There is no blood flowing. The blue of the starry night flows through my veins, mixed with the green of the hot glass core of my being. I will die soon, and after hundreds of years, some slimy critics will say that I was a psychotic. I'm just sick of light and color in the terminal stage. I'm a puddle drowned in bitter wormwood. The brush is the great valid confession of the loneliness in which I bathe. I don't exist, and some won't know who's left or right until they look at themselves in the mirror, Paul.
(Translated by Ana Spînu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)Real Fiction is a collective project started in 2013 by Florin Piersic Jr. The concept of Real Fiction continued to exist as a Facebook group, after a volume of stories was published at Humanitas Publishing House. (In April 2022, the group has 8,175 members.) The authors write ultra-short stories, with the texts limited to 500 characters (in Romanian, so the length of the English translation might be a little different) - a flash-fiction exercise on a topic that changes every few days. The group's coordinators are Florin Piersic Jr., Gabriel Molnar, Răzvan Penescu, and Luchian Abel. (Drawing by Adrian T. Roman)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale. 
