I read the last poem for I don't know how many times. For nine years, I've been buying my portion of happiness from the old kiosk at the end of the street. A newspaper in which I find a poem every week. I don't care about politics, social events, sports, or real estate. I need that poetry like air. Yesterday, I found the kiosk closed, the shelves empty. In front of the locked door, I began to cry. Now, I am forced to seek out the poet. I reached his door and knocked: I know, we haven't seen each other in 20 years, but, father, please, will you tell me a poem?
Ana-Maria Butuza
The gate barely opened. The weeds had overrun the yard, and the paint on the door was peeling. Ten years had passed since the silence here had become oppressive. She had decided to sell the family home. She searched the cabinet for the photo album and the Turkish coffee cups, a wedding gift from her parents. While rummaging for something to pack, she came across a yellowed newspaper, the last one her father had read, with his glasses still resting on it, a trace of his finger on the lens. She gently stroked it, almost feeling his presence, then lit the lamp. It was the beginning of November.
Iunia Augustin
Gicu, I can't stand TikTok anymore. Look how we've drifted apart: me here, you at the other end of the world, in pursuit of happiness. From tomorrow, I want to be bohemian: steaming coffee, blue tobacco smoke rings, and the fresh aroma of the local newspaper. We'll learn about what's done and undone, who's with whom in our divided community. I heard we're at the top of the matrimonial and obituaries section. Woman, let me warn you, not everything you read is real. Like this: Gicu Undercover seeks wife for marriage. It's someone else; I'm just reading the latest newspaper.
(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)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.