13.01.2024
Carmen-Ecaterina Ciobâcă
The sky had been relentlessly shedding rain for a time beyond recollection, the mud in the yard is growing, consuming the backyard, creeping up to the doorstep. Gavril has sheltered the cows in the barn. He's wiping his muddy feet. Inside of the house, the smell of yeast and apple peel is filling up the air. Mother is rolling out the dough, Vetuța is peeling potatoes, Ioan is crawling on the floor and Ileana made dolls from rags. I'm wondering when it's finally going to stop. At least I've been spared from tending the cows. Father brings a piece of pork skin from the attic. He sits on the stool and begins his craft. Go and search for your satchel, he tells me. You're going back to school tomorrow.

Daniel Onofrei
Initially, there was just a cloud. Children began nicknaming it cabbage, snake or dumpling, each assigning a name based on their perception. The handsome Juan believed it resembled Rosita's pubic fuzz. Only Nana Uma, while chewing on her tobacco, was sighing in a way that seemed to foretell hard times ahead. The town council issued drums and trumpets, but the noise had no effect. The soldier on flag duty fired nine bullets, all in vain. However, it was Alvaro, the village priest, whose sleep-induced flatulence triggered the onset of the rain. And it never stopped ever since.

Arthur Ianoși
It's been raining for several days, a drizzle of zeroes and ones. Every so often, a glitch caught out of the corner of my eye would give me a sudden jolt. I was a mere click away from escaping that molehill. My index finger remained clenched on the scroll button, while the soundtrack from Before I Fall was playing in the background. I try to scream for help, but it seems even the voice commands are corrupted. I can't even blink. The rain seeps directly into my cortex. I manage to close my eyes and visualize only nines. The Matrix spits me out towards the Heaven.

(Translated by Oana Ionescu / 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.

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