The dormouse looks cross-eyed at the dromedary. Are you nut? How could we go without a present. Didn't she bring you a feather fan? No, that is from the fox. And I gave it on the snake's birthday. Which one? The yellow one. Which yellow. The dormouse stopped crunching. What do you mean which. The snake. I used to have an electric sharpener from the hedgehog. The losers, they didn't know I don't have plugs. But I gave it to the pike in the wedding time. What are we doing then? Screams the dromedary, with his head in the case. I found a pair of sunglasses. It's new. Anyway, it is blind and it won't figure out. Can we find a bag?
Dan Banu
It is a mole somewhere, I have to find it, whispered Old Gligor for himself. He didn't say anything to the others. He shut up and worked with his hands, with the fork, with the corn machine. With force like he endeavoured to bury his words with them. For a time somebody was digging his soul, like a mole was trying to break the stones that hang heavily and without success taking out small pieces of feeling from inside like some transparent land grants. Old Grigor sighed and wiped his eyes with the clothing sleeve.
Horațiu Dudău
The glass is your claw, with which you scratch your face, daily. It is the start point, it is the finish point. It is the circle frozen up in time. You spend many hours looking at it. It is the hate inside of love. It is alfa and omega. It is the fatigue from a second with chronical disease. Unfortunately, it is the healing. It is the tremor before the step towards nothing. It is the heart of loneliness. Filimon didn't understand why the psychologist was using so many definitions to explain to him that he was a drunkard. Every hour cost him three bottles of quality vodka. At least.
(Translated by Ema-Teodora Rădulescu / 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.