The Bell Rings

Cristian Nedelcu
Fred and Wilma Flintstone were nervous. Little Pebbles started first grade. They walked her to the entrance of the school cave and sat with her until a crow, that Mrs. Teachstone smacked over the head, cawed for the start of class. Then they went home, waiting for their sweet baby to come back. They jumped to their feet as soon as they saw her waddling up to the front door with crocodinosaur tears streming down her face. What's wrong Pebbles? Fred asked. I was startled when it cawed for the end of class and I dropped the report card on my foot.

Ana Ludușan
She moves around the classroom, like a hen guarding her chicken from a magpie. On the two rows of benches, the students sleep and snore. They're exhausted from working in the fields. The only one still listening, is a little girl, nothing but skin and bones, who was brought in forcefully by her grandma, right down from the walnut tree. This girl must learn, said the old woman. My daughter in law says: otherwise, momma, we shall remain with this beast on our hands, who do you think would take her once she becomes old enough to marry, can't you see just how dark her skin is and how thin she is? The two are now the pride of the village.

Daniela G. Pătrașcu
I heard it but I chose to ignore it and I still made the step. I didn't need anything else, I didn't care for anything else, I could feel my world had come to an end, that tomorrow didn't matter, it wasn't quite about the next day though, but I couldn't think of any day to come, something in my mind acted like a barrier which prevented me from thinking of anything else. What could I think about? Why should I even think about it? Why did I need another moment of my life to come when I had just left my child in the hospital morgue, only 10 minutes before this tram, which was coming straight towards me, honked at me.

(Translated by Diana Gabriela Radu / 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.