Heat

Alex Micu
Diana talks to the roses when she waters them, you know? Diana, the blonde, who lives across the street. The one turning the heads of all men. And boys. And exasperated wives. Diana, the one with the sad blue eyes. It's evening and it's scorching hot outside. I go out, hoping to catch a gust of wind. As usual, the neighbour is chatting with the roses as she waters them. She notices me and tells me cheerfully that Codruț stopped by home today to pick up his laptop charger. I go silent. Her son died three years ago. It was at that time that the rose wilted as well.

Carmen-Ecaterina Ciobâcă
Not the needle stuck in my back in the icy cold, not the hands stretched out in a cross, bound in straps, not the spotlight striking my retina like a ruthless sun, the faceless people milling around, the teeth chattering or the uncontrollable shiver under the rubber tarp. No. But the dryness climbing up the oesophagus like a worm, parching the roof of the mouth, turning the tongue into concrete and gripping the lips. Water, I whisper. They can't seem to hear me. They slip the bundle of meat into my arms, I watch it with a stranger's eye. Smile please, it's your first picture together.

Horațiu Dudău
The chitin was boiling on the crickets' wings hidden in the grass. It was that hot. Crick-crick. Chirp-Chirp. At 38 degrees it's just blah-blah. Melting, an idiot with a scythe was cursing himself for answering the call. His hands were bleeding, bells pounded inside his chest, hay stuck to his neck. But he was also a bit proud. He watched his old uncle approaching him. Nephew, go as far away from the road as possible. The folks coming to greet you come here to marvel. If I knew, I wouldn't have called you. You are embarrassing us. I never imagined there could be someone who doesn't know how to scythe.

(Translated by Ioana Grințescu / 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 2024, the group has 13,230 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, Monica Aldea, and Vlad Mușat. (Drawing by Adrian T. Roman)

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