Barefoot, through the reddish dust, we sang, and from time to time, we waved to any car that was humming along the deserted road. I've met her in a village that was under the watch of Mekong's jaw, back in the early Mesozoic. We drank daily, out of breath, our bodies soaked in the juice of the sunlight. The time wagon had lost a wheel. We were to each other a riddle to which we pretended not to know the answer. You will remain a grain of rice in a swamp, I thought. But now, we were both tugging at this love with bruised knees.
Iulia Biro
The first and the second subject were fine, he would have solved them only knowing the physics he'd learned in high school, for the second one he had studied. The third one was a lost cause. Damn it, bad luck, to learn 15 courses out of 16 only for them to want you to know the one you haven't learned. If he hadn't listened to Barbar Streisand two days out of three, the equivalent of time he had to prepare for the exam, maybe now in his head would be something else besides, obsessive "Saa-am, you made the pants too lo-ong". He'll retake the exam in autumn, but the audiotape goes into the trash today.
Răzvan Drăgoi
Dressed in short pants, wearing socks with sandals, a hat made of straws, a shirt that was white in the past, and a PSD[1]bag from which the ends of the green onion where poking out of, it was the wet dream of any woman who worked at a firefighter station or owned a water cannon. By profession, circumstantial poet, an imaginary lover and a philosopher by compulsion, Costel was a former lathe operator. The life, he used to say, is made of chips. One day I asked him if he was an adept of morphosyntactic deconstructivism, and his answer was mhm.
[1]Social Democratic Party - the largest political party in Romania
(Translated by Eliza Radu / 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.