Maybe the night was dark. Maybe he had drunk a bit too much and, feeling fiery, had said a bit too much. Maybe his heart was racing wildly at the thought of holding her in his arms. Maybe the ballerina waiting for him at the station liked him too. Maybe he stepped wrong. Maybe he staggered. No, he couldn't have been pushed. When his head hit the pavement and his body was caught between the train cars, the bird with the ruby beak let out a short cry and took flight towards the stars. The mayday trees looked down and wept. What a shame, a hope has been extinguished. A poet.
Ligia Dumitrescu
At the counter where hopes are sold, there's always a line. They're handed out haphazardly, without a ticket system, without any minimum organization by categories, fields, or even urgency. It's all first come, first served. Standing in line guarantees that at some point you'll be in front, of course, as long as you don't abandon the queue. Basically, waiting in line itself sells a hope. The hope that once you reach the front, you'll be given a new chance. A lucrative business. The customers pay in the most expensive currency.
Camil Popescu
I really love being in the desert. The desert feels like a heatwave. Not only is it hot, but when I can conquer it, to be above it, I get all worked up. And the grains of sand during a storm, that uuu that whispers in your ears like a love song. What I don't like is when the helicopters are whup-whup-whup and you can hear the machine guns rat-tat-tat, then piu-piu and bang-bang, they were fighting over there, I was already in the water because I found an oasis. Uuu, I gasped when I touched it with my finger. It felt like a cool refreshment. Vote for me.
(Translated by Eduard Mihai Uretu / 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.