Back in the 70's I used to go karting at the Pioneers' House in my small childhood town. I eyed the beautiful, in-house mopeds, from which I took that few Horsepower that I hooked up to the karts. Pretty high and dangerous speeds could be reached. At a race, on the mini-circuit, one of my wheels broke off and I flew from my seat, landing head-first while wearing my helmet on the inner lawn. After that, I understood the joke from that time: Death's uncertain at Russian roulette, but not with a Corvette.
Monica Bologa
It's dark, the streets are empty. I reach Piazza di Spagna and sit on a step. Next to the fountain, I see a red Vespa. I get close to it and struggle to take some pictures with it. Se vuoi, posso farti una bella foto, said to me a man who emerged from the dark. Voglio, grazzie. The Italian starts taking my pictures, he unties my hair, sits me on the scooter, and kisses me on the lips, and on the neck, I mold into his arms like a wasp. His hand slides up my bare leg, under my dress. I tell him I'm scared I'll break the handle bar, he tells me: Shhhhh, il scooter è mio.
Adriana Patroi Miu
He lost her somewhere about halfway through an asphalt road going to Vama Veche. A damned driver, a damned rainy day, a handful of dreams shattered against a guardrail. Her parents buried her in the cemetery down the hill, among her ancestors, but he raised a cross at the halfway point of any dusty country road, for he went on all the roads halfway without her. She came back to life in every girl with brown hair and grey eyes. Only at night, lost in his dreams and in missing her, could you sometimes hear him sob: Daddy, why are you crying?
(Translated by Adriana-Maria Botea / 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.