March 1st

Dan Banu
His hands were trembling, upper lip fluttering like a butterfly's wing caught in the wind, and his heart was beating in his chest like the branch of a peach tree pounds against the window in the swirl of a storm. The snowdrops he kept at his back, and when she arrived, he didn't say a word, just handed them to her. She smiled, gently tilted her head, and waited. However, his body had frozen. She lowered her cheek and touched it with a finger. He kissed that dimple. Then the wind started to blow, and the girl vanished into the air like the petals of the apricot blossoms.
 
 Iulia Stavre
In faraway times, when the seasons changed, and the day seemed to defeat the darkness, the night, with its last forces, would cast its arsenal of fears, demons, and spells. At the beginning of March, the women's white shirts would blush red around the heart. Depending on how broken they were, blood would start dripping from their hearts. To stop their hearts from crying with longing, the two colours intertwined and were bound to a hope. The talisman was worn over the heart to prevent it from bleeding. I've heard it is still worn today.
 
 Mona Zelenco
Ares, aka Mars, lounging on the couch with a glass of Prosecco in his left hand, stared absent-mindedly at the screen showing images of war. Even though Aphrodite was hovering around him, she couldn't draw his attention. Only Hephaestus could stir his senses. He, the great warrior, hated violence. How simple it would have been to show off her tenderness, her beauty, to highlight her sculpted body, to choose a man, the colour of her clothes, and her nails. As it was the first day of the month bearing his name, he decreed it to be the month of rebirth, dedicated to women.

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