Camelia-Monica Pătru
You asked me what moment of my life I'd go back to, if I could. I hesitated. Fear gripped me: why would I ever return to a world without you, when I've searched for you through thousands of nights, dream-bent, full of colour and sound. They were rough, smooth, warm, or dark dreams, like a melody without notes or words. Yes, I'd go back anytime, anywhere if only you were there. Just like that moment, when I opened the piano lid and the saxophone began to play.
Titela Durnea
Marta knows this. Mihnea was the first to die. To be fair, he didn't even get to breathe, but she had named him as soon as her belly started to show. Then her mother left, with a deep crease on her forehead from never having hugged her grandson. Her father held on for a year, and then was swept away. Literally. He gave up because of too much emptiness. Marta's fine. She got a small house near Corbu beach - a blend of wilderness and peace. Yesterday at sunset, she found this seashell. And a kitten that's great at decoding the sounds caught in its conch.
Anca Chimoiu
Not today. Maybe tomorrow, but definitely not today. Spare me the pansies and sunbeams, the eternal triumph of good, the chubby little lamb with its black muzzle sniffing along the winding trail toward noble sacrifice. Spare me the ever-leaping deer you devour (and cry for), since you had no choice or couldn't find a better rhyme. I'm not in the mood at all. Today's not about inner sunshine or the music of the spheres. Life is simple: the writer writes, the reader reads. The writer writes even in a ditch, the reader reads even on the toilet. Peace and love. Amen.
(Translated by Oana-Elena Dragnea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.