10.06.2024

Dan Banu
The old man stopped to catch his breath. The path was now climbing gently. Somewhere among the branches you could see the peak. He had passed well over craggy cliffs, rough versants, rushing streams of water, palm-length cloughs. He felt more and more tired, and the crest kept flashing at him like a gate. Having reached the top, he looked around. He didn't feel like he had achieved anything, he was just above it all and that was it. He sank into the grass and looked up at the sky. He could hear the others coming from behind. He felt the first one stepping on his arm. The second on his shinbone.

Horațiu Dudău
He only has one record with him. He enters the cabin last, after them and her. The light bulb gives a sickly light, Parkinson-like. The other two go straight up to the bedroom, letting the door shatter the silence below. She's siting in the crumpled armchair and looking the fire in the firebox. He brings wood, trying to smile, guessing the indifference in her eyes. The other two from upstairs can be heard laughing amorously. Suddenly she becomes sadder thanusual. He knows why. He offers her a glass of wine and lets the vinyl record spin the fate of that night.

 Titela Durnea
She chatted off about a myriad of things, skillfully dodging my nebulous questioning. The coaching sessions invariably culminated in the cliché: destination hardly matters, it's the journey that makes the difference. I adopted my brother's tactic. Agreed with her, but did as I thought fit. I panted, I sweated, I pushed everyone out of the way, I climbed only the beaten path, watching with eagle eyes not to deviate from the marked route. I reached the top. The first. Her theory: what a crock. Nothing compared to what you could see from up there. But there was one thing I failed to do: I hadn't secured myself.

(Translated by Florina Georgiana Țîncu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by prof dr. Nadina Vișan, Edited 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 January 2024, the group has 12,500 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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