The drought has been relentless for three months. The plow's iron blade doesn't sink into the soil but grinds dryly, striking as if against stone. The wells are dry, for water is a chimeric glimmer, a thin film reflecting only the worry etched on people's faces. Every other evening, the bells summon them a prayer. It is night. Sile, the old well digger, roams unseen along the riverbank, calling upon the spirit of the waters. By dawn, torrents had swelled the streams and washed away the sins. After quenching the earth, the waters claimed their due, leaving the hazel rod of the well digger tossed upon the shore.
Mirela A. Nica
These aren't usual raindrops. These are fingertips. If angels had hands, that's how they would slap her, only because she loved him in secret. Where did I go wrong, Lord? She wondered,as she turned the other cheek. When thewater pierced through her coat and she felt it tickling down her spine, she was astonished to realize she still had a backbone. She had grown so thin that her ribs were visible. One closer look, you could see she had become an ark of her own blood, from which poppies now bloomed.
Alex Caragian
Unto dust we shall return, he believed this was the only line meant to be taken literally when it came to returning to one's origins. But who is there to debate with about how you'll find death after it has already found you first, right? So, he let himself go with the flow. He took one last breath, but the air was wet-a kind of air he had been used to breathing since the time he was in his mother's womb. It was an amniotic air, filling his lungs. A flood he did not seek to escape, but to which he surrendered.
(Translated by Adina Gabriela Văcărelu / 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.