He leans closer to the screen - not because his eyesight is failing, but because the lines of code are scrolling at an alarming speed. Something has spun out of control. Then, suddenly, everything stops. Too many trains, too many demands, he mutters. Unnecessary stops, absurd requests. Insistent pleas echo in his mind. Even Ion has had enough. Suggestions? That one with the absurd number 1234 seems the least important, replies Ion, the robot. He hesitates for a second, then presses Delete. The train vanishes instantly, as if it had never existed.
Mona Zelenco
Leaning against the train window, eyes closed, she set traps for the thoughts drifting into dreams - like butterflies floating on a May breeze. Five hours separated her from her mother's warm embrace. She had fulfilled her wish. Graduated at the top of her class from the Conservatory. The great stages awaited. She could already see herself in the spotlight, envisioning the dress, the flowers, the thunderous applause. Then, her train of thought was ripped away - sudden, brutal. The news reported the derailment of IR 1234 train. Casualties confirmed.
Florentina Ghițescu
Where are you going? To the countryside, to my parents. For the holidays? How lovely! How old are they? I close my book - it's clear he's not picking up on the fact that I don't feel like talking. They would have been 80. I'm so sorry. They died of heartbreak when I left. Their lives never knew joy again from the moment that dusty train pulled out of the station. I didn't know then that home exists in only one place - the place where your parents are. Since the day I left, I've been searching for home, never realizing I had left it behind - on a frozen, unlit platform, reeking of urine.
(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.