Footwork

Ruxandra Donose
He felt his lip splitting, his head exploding and he was sent spinning. He sees the grinning face of his drunken father, as if saying you're dead, dude. But now he's alive, and he punches him straight right, I'll never be a victim again, then uppercut, mouth shut forever, the noise intensifies, then a hook and the stadium lights dance to the rhythm of his ankles. Let's dance, he said to himself, the most honest dance of his life, you're nothing, his eardrums spoke, but now he's somebody, the one who proves that the power of a fist can lift you among the good ones. I loved you, Dad, but you're knocked out.

Dorin Vasile
We sit down. The cards have fayed corners. He lights a cigarette and puffs slowly. The smoke rises heavy in the warm air of the room. On the table, two almost empty glasses. So are you in? she asks with a smile. I shrug. It won't be the first game I lose and the stake appeals to me. She shuffles. Three queens. She wins. I lean across the table. I kiss her neck. I smell her perfume, patchouli, almost faded. It's a long way to the ankles, she says and pushes the cards toward me. Shall we continue? I lean back and start shuffling.

Yuka Brevi
I wanted to steal some 2-liter bottles with the Returo logo on them. Basically, I was taking them, not stealing them, `cause they were already in the garbage chute of the Emergency yard. It was freezing, I was sneaking around like a thief with a bag in my hand, even though I clearly wasn't. I quickly grabbed three of them, as I thought, thinking of gaining one leu and fifty bani. Adding what I had, I could buy a bottle of beer, `cause I'm not fussy. I was content, all in all, I didn't want to annoy God. But lo and behold! They weren't bottles, they were three thick-ankled legs, a little bit twisted. Police, statements, television.


(Translated by Florina Georgiana Țîncu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by prof. dr. Nadina Vișan / Edited 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.