A dark-haired boy is standing still. His arms are resting by his sides. They're long like a Wednesday or Friday of fasting. His brows are raised, his eyelids drooping. And a red nose. Red like the ribbon holding together his shoes, four sizes too big. He's wearing a pair of short pants and tunic with fifteen buttons up to his neck. He's either crying, or laughing. One more joke, the public demands. A docile child, like a senile old man. Pierrot is silent. And stares blankly. They devoured every single joke. Today he told his very last one.
Cecilia Fofiu
They were his good pants, the honey-colored chinos. He'd wear them on Sundays, as the rest of the days he'd wear patched up tatters. Today, after mass, with bits of antidoron still on his lips, he ran straight to the sheepfold, as one of his ewes was ready to lamb. If God was gifting him cattle, wouldn't it be a shame to skimp on rags? Well-thought, indeed. Muța lambed him three lambs, healthy and soft as dandelion fluff. But the poor beast was lying limp in the bloodied grass. He took off his chinos, ripped a bit of fabric from the legs, wrapped her in it and ran like crazy, carrying her down the hill, towards the village.
Gheorghiță Mircea
Johannis was wandering around the square, dominated by the gigantic wheel of the Riengelspiel, proudly pulling at his Hosenträger straps, tied to his leather Lederhose pants. He had come to Oktoberfest with a plan, to hook up with a Bavarian blonde he could spend the evening with. He was goofy and quiet by nature, so he did not do much talking with the busty blonde who kept winking at him and offering him pint after pint. The beer, the charms and the bust of the blonde drove him under the table. Wha' are you doing, mate, get up, won't ya buy another round?
(Translated by Adrian-Florin Duță / 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.