Jazz

Florentina Ghițescu
The little child had died. It was no use taking him to the shaman. He said the wind would come and take him away, since his eyes were already turned to the other world. The weeds were hurting her feet, but she couldn't feel them. She was carrying water. She was thinking about the children back home and she began to hear sounds. They resembled dialogue, it was like an unknown language that she had never heard before, but which she understood. They were talking about pain, about hope, about the beauty of the world, about grief. You're singing so beautifully, mom, the children said when she got home.
 
 Ana Ludușan
I cockily head towards the hotel where he went, what are you doing girl, screams an inner voice, I feel like throwing up and running away, but I stand like a crippled woman in the middle of the hall while the barboy is walking towards me, what can I get you?, with poison, He appears, handsome, haughty, young, time flows for him in the opposite direction, he looks at me kindly, my knees buckle, my inner voice tells me: you're stupid, I see my boy's frightened eyes as he crossed the border, the howl of his trumpet cracks through my chest.

Toni Mirică
The city had fallen silent, settling into an almost sacred stillness. Late at night, in a corner of the bar, Blake gently placed his cigarette on the piano. He closed his eyes, and his fingers began to slowly caress the keys like a lover. Tiana listened to him in the half-light as the emotional notes carried her hypnotically between melancholy and passion. The keys imprinted upon her soul in a story yet unwritten. Hey, Blake, she whispered, what are you doing after you close up? I'd like to pose and you to paint me. Dim lights danced on old wooden tables and whiskey glasses.

(Translated by Oana-Elena Dragnea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)