Eduard Baranovski
The sky was orange, with purple streaks silently snaking from south to north. The magnetic poles had shifted, causing astonishing mutations in the flora. The fauna hadn't survived the apocalypse. Now, all the planet's water was located beneath the crust, hardened by excessive radiation. From the tall ruins guarding the field, a gust of wind carried a dry piece of paper and gently laid it on one of the giant leaves. On it was the photograph of a random person, and beneath it, in capital letters, it read: Comrades, we have won. It was the last newspaper on Earth.
Sonia Ungureanu
I'll teach you, but I don't have any newspapers. The Scânteia newspaper, right? I raced up to the sixth floor- the elevator wasn't working- threw my schoolbag aside, and rushed to the rooftop with as many as I could find in the storage closet. Behind me were Neluțu and the Popa twins. Mișu made us wait. First, he told us to tear the newspapers into strips. Our eyes sparkled with fascination. Clumsily, we twisted strips of construction sites, pioneers, visits to Africa, and record productions. After about three hours of running the tips of the cones through saliva for the final touch, they were done. Mișu was a god; I swore loyalty to him. We were about to smoke the pipe.
Elena Fermuș
He was special because he was a hero; he walked back from the front, hundreds of kilometers on foot. Because his hair was so pure white, like the beard of God. Because he wrote his thoughts on a corner of a newspaper, like a teenager's first journal. Because he was my grandfather. After he turned from a man into an angel, everyone gathered at his house to divide the inheritance. All I wanted for myself was the newspaper on which he had written to my grandmother. Out of longing. My dearest Victoria, today the swallows returned to our house, but they didn't find you anymore. And so, I enriched my heart.
(Translated by Andreea Maria Liceanu / 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 December 2024, the group has 13,540 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.
