March 1st

Nicolae Popescu
Mitruț holds his fountain pen tightly in his hand. He's just written the title of his essay in neat, rounded letters: Spring. He looks out the window, thick clouds are racing across the sky. He breathes in his mother's lilies-of-the-valley perfume and sees before his eyes his father's grease-smudged hands. Tomorrow will mark one year since the accident. Mom and Dad would be proud of him, he has straight A's at school. Life goes on. Grandma is filling Ghiță's trough with slop, and Grandpa is chopping wood. Mitruț writes only one word, teardrop, then, with his vision blurred, he steps outside to help his grandfather.
 
 Alina Pădurariu
He never liked gifting mărțișoare^[1]. As a child, his mother handed him identical mărțișoare for every girl in class. He liked Crina. Her blond hair, big green eyes, round glasses, and velvety voice made him stumble over his words each time he spoke to her. He didn't want to give her a clover mărțișor. It was too ordinary. He dreamed of writing her poems, of exploring worlds they'd discover together, but he'd settle for taking her to the park, riding the seesaw together, and tracing a little heart in the sand, tied with a red-and-white string.

 
 Răzvan Dițescu
First spring rule? Don't wear a mărțișor. Second? If someone offers you one, throw it away. Third? If you spot a girl wearing a red-and-white cord like a belt, and she winks at you, run like hell. Because if you stay, she'll give you a big smile, take your hand, and lead you home. She'll ask you then, "Do you want to play?" She'll lay you down on her bed. Bind you. Then she'll wrap that red-and-white string around your neck and pull. And pull. At first you struggle. Then you faint. Then... nothing. Consider yourself warned.

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