when she jumped in my path in the hallway, like a mischievous deer, she pushed her hand against my chest, shoved me toward the window, trapped me, and, rising onto her tiptoes, pressed her lips to mine in a sweet embrace. I forgot about zits, about insomnia, about panic attacks. I felt only that probing tongue and the breasts that were shamelessly nudging me. The spell broke when, at the sound of the bell, she dashed back to class. I had lost a bet, you fool, don't get your hopes up, she told me the next day. Will you lend me your math homework?
Cornel Popescu
Cornel Popescu
The nightmare did not end when I opened my eyes and this intrigued me to no end. It was useless to splash around in the cold water a few times. I ate cheese with bread and drank burdock root tea. I then put on my traditional Romanian shirt and trousers, untied the badger, and headed towards the stables. As I descended the stairs near the ground floor, I remembered that I forgot to pin my tricolor to my chest. What a life I had before I became a dacopat[1]. I was an economist specializing in public procurement, passionate about photography and writing.
[1] A person who acquires a true obsession with the history and civilization of the Dacians or who exaggerates their importance in the analysis of historical issues.
Răzvan Dițescu
The mirror reflected my unrecognizable face. The mouth that no longer knew how to laugh struck me the most. In the middle of the room, surrounded by all my shadows, I closed my eyes. The thoughts began to settle. Then I parted from my fears and cried; out of relief. I had finally allowed myself to exist differently. I opened my eyes. I still bore the marks of my own mistakes, but now I perceived them as a map that had guided me to that point. I was alive. Not perfect, but alive. I looked at the mirror again. I smiled. And in that moment, I knew.
(Translated by Eduard Mihai Uretu / 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 February 2025, the group has 13,650 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.
