That lady must have been a ballerina, otherwise I can't explain the grace with which she shows up at 381's station every morning and pulls out a handful of grains from her lacquer purse, which she royally scatters around with a carefully executed pirouette. The pleats of her skirt flutter and line up fragilely in place after she does a demi-plié[1] and a deep bow. Meanwhile there are doves everywhere. The people at the station are divided: some stare admiringly, others swear that because of that old woman they can never sit on the droppings-covered bench.
[1]Ballet term, refers to a technique in which the dancer bends the knees halfway, keeping the heels securely on the ground.
George Dometi
I go to a cornfield, the sky shows it is still midday, the mist of a sun blinded by fluffy clouds makes me seek a more sheltered spot. Hastily I crumple a few softer leaves and sink into the green sea of spiky grains. The uneven boulders grind my bare soles, but I don't stop. Away from curious eyes I find my peace, release and satisfaction. For the last time I check that there is no one. I take off my pants, otherwise I'd dirty the clothes my grandmother prepared for me this morning.
Caterina Tudorache
A molecule of silver-enhanced nitrite is leaned on a carbon trail. Boom. Poof. A mountain of a man came out dishevelled. Man, this way of travel leaves a lot to be desired. A voice in the air whispered. We apologize, Mister Customer. Surely, killing the team that designed this system will satisfy you. We're sending you a video of old people as a gift. The customer pressed two keys in his mind and the sound of chickens and turkeys invaded his inner ear. An old man shouts at an old woman from a wooden box. Go get some paper. I have been inspired.
(Translated by Alina Bâznă / 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.