01.12.2023
Monica Bologa
I gave birth to her on a Thursday night around two o'clock. It took me a few years, some lived experiences and a bit of maturity before I felt the time was right. But on that Thursday night, meaning began to take shape. A huge responsibility to which I dedicated my time and life. She was growing beautifully, day by day. When it was time to send her into the world, you came along, the all-knowing, and told me that I had failed, that I still had to learn, that I was an amateur. I took my story in my hands and tore it apart, page by page.

Alex Caragian
The killer stated that, quote, two points. So, further that I read the statement; then? Then he put on his hat and went off to order something to eat. Why? Chicken[1]. No, why did he leave? He was hungry. You don't understand, I want details to figure out his justification, his mindset; I mean what did he do after the murder? He got in the victim's car and went to the fast-food place. Terrible. Yeah, sounds like it was terrible traffic. But what is more terrible is what he ordered to eat. The chicken? For him and another one for his son.

[1] "Why? Chicken" here this seems out of place since the word play from Romanian cannot be translated in a good enough manner, this joke goes roughly as such: the question is "de ce?" which can be translated both as a "why?", the correct meaning here, or "what kind?", and so the answer "chicken" would be the one to clarify this question.

Dan Banu
The woman had her eyes closed. The butterfly that grew on her lips fluttered its wings three times. The man, slipping through the woman's thoughts as through the water of a waterfall, was climbing the path to the forest. The woman's inward gaze followed him. The man's steps were like a buck's. So was his pride. The butterfly flapped its wings again. Then he heard the man's voice and laughter. The wicked fairies, he thought, and turned to one side. The man flipped over like a toy in a jar. The laughter didn't stop. He opened his eyes. The butterfly flew away.

(Translated by Victor Albei / 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 July 2023, the group has 11,540 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, Luchian Abel, and Vlad Mușat. (Drawing by Adrian T. Roman)

Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.

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