Radu Gramatovici
I brought the roses that she likes. I callout her name and sit on the pavement, waiting, as I always did. George comes as well, he sees me, we eye each other and he sits next to me. While we smoke, the brothers come too. They see us in an instant and sit next to us. One of them takes the dices out and we roll them. It's autumn and the time passes without hurrying. It's getting late. George excuses himself: he starts work in a few hours. I'll leave the flowers here. The brothers gather the dice, and they leave too. I cast a glance at the window, and leave. From now on we'll get used to her not being here.
Cecilia Fofiu
The last cricket of the warm autumn night keeps my weariness awake, gained from the hours spent working at the kennel on the outskirts, as a veterinarian. My thoughts drift to the neighbour's daughter. Beautiful, but stuck-up, as if she were a duchess. I step out, locking the door quietly, not to wake my parents. I stretch my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of her over the fence. Restless, I sneak barefoot into the neighbour's yard, climb up the vine, gently push the window open, which swings wide, and with a smooth leap, I land on all fours beside her bed. She strokes my white, fluffy forehead as I wag my tail happily.
Cristina Daniela Dumitru-Pascal
It was there he had proposed to her. Thirty years ago. He looked at her. I promise to be your every morning, she had said. But then he left without an answer. Just a small note on the table. A note he couldn't understand. Much time passed, many other places, other women, other beds, other loves, before he finally understood what she meant. And he returned, like a condemned man before a sacred icon. On his knees. Because he knew. He slipped the ring onto her finger. Don't choose someone you can live with. Choose someone you can't live without. That's what you wrote to me.
(Translated by Andreea Sorana Oltean / 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.
