IR on the Bucharest-Ploiești route: me, my friend, Nena, and her sister Rita, without tickets. Nena led us to an empty compartment, smelling of hot iron, and told us to all sit on the same bench, heads down, our hair spilling onto the floor. Long chestnut brown hair, reddish hues, and in the middle, Rita's blonde locks. We heard the door shut, and then silence. After a minute or so, we stood up. The conductor was staring at us, frozen. He didn't ask us for tickets again. I think he remembered us for the rest of his life.
Dana Popescu
IR 1234 train carries us and our madness of youth towards Vama. Pressed against me, Ana stretches lazily, like a cat, purring gently. The train picks up speed, the lights of the cities fade, dancing in the night. Ana whimpers in her sleep, pushing me away, annoyed. The small wrinkles on her forehead and the gray streaks in her hair confuse me. What happened to you, Ana? I don't hear an answer; the noise from the train, racing now on the tracks, is deafening. I feel her becoming smaller and smaller, her hair taking on silvery highlights. I reach out, and I lose her in the thousands of stars that slip through my fingers.
David Brescan
August 2017, night at the Medgidia train station. The ticket to Constanța costs four times more than on the CFR[1] website. The sharp-tongued woman at the counter tells me it's been three years since the last update. I eat a greasy hotdog at the bar nearby. It tasted better when I was a kid. The train finally arrives, six hours late, while the police have to restore order among the local wildlife twice. The only available seat is damp and smells of urine. We take two hours to cover the 40 kilometers. I'm the only one with a ticket, and the conductor laughs at me.
(Translated by Carmen Badea / 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.