Pedals

Dorin Vasile
When the theater arrived in the commune, the lights at the cultural center flickered faintly, casting shadows on the walls. That's when I knew Mamina was back at the pedals. I saw her at the back of the hall, in the corner where the old dynamo had been installed, a bicycle without wheels, with a rusty handlebar and a chain greased with pork fat. The hem of her skirt lifted with every press, revealing smooth, firm thighs. Her hair stuck to her neck, her lips parted slightly, and her labored breathing made my stomach flutter in a strange way.
 
 Veronica Baciu
I wake up and start my day's routine. The home routine that precedes the work routine. I feel like I live in another reality, created especially for robots like me. I pedal, pedal until after lunch when a pleasant drowsiness settles over my body. My body? Sometimes I don't even recognize it because I no longer feel it. I look out the window, see the city's anthill from the seventh floor's height. I think about the people in my life. What if one day the mechanism stops, and I press the pedal to the limit?
 
 Victoria Gârlan Grigore
I grew up. I discovered that in real life the bike didn't always have fluorescent wheels or spokes that sang. The pedals were not static, and the stars didn't always align with my thoughts. Yet, that childhood dream never disappeared. I clung to it in difficult times, like an imaginary handlebar guiding me through life's challenges. Even when the roads weren't always straight, the dream of the enchanted bike stayed with me, reminding me that deep down I still have that spark of childhood.

 
(Translated by Eduard Mihai Uretu / 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)