IR 1234 arrives at platform three, says the voice in the speaker. On the platform - no one. In the hall lingers a sour smell. Through the windows, trapped under layers of grime, a weak sun sneaks in. The bathroom door rattles, the faucet hums emptily. Once, before he left the country hidden in a cargo truck, before he made a foreign passport, before he became a taxi driver in City, he had been the boss here. He is grabbing the bag where he stuffed sausages, zacuscă[1], and cream biscuits and he is heading towards the airport. He leaves a paradise behind. In ruins.
[1] Romanian vegetable spread.
George Dometi
It was announced on the speakers. I get on. The cold made me enter a compartment. I sit right in the middle of a conversation. Hey, nephew, says the old man to my left, do you know that this cabbage you're eating now was picked this autumn, because it had been carefully tended to last summer and planted last spring? Well, same thing happens to man. In order to turn out right, first, he goes to school, studies, struggles to finish well, and then, years later, what does he become? Ay, tell me, boy. Hm, thought the boy, who was scrolling on his phone. Cabbage, right?
Andra Toropoc
Dear Santa, this is my Wish List. Tomorrow, I'll rewrite it neatly and send it to you in an envelope.1. I really want to receive Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends. 2. You're kind, so please make the train distance and speed exercises disappear from the arithmetic book. 3. Better yet, make arithmetic disappear from the schedule altogether. 4. Also please bring me a whistle and a little flag. I want to grow up faster and change the tracks properly, like my mom says when she comes back from the parent-teacher meeting[1].
[1] In Romanian a schimba macazul (to change the tracks) also means to change one's attitude towards somone or something.
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.