He was born prematurely, after his mother had been saved from that terrible fire. He never knew what a mother's touch feels like, only her fears which she planted in his soul as well. And her restrictions: he wasn't allowed to go to clubs or metal concerts. He obeyed her but he couldn't understand why on holidays when fireworks were set off, she would force him to hide in his room. She would join him, hug him and flinch at every noise. She would often cry and struggle to pray but her fingers had been burnt in the fire and she couldn't anymore.
Monica Aldea
At the Christmas Market, no one avoids Sivu's firecracker stand. Customers aren't drawn to the drunk merchant, nor the seasonal goods, but to the boy with a sad, gentle smile. His sight is weak - and his story is told to the rushing customers by Sivu. The goods are working perfectly, tested on his son himself, that's how his hair caught on fire. It set off into the sky. He can still see with one eye, just enough to keep an eye on the thieves, he adds laughing with a gurgle. People come and go. The child's smile and well-wishes get lost in the street's turmoil.
Răzvan Dițescu
The fuss has stopped. It's almost dawn. Quietness has settled on the streets. The stars shine brightly. The Christmas lights glow in plane trees. There's a mess on the ground: confetti, empty bottles, broken glass, glasses, firecrackers debris, tubes, used fireworks, all of them being evidence of the exuberance and waste from last night. Every now and then someone passes by. This couple is strolling back home. And this guy is rushing off to work. Just as I am. Actually, I am already here. I empty the dustpan in the dumpster and carry on sweeping.
(Translated by Adina-Lorena Dulamă / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.