It's the night of Saint Andrew, a chance for her to find out who her destined one is, and whether she will marry. She starts to feel a bit off, having noticed a white hair at her temple, which she quickly plucked and threw into the stove. She places a sprig of basil under her pillow and squints, waiting for the prophetic dream. She tosses and turns in bed and dozes off late, but wakes up immediately, screaming. She dreamt of Nuțu again. Riding the stallion, in the yard of Irina's meowing house, who had stolen him away by shaking her hips like a duck in heat, and after which the fool, that summer, lost his head.
George Dometi
The bustling hands over the tickets marked with the dream of any gambler made you believe that the whole world had caught on to the secret of wealth. Orlov was of noble descent, possessing the stature, ease, speed, and agility in running of a thoroughbred. The entire racetrack was preparing to cheer his name. He was already leading by a length and was on the final turn when the whole stadium erupted in cheers. Number 7 crossed the finish line. An invisible thread of titanium did its job. Blood burst from the throat like well-shaken champagne.
Yuka Brevi
I'm barely able to stand straight on my hooves. I know, I know, my mane is all tousled and full of hops. I might smell like yeast. Hic. As usual, on my birthday, I went to Letea. After drinking a few buckets of beer with the guys, we measured our drinks and ran around like madmen through the forest. Good thing we didn't make it to Sulina, because we had a detailed plan on how to roll in front of the lighthouse. We didn't go after all, because we got scared after Benjamin, a donkey who somehow ended up among us, told us that he had been ridden by a headless one.
(Translated by Miruna Baicu / 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.