Pedals

Gabriela Marinescu
Pedals, pedals, my lovely pedals, Gică whispered as he rode along the freshly paved alleys of the new residential neighborhood. In the wrought iron cart he had designed and welded himself, exactly six two-liter bottles fit. That's how much he sold per day. That was his quota. The rest of the milk, from the only cow left in the village, his wife set to curdle with real sheep rennet, not the chemical knock-off from the store. He had his regulars. The last bottle marked the end of the day's first job. With a carpenter's pencil, he crossed off the task. Next.
 
 Laura Stanciu
I'm Turtle Dove from the Consumer Protection Agency. That was all it took for Ionel Turtle Dove to scare the woman cleaning the storage room of a supermarket. Here's my badge. And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with? Mrs. Trembling. Good. Let's take a look at the containers, ma'am. What cleaning agents do we have here? Alright. These ones meet the requirements. But tell me - what did you use on the tiles? It's clear. You made them look old. You weren't supposed to use that abrasive product. Now they're ruined. Matte. No more shine. Money wasted on design.
 
 Adina Colțea
The bicycle was her life. She flew with it as long as her mind would hold. One day she woke up in the Little Prince's yard, beside his flower unlike any other in the world. She blinked a few times, just to know she wasn't dreaming, and saw the little man examining the new arrival. Is it gasoline-powered? No, not at all, giggled the girl. Then what does it run on? Thoughts, what else? I'll give you my sheep for both pedals, said the prince again, his mind shaped like a book. She couldn't refuse him, especially since he served her melancholy tea and freshly sun-baked ladyfingers.

 
(Translated by Darius Baciu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)