Clean Air

Gheorghiță Mircea
We smoke. She smokes Snagov cigarettes, I smoke Carpați cigarettes. The smoke covers the sour smell of the shabby hotel room. Why do I come here? Maybe because she resembles Her. Just the face, though, her body isn't slim, it's more of a Rubenesque model. But maybe like Her, after so many years. I dress. How much? Nothing, professor. Why? My daughter is your student. And she's good at math. You'll see. And the pimp? He's the father. I go out to get some fresh air. At home, she, another Her, lies in bed smoking Kent. The room smells of Carpați cigarettes. I go out on the balcony for fresh air. The Carpați butt is somewhere down below. Tomorrow I have classes.

Adriana Patroi Miu
Her lungs rotted. With every breath, she was sinking into death. She doesn't want to leave. This is my house, she says. Come on, Grandma, leave them. The grandchildren are waiting for you to read them stories. I can't. She arranges black-and-white photos along the edge of the nightstand. Who's this? she asks, looking at me in a way I realize she doesn't recognize me. She leans against the wall and slowly walks across the room toward the chest where she had arranged her burial clothes. Are you afraid? I ask. In her eyes, impatience smolders. She opens her shirt and starts dressing.

Răzvan Dițescu
He took the Shinkansen, changed trains twice, and got off at a station at the edge of the forest. The fresh air smelled of wildflowers, the song of warblers, the lotus flowers blooming on the lake, the deer crossing toward the nearby stream, all seemed to come from a recurring dream. The path led him to the ruins. Rika sat on the steps blackened by the fire that had consumed her family. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply a few times, and made up her mind. She would leave behind the corporate life, rebuild the cabin, and have, once again, a Home.

(Translated by Miruna Baicu / 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 November 2024, the group has 13,480 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.