It lay by the side of all roads, wrapped in its cardboard box. His flaking, slimy skin was stained the pale yellow of hopelessness. For years and years, since he had come into the world, he had not been caressed with a glance. Dust thread after dust thread, time had settled on him like a Trabant windscreen on the outskirts of Mizil. Even though he was in the centre of Paris, at the Flammarion. Bof. He didn't even try to chase away the greenish fly that was tactically crawling on his cheek. And while it was shitting, the fly started to
Paul Dârvariu
I am writing this message in my own hand: I have to close up shop. For good. The trouble is, we're out of stock. For instance, I've still got a big barrel of Tenderness. Quality stuff. There's also a couple of bags of Romance. Hard to sell, they're not looking these days. Then I've got a couple of boxes of Empathy. I'm not worried about that one, it's not perishable, but it's the large amount of unsold Love that bothers me most. I'm waiting for you, but please don't come all at once. Online appointments at #LiquidateStockLove.
Arthur Ianoși
My teeth were chattering, as if I were riding a tundra goat struck by the streak. Two nights ago I had dreamt of Amundsen and Falcon, naked, skinning a penguin in front of an igloo and coordinates carved into the ice. I had selected the best people for this expedition. Let's find George. They died one by one. The last one was mauled by a polar bear, the rest by the cold. The compass pointed the way. Same igloo and George in front, mouth open, hand outstretched. Ticket. I'm Jorj, the pole.
(Translated by Victor Albei / 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.