The window is open, the curtain swings in the wind. He sits at his desk, flipping through a photo album. He sees me, but says nothing. He got used to my daily presence. Sometimes he talks to me, other times he drives me away. Now, he ignores me. I perch on his shoulder, and we look at the photos together. There we are: by the sea, in the mountains, in the forest, in Paris. When he reaches the photo where I'm in a wheelchair, he starts crying. You fool, I chirp into his ear. I told you, one day I'd get up. Look at me now. I'm flying.
Ana-Maria Butuza
I died on a Tuesday and woke up on a Wednesday inside of an egg. I cracked the shell with my beak, but I wasn't free. I was surrounded by other eggs, packed inside a carton, smelling of chicken droppings. I couldn't push the lid off, so I waited. At least it was warm. Then, I felt myself being lifted, swayed. That was the only part I liked. After that, I slipped. My head felt heavy. Finally, the lid opened. The light blinded me. I rubbed my eyes with my tiny wings. And what do you know? There he was, my dear one, getting ready to make an omelette out of me.
Monica Aldea
The young woman walked down the path, gesturing animatedly toward an imaginary companion. Don't be afraid. See? The wings grow together. We all learn to fly. Some soar from the very first attempt. Others, the shy ones, stay closer to the ground. A rock struck her arm hard. She staggered for a moment and fell. The nurse quickly helped her up. A thin trickle of blood stained the white feather near the bench. See what happens when you leave the ward? The patient smiled. Don't tell the doctor. Just bandage my wing. Tomorrow, I'll fly higher.
(Translated by Constantin Grigorescu / 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.