George Dometi
There was a time when poverty gathered in front of the block, and no one cared how empty our stomachs or bodies were, neither about skin color, nor how many characters it took to ask to pass the ball. We'd kick around a ball of rags all day, under a blistering sun or in a drenching rain, our lips pressed to the goalposts in thirst. Now, we creak with envy, trying to shake off our self-importance tucked into threadbare cashmere sheets.
Gabriel Moldovan
George looks for his soulmate in sidewalk smiles, café glances, and prolonged hugs. The years go by, and searching becomes second nature. Then, in a bookstore - he finds her. The way she smells a book, her laugh - something shifts in him. They meet again, and again. It feels natural. On a bridge, he whispers, You, it's really you. She sighs. No. I've been searching too, but... it's not you. Silence. She walks away. Her book stays behind. George picks it up, sniffs the pages, and smiles, not knowing why.
Elia Ghinescu
I lift my eyes over the coffin and see snow falling. You like snow, princess, he would've said, if he still could. Leave the snow on the window, Dad, I would've answered, because in my childhood, it snowed halfway up the window. He would've warned me the snow would melt and make the wood swell. Now I watch him being still, and the snow falls outside, and for the first time in my life, I feel real cold. Not winter cold. Death cold. And I'd tell him, just once: Come on Dad, brush the snow off the window. The wood's going to rot.
(Translated by Adela Neacșu / 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.