08.04.2025

Monica Ciurea
So she had finally made it here. The house was warm and smelled of quinces. She'd only been gone a week. She looked at them for a few moments, ripe and golden by the window. Then she glanced at her earthy face in the mirror. She smelled like chemicals and like a hospital. She wanted to take a shower but didn't have the strength. She lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. No, waiting only made things rush faster. Slowly, she got up. You shouldn't rush toward tomorrow when you have cancer, she thought. Better to wander through the time you're given. This photo, for instance. Just yesterday, my hair was long. She touched her head. Today, a bare scalp. Tomorrow, only a skull.

Daniela Rusu
I couldn't understand how he was still drooling if he was dead. No pair of eyes seemed to fit, none that aligned with the life he'd led, with the venom he'd left behind when he renounced his roots and made himself a city man, looking down on all the other peasants from his balcony. At first, he was adored by the weak, by voices that had no voice of their own. Then, with each new gray hair, he became more alone. It took a while to find him; his name was erased. Shall we say a prayer? No, Father, even God won't forgive this one.

Sonia Ungureanu
From the narrow grave came the scraping sound of a blunt shovel. Watch your head, Burlan. Burlan grinned, showing all his sparse, nicotine-stained, and decayed teeth. Then there was a cracking sound. Damn your skull-It's like talking to a brick wall. The gravedigger's grin stretched wide, almost to his ears. He took another swing. His eyes glinted. You only have that head on your shoulders to keep the rain from going down your neck. Shove it all in the sack. Put in the roses, too. Damn this plastic, hasn't rotted. Now get out of here, \'cause if I pile dirt on you, only pumpkins will sprout.

(Translated by Carmen Badea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / 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 2024, the group has 13,400 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.

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