It's still not there. The pyjama top still holds the scent of your skin, sunburned, despite the laundry softener with the scent of wild pearls. The swings in the park where you fell in love when I put a headphone with music in your ear have been torn down, standing as a testament to the destruction that made us be reborn far away from here. From the depths of the waters, where unseen hands painted our faces as husband and wife, fountains glowing with colour now spring forth. Yet, for us, there remains only the black and white of a photograph missing from the album.
Dorin Vasile
Once, I received a jar of air from our orchard. I confess that I haven't visited my hometown in such a long time, so it was a blessing to rediscover, through inhalation, a childhood memory I thought was forever lost. In fact, that was the beginning of a successful business. I mastered the art of crafting any essence of air, fulfilling the most bizarre desires. I still haven't decided whether to share the secret. Sometimes, I catch my apprentice bottling the common air from behind the shop.
Cecilia Fofiu
She places the milk jug on the table, fills the bottle, and walks off whistling cheerfully towards the meadow. She can find the way even with her eyes closed, unafraid of the sparks chasing each other across the sky. She sits on an old stump, takes out the flask, and smiles at the old oak tree. There it is, she sees its green eyes. It comes gently toward her. It pours warm milk into the hollow of her palm. She drinks, gazing deep into it, then curls around her, breathing fresh, clean air onto her belly and slips into the leaves. She catches a glimpse of its asp tail illuminated by a stray lightning bolt. She laughs. From now on, she will grow as well.
(Translated by Alexandra-Ecaterina Sandu / 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.