In the morning, on the tram. Thoughts. What must be in the hearts of the people around? Together in the same place, going in different directions. A baby whimpering. The lady next to me smiles. I reply as I notice her handcrafted eyeglass chain with white and pink beads that perfectly match the lipstick on her lips. The only thing I regret in this life is not having children, she whispers. And that I no longer have a mother, I reply. We embrace with tears in our eyes. Maybe there's more than darkness deep down.
Alex Micu
Thick dust from the fallen ceiling settled on the deep, compass-tip scrawls on the beech-wood boards. Stains of blue ink, now brown, told the story of those who had their ears pulled or scolded with the long forefinger. The walls were blackened with smoke, for the furnace had tipped over. Frightened shadows, classmates, crowded toward the door. That day I hid under the attic, for I hadn't learned how to divide by seven. It was the date circled in blue of that day, April 4th, 1944, when my life was saved.
Cecilia Fofiu
November. It's cold outside, as well as at home and in the office. I'm down with pneumonia, the baby is placed with my mom, I sleep fitfully, in between fits of sickness. Having missed reading in recent years, I ask my husband to borrow me a book from the library. After a long absence, I find three Sigrid Undset volumes on my bedside table. An unknown. I make a bet. If I like reading, he knows my soul and that's why he loves me. If not, it's serious. I consume the books, forget the fever, get rid of the chills, heal and fall in love with him. And reading. Forever.
(Translated by Andreea Cristina Moise / 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.