With the Sack

Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
Baba Yaga threw her potions inside a ragged sack, put on a femme fatale masque and got out on the highway. With a wide smile, she raised a bony finger. A black car stopped by. The driver was the Wolf, this time dressed in a suit, looking at her beguilingly. Going up town? she asked. Only if you don't smell like a grandma, he grinned. Baba Yaga smiled. The door closed and the car started off, leaving behind a smell of burnt forest. Sweet Dreams Are Made of This started playing on the radio and the Wolf turned up the volume, tapping his polished claws to the beat.

Paul Dârvariu
that is praised do not go to the tree.^[1] Or so that old saying goes. I didn't do as it said. Why did I have to go to the Christmas recital with my Louis Vuitton bag? When my turn came, Santa whispered to me: sit on my lap. I did as he told me and I could feel everything he had in his pockets: the phone, the keys and something else. Have you been good? I have, Santa. Good, Honeybunch, you'll get the gift that you deserve. He rummaged through the sack and took out a tiny box. All I could find inside was a note saying: Do you remember what you did to me in that teambuilding in Bușteni?

 Sara Ungureanu
He had first tried it out of curiosity. It's just a one-time thing, I'll be fine, I'm young, he thought. The second time, he had told himself it would be the last, and from the fifth time on, he lost the count. First, he sold the TV, then the refrigerator. A few months later, he ended up on the streets. It was him alone, with the sleeping bag which had belonged to his grandmother, which didn't even keep him warm, and the little kit in which he kept his needles. He was hanging around trying to get more, always more, it was never enough. That Christmas, he decided to increase the dose, he was celebrating. That was the last one.  

(Translated by Mara Scoroșanu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)