The pus is leaking. Thousands of flies are watering from the resinous yellowish stitching of the sliced shank. The eye out of its socket peers at the distinction on the shelf. A hand fumbles in the fallen old man's pockets. Nothing. The big guy steps on his head. A cluster of cracked bones. He swooned like a ripe, shaggy bean, it could be heard from behind his hood. You said this old bastard had money, that he's some kind of mathematical genius, that he went to Sweden. If we don't find that medal, we're screwed. The dead body is starting to smell.
Alex Caragian
He said to him, Go with the Lord, but he was riding a horse. And the horse did not go. But when he did, he ran. With horseshoes. The ones in the back were trying to catch the ones in front. There were always more behind. For faces are only one. And the roads were dust-free, because he'd collected it all in his hooves. The trail jumped on his feet and was shaped like a saddle between his thighs. He was lost before he left, but he still hoped his search would bear something. He was running from the dumbs who cried after him to award him an unspeakable prize.
Daniela Rusu
When I grow up, I'm going to run away from home and live on the train, from place to place. At least you have a home, Dinamito, I only know how to clean stables and sleep under the stars. Forget it, Piticule, when I grow up, I'll win a Nobel Prize and with the money I'll buy a house for the whole gang. But Carolino, the Nobel is not like the lottery, you don't get money. Shut up, Piticule, you said you don't have school, how do you know that? I don't know, said Piticul embarrassed, and his lost eyes grew small with anger. After being miser, I'm also stupid to upset her.
(Translated by Iulia-Mihaela Țugulea / 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.