The tyres had worn out from the many laps at the Casino, and the leek-green colour had matured from the amount my fans were feeling it up. Even the pure black on the bodywork had almost melted under the camera flashes. For I had won the jackpot and my wheels were squeaking with the thought: what do I do with this money now? I had just made the decision to sell everything and travel around the world in a yacht with Lamborghini the Best written on it, when morning came upon me and I woke up.
Vlad Nastea
Every two days I put about ten litres of petrol in the red Lada[1], because if I put any more, it would leak, the tank was rusty. I saw him drinking coffee and smoking all the time. That day I bought myself an espresso, it was on sale, and sat next to him. He was silent for a while, then he asked me: hey, aren't you selling that car? In short, I gave it to him. Well, where doesn't that guy pull a wand out of his sleeve and in three gestures turn it into a Ferrari. Now, twice a day I see him filling it up with ten litters.
[1] Lada is a Russian brand of automobiles.
Varinia Mitrea
The morning dawn found me panting, sweaty and with a shovel in my hand. Pushing the ground aside, I realize I'm unearthing the nightmare I've endured over the years. Remember the Ferrari, the dresses and all the jewelry you gave me, begging on your knees for forgiveness? I sold them in a clap, just like you used to do to me, slap after slap and not stopping until you got tired. A few drops of arsenic in your favorite wine and the pain was gone. My only regret is that I buried you with the car keys.
(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.