The White Hell

Răzvan Dițescu
The blizzard was howling through the fir trees heavy with snow. The pale moonlight barely peeked through the clouds. I trudged through the forest. I had to reach the cabin soon. It wasn't much farther. I thought I heard footsteps approaching. Then a shadow creeps through the trees. Anybody there? No answer. I quicken my pace. My heart pounding in my chest. I reach the cabin. I slam the door. I pull the bolt. By the stove, a pair of wet boots. On the deck chair, a tattered coat. But I'm alone. Or so I thought.
 
 Loredana Stoian
The sweaty little hand hesitantly brings the tip of the pen closer to the notebook. A. a. It's simple, they say, you stupid. That's all there is to be done, then he can go out and play in the fluffy snow. a. He touches the paper and draws a line. The pen falls under the table. He picks it up and feels like sticking it in his head so the ink soaks his brain with a. A. The cursed white becomes mist. The indoor rain begins. He hides his shame under the covers and runs outside. He clings to the gentle snowman, he needs his cold embrace, for soon he will receive a warm slap.
 
 Arthur Ianoși
We'll never know why his parents named him Manuel, but his relatives call him Moni. Everyone in Colibița now knows him as the King of Flour. His years spent in Ibiza, as a booze-slinger in Privilege and Amnesia, had made Moni a small-time gangster with big visions. He had built himself a mill, La Moni Tontana, right at the lakeside, and below, with corn kernels painted with red nail polish, the big writing: Probably the best flour in the world. He greets you himself, whitewashed, with a Chihuahua under his armpit. Say hello to my little friend.

 
(Translated by Andreea Cristina Moise / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)