It was time to go and my family subjected my memories to the rite of purification: a suitcase and the corncob doll, now nameless objects. Then they bowed, from the seven step distance imposed by the new religion. The guide took me to where the cycle ends and once inside, the Styx computer allowed me to choose, from what used to be my memory, my last dream. I didn't close my eyes until the very end: the hill I was rolling down on, a cuckoo still singing in July and my mother's arms waiting for me down below.
George Dometi
I got fat. You can see it in my nuts and bolts, they don't tighten properly anymore. I move with pretty great difficulty. Space junk doesn't taste as good as it used to. My metal belly's getting too small. The cables are starting to wear out, exposing little circuits that attract the cyber-tardigrades. I squashed a few of them but, wait, what's that noise? The sound of a thousand tiny titanium legs make me look at my shutdown. A greenish slime drips from my rusted teeth and my exo-skeleton core explodes.
Mira Wolf
I want him to chop wood like a viking but be gentle with me when I get hysterical. Mature when he needs to be but childish when we play around. Young but with the air of a protective father. Attractive but he only has eyes for me. His manners should be like those of royalty, at the very least. Healthy as a horse, because I don't want to have to provide for him. Wealthy, with land and a mansion. A talented cook. Cultured, an avid reader who talks to me like a university professor. Preferably an orphan. Where can I find such a man? In the science-fiction section, ma'am.
(Translated by Bogdan Nicola / 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.