For an hour, he had been standing at Eva's window, watching as she relaxed by the fire, sipping leisurely from a glass - probably nectar - and gracefully nibbling on some delicacies. He had sung her a few serenades last summer, but he suspected she saw him as an opportunist. He feared she would think he loved her for what she had, not for who she was. Even his soul had frozen, but the colder it got, the more he dreaded her rejection. Being together was all he dreamed of. Unfortunately, he already knew from La Fontaine what his beloved ant thought.
Siranuș Hakobian
Heaven was right there, in plain sight, but few knew how to see it, and the gate was always open. In fact, heaven had no gate at all - you simply walked in when your parents weren't looking. Here, two dark-skinned, pot-bellied men hammered away at copper stills, three dark-haired women with gold coins around their necks and a swarm of naked children ran about. There, in heaven, they taught you how to make mud polentas, no bigger than a child's fist, which you could smash against the pavement or the walls. The angels laughed, cursed, and scratched at their lice.
Monica Ciurea
As in heaven, so on earth - fear had already whitened all nights, the sticky air had crept slyly into wounds, and those with days left in them lay scattered everywhere. Muffled explosions echoed only rarely now, while a red moon met its final end. The convoy had reached the gate. From wooden crates, they unloaded heads, severed arms, legs, organs, tar, and brimstone. Every heroic death deserved heaven. But God had his work cut out for him; soldier by soldier, each had to be carefully pieced back together for the final resurrection.
(Translated by Alexandra-Ecaterina Sandu / 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.