By Ksenija Kušec
Translated by Ira Martinović

Even as I’m climbing up the empty staircase, I just know it: I’m too late. The bankers have stripped my grandma’s place already. The front door has a hole in it where the lock should be, the door is half open. I guess they don’t care if someone just walks in and tries to steal something; everything worth stealing is gone already, all theirs now.

The Desk

By Jelena Zlatar
Translated by Dobrila Vignjević

After his father’s death Bruno finally moved in with me. He was bringing in his things slowly and cautiously for days on end, placing them in the corner of the room that he had spontaneously made his own. Soon the corner became his little universe although there was only a desk with a computer on it, crammed with papers, pens, notebooks, lighters, and rolling tobacco.

Perhaps the Dog Was Dreaming Us

By Boris Beck
Translated by Jelena Primorac

I haven’t slept since August 28, 1991. I know the date well, because it was the day after my mother's name-day, Monica. That night we held a wake for my grandfather. The casket was closed, of course, and aside from my father, mother, and one elderly aunt, nobody was there.