The last Newspaper

Iulia Biro
The cold bites at his backside. The chilly outhouse is the only thing he dislikes about this remote house, where he comes to stay alone. Last night, he sensed that the stew, left forgotten in the kitchen since the day before, didn't smell quite right, but he was irritated by the effort he had put into cooking and the wasted meat. Now, he's paying the price. He no longer has any toilet paper. He managed with the stacks of newspapers his grandpa left behind, which worked fine, softened by the weather, but he used the last one this morning. A smelly affair. He'd laugh if his stomach didn't hurt so much.
 
 Siranuș Hakobian
I knew this day would come, but now that it had arrived, I didn't know what to do. He sat with his eyes closed, his dry muzzle resting on my legs, and I stroked his back. Every so often, he sighed, and his breath would halt for a moment, while I pressed my palm to the chest in which despair had nestled. When he finally rose, struggling, his legs trembling, I thought he still had days left. He staggered towards the door and asked to be let outside. He returned with the newspaper in his mouth and collapsed, weak, onto the floor. I still keep the newspaper.

Titela Durnea
He sneaked along the wall, muttering incessantly: damn this autumn with its dead leaves. A man can't take a single step in peace. He saw her on the terrace, busy pruning the geraniums for the winter. Through the kitchen window, he spotted Petre: grumpy, hungrily biting into a chicken leg, wiping the trickle of fat from his palm with the back of his hand. He wiped his own drool and approached Mara. When she saw him, her face brightened. She was able to receive her comfort and the tender meat, but then the Cluj News struck, along with Petre's grumbling.

(Translated by Ioana Andreea Radu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)