The Ogres' Swamp

David Brescan
Why did you take my cigarettes? his father shouted. You're smoking at ten years old? and delivered a slap across the boy's face, pinning him to the wall. I'm not smoking, came the stammering reply through sobs. I take them to school, so they won't hit me, he whispered, rubbing his cheek. Who hits you, huh? his father shouted again. Tell me! Who lays a hand on you? It's Mr. Mayor's kid. Oh, really? Well, let him hit you, since you're as stupid as your mother who gave birth to you. Learn to fight! Stop whining! Here, this is how you fight, and he punched the boy in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Idiot, get out and shut the door.

Sorin Rizeanu
With tears in his eyes, he turned to run. The teacher caught him, grabbed his ear again, and pulled him so hard that he fell to the floor. Everyone laughed at him, he grew dizzy, but didn't show fear. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were math lessons. The teacher would make mistakes, and they'd laugh. The teacher would cool down by picking on Chiță. Rareș had nicknamed him that, from "Păduchiță[1]," because he was small and unkempt. To Rareș, the teacher never did anything-his dad was a doctor. But when blood began to pour from his ear, Chiță got scared, his mom would take him back to the foster center.
Elena Fermuș
I'm lazy. That's just how I was born. Not even a finger did I move to come into the world. They cut my mother open and pulled me out like a fragile porcelain doll. I didn't even bother to cry. Lazy baby. And now, I'm paying for it. I just found out the divine thread has gone to waste. Those damned doctors, all fools-they couldn't tie it like a belly button. And if I haven't died by now, I sure don't feel like it. Without that thread, hell is written all over me. How many good deeds do I still need to do to reach heaven? How many old ladies do I need to help cross the street? It's too late.

(Translated by Larisa Marta Mreană / 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 January 2025, the group has 13,600 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.