A former long-haul pilot, he had been buying the newspaper every morning since his retirement. I would see him entering the building, imagining him climbing slowly, step by step, up to the second floor, then waiting for him to appear on the balcony with the newspaper tucked under his arm. After reading it, he would make paper planes and launch them into the linden trees in front of the building. The morning he didn't come out on the balcony, I called emergency services. I didn't attend the funeral; I couldn't close the kiosk, and, after all, I didn't even know his name
Ramona Ungureanu
He had shown up around the same time yesterday. He was staring at me from across the street, thin, with those huge eyes and an overcoat about three sizes too big. Yesterday, he didn't have that little dog; it seemed to have appeared in the meantime. As he crossed the street, one of his toes poked out through those sneakers. Hey, did you burn it? I didn't, because it was coloured and had dogs on it. Just give me a big newspaper to light; then I'll add corn husks. I'll close the booth, and then we'll go to the corner to have some hot soup together. Do you have parents? I don't have those. You don't.
Ionuț Morariu
The press was the Jurassic, and he was a fossil caught in the newsroom at the end of the dinosaurs. Outside, the world was changing rapidly. Lies and truth had forgotten their old war and were cohabiting oddly. But he wouldn't budge. J'y suis, j'y reste. He wrote, rewrote, edited, and printed. A chronicler without readers, he continued to serve dead gods like Goodness, Truth, and Beauty. Because he no longer expected it, the reward came. Before his eyes, the sun became soils again. The curse of rhotacism had vanished.
(Translated by Andreea Maria Liceanu / 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.