Weißes Gold, that means white gold. That's what my ancestors called it. My great-great-grandfather, Karl, among other things, used to repair figurines and all kinds of pots. When he arrived in Romania, they called him Carol, the rock doctor. The technique involved thinning the porcelain as much as you could, so it would resemble the veins of the statue or pot that was being repaired. In those days, the people's hunger for detail hadn't died. If the work wasn't the white breath of a small, tactile god, he wouldn't do it. I drink my coffee out of a plastic cup.
Gabriela Marinescu
Honey, let me tell you about the latest Tiktok trend, decluttering. Ana's tired eyes grew wide with confusion. That means cleaning up the house, forget about the duster and the vacuum, I'm talking about throwing out the things you no longer need, the ones you got from handouts and anniversaries. Sell, give or throw away. Simple, right, says the all-knowing friend as she leaves. Ana wrapped the last porcelain ornament, paid her last installment at the dentist's. Tomorrow she will smile with her hands in her pockets.
Andra Toropoc
I washed her, put her in bed, placed her hair on her neck to hide the marks. She was beautiful, pale, with her lashes resting on her cold, doll cheeks, only her fingers were twisted from the agony of the fight. It had taken two hours to drain all of her blood, and in this time she desperately gripped my clothes, her eyes wide with terror. I whispered to her, crying: why did you leave? I wanted at least one more year, just one more year, you promised we'd be like in our song. And before calling 911, I kissed her one more time.
(Translated by Raluca Sălcianu / 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.