Hopless, Oblivious People and Their Journals

Dana Popescu
With my coffee on the terrace, I meticulously plan my schedule for the coming weekdays, hours, and minutes. Tests, committees, meetings, discussions, shopping, household chores, listening intently to every child or parent whose problem urgently needs solving. Don't forget to talk about the Freshman Ball. Oh, I just received another form that was supposed to be filled out yesterday. The parent group chat is buzzing with questions-because, of course, it's Sunday, and we're all "free." I respond quickly. From the mirror, the one I've long forgotten smiles back at me, sadly.

Dorin Vasile
Stories had always followed him. After his disappearance, I found them in his notebooks. Tiny, calligraphic handwriting. A partisan in the mountains after returning to the country. Caught just before they could blow up the railway. Imprisoned both before and after 1944. After his release, he adopted a child. Everything was detailed there, though with small gaps. In the margins of the pages, I jotted down some questions. Years later, external documents revealed the answers. Traitor. Torturer. A sharp pain in my heart. I reread the words of the one I love so deeply.
 
 Anca Socaciu-Man
He stared intently at the door. At the same time every day, with the same coffee and a sugar-dusted doughnut. An old journal, locked with a tiny clasp, was all he had in his room. Today, the coffee is sugar-free, and the pastry is a diet muffin. He had diabetes. From that day on, he left the room only to pick up a book from the library. The dust thickened with each passing day, memories fading into distant shadows. Today, too-a greeting card and a pen. He hadn't remembered his age in a long time. The key lies within you. He took the pen and opened the diary. F. Kafka.

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