Victoria Gârlan Grigore
At least cats do not run away from me, the old man muttered quietly, looking at the feline that watched him from below, as if she understood every word. Her glance looked gentler than all the others he had received that day. The cat followed him quietly, sticking to his legs. Shall we share a slice of bread? We might find some that is not dry and with no mold. Stepping on the wet stone, on the dry leaves, he stopped under an old balcony. I used to be like you. You, cat, cannot even imagine what it is like to be alone in a world that has forgotten you.
George Dometi
Blood. A loooot. Cut throats. With sharpened claws. A futile struggle. I have chewed at them quite a bit, only crushed their backbone. I lined up the guts on the pavement. I licked my muzzle, under my tail and on my paw. I hid under an apple tree. What did I see? In a latrine two Mesias were discussing religion with rattling bangs of talents. Don't delude yourselves, more than 30 have not received any. Their heads were planted with some strands of hair like rotten hay. The gentle cat scratches the last rats badly.
Răzvan Drăgoi
The first sub-group of approximately folkloric dances to be broadcast on the radio, at the time of minimal audience, was the Oltenia group of semi-Hebrew dances the Jewuleț Doina[1]. In the light of the microphones, we danced with patriotic pride, without music, but with a lot of courage. There were no incidents throughout the ten seconds of passionate, connotative dancing. The audience, made up of an alive cat and a not-quite-canned can, watched, almost passionately, the program. Applause was mimed at the end. Plastic flowers were thrown. They sucked.
(Translated by Ana Maria Mitruș / 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.