Remorses

Sanda Burță
There was a time when she thought she could live with that fire burning in her soul. Then she'd run to the preacher determined to tell him everything. Father, I made wormwood stew and drank it, I drank it thirstily, Father, and I put the baby in the dowry chest, there was space, it was empty, a few braids and that was it, how could Iorgu marry me so? I buried her in the garden under the apple tree. Finally, he didn't tell her anything and went home to that apple tree which was no longer bearing fruit, it had grown eyes like wormwood and mouths that whimpered for breast milk.

Iulia Anastasia Roșca
As soon as she opened the door for him, she walked in and casually removed her dress and lace panties. She sat down on the sofa: shall we have a wine? He stands, perplexed by her unpredictable movement: don't you want something stronger? She disappears and returns with a tray of white streaks. Sure, white night it is, she smiles knowingly. They searched their noses, their bodies, their senses, their longings for other people they loved. In the morning, she slowly opens the door of the house so as not to wake her lover. She steps quietly, slips into bed beside him, kisses him on the neck and falls asleep.

Andra Toropoc
He sat humbly in the mall lobby, his voice thin. Please, can you buy me a sweatshirt? but that girl cut him short. I was fidgeting with my phone in my hand and the number I had dialled was still busy. I walked into the store, damn it, I was looking for the perfect gift for the man who no longer loved me. I was walking around and I heard that faint voice. I rushed between the shelves but the baby was just leaving, frailly through the chaos of people. A moment's hesitation and he disappeared and in the street it was all dark. For a while I walked day after day in that mall, looking for him. And today the same.

(Translated by Adrian-George Ilinca / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / 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 August 2023, the group has 11,680 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.