Two pints of beer crash off the table. Struck by cigarette butts lit by non-smokers who hate smokers. There was still plenty of beer in them. Now it's wasted, for nothing, on the cold concrete. Quietly, an off-duty waiter takes the rag and wipes the tablecloth. It's white-red squares, perfect for tic-tac-toe/noughts and crossed. The topics are not for this year's exam. We tremble, deported to schools, away from home. We're still students and wonder if the autumn session is still worth it.
Titela Durnea
The event is scheduled for 7pm on the beach. She still has time. She quickly applies gloss to her lips and fixes her big-brimmed hat. She looks briefly in the mirror. Rafa would tell her she needs a touch-up. She smiles imagining the conversation. She's not interested in little details. She's comfortable with herself, body and soul. She can see the shore from the porch, courted today by frothy waves. She looks at the sky, a serene azure. She descends the steps two by two. Her white dress flutters, unveiling her kneecaps. On the beach her beloved child is waiting for her: her first book. And her first autograph.
Alex Caragian
I declare the meeting, uh-oh, he coughed coarsely: open. His voice thunders sickeningly from the top of the autopsy amphitheatre. The high command of the presiding anatomical surgeoncrashed against the top of the hall's walls and the dark ceiling, then scattered in dozens of sonorous shards of words across the marble table on which the corpse was in a light not enjoyed by those in the stands with their faces covered. The corpse picked up the scalpel and began his autopsy. He noted everything down rigorously and then sewed himself back up.
(Translated by Andreea Ciubuc / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.