There Is Always Something behind a Grate

Siranuș Hakobian
My father lived his days with a gentle indifference: he would eat, sleep, and go to work. Only on Saturday afternoons would he get rid of his tranquillity, along with his work clothes, he would quickly grab a bite and do his thing: he rushed to Violeta, much to my mother's annoyance, leaving behind the scent of toluene. My father, almost content, blew into the pintles, replaced lug nuts, and wiped Violeta's distributor cap on a rug that had been brought there on purpose. At the end of the day, a grate that couldn't find its place remained on the rug: I should have put the radiator as well, father said, worried.

Sanda Burță
Didn't Iorgu tell her? Ilinca, I notice that every woman gets sick of living peacefully once every few years. That's what he told her, and she laughed and nodded. Yes, she had everything, wouldn't God punish her if she complained? Today, it happened again, the once every few years event. She was in the garden with her daughter; Iorgu had made a butterfly net for the lil' one, and suddenly, she was overcome by restlessness. She went into the gardener's little house to look for something. The gate opened with a prolonged creak, and the heavy chain fell on her foot. It didn't hurt her.

Silvia Ștefan
I enjoy that game where I maintain eye contact with strangers who are waiting in line at passport control. During the lunch break, I leave the office and walk by. I sit there and wait. There's always an interesting guy who shows up. That's how I convinced R., I knew he was going far away. Shhh, take a seat. I brought him into the office and closed the door. There's exactly a quarter of an hour until the next patient. I undressed, under his curious gaze, and pulled out a red lipstick. I drew an octothorpe on my abdomen. See this? It's a border. Which hemisphere are you flying to?

(Translated by Bianca-Andreea Rîmboacă / 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 October 2023, the group has 11,950 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.