in notebook, in order not to forget. One day, he went out to get some air. Not one person in sight. Some forgot to eat, some to sleep so they passed. Cursed to live a lonely life, he said to himself. Then he remembered.
George Dometi
Dear journal, my only friend, painfully, I must tell you that something horrible has happened to me. The doctor told me to write it down in order to forget, because that's how his hypnosis works or something. But how could I, when my daughter, the apple of my eye was crushed in the same car where my wife, my mother and my father took their last breath. That damned train, that broken barrier, that pitch-black darkness decided that my fate was to remain by myself. I want to rip off my skin, to crush my skull from all this pain.
(Translated by Cristina-Paula Grosu / 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.