Pedals

Florin Leșan
The wind was blowing harder. He was alone on the field. He was pedaling on the bicycle on the road guarded be the wheat fields, in which here and there poppy flowers we're bleeding. God, it's so beautiful, said he. Sun, birds and the morning's fragrance. His shirt, unbottened at the neck, bloated behind him. He started to sweat, he felt his hair weaving rebelly. A rebel, just like him. I must go faster, said the kid. He stopped, there was a barrier in front of him. He woke up. The wind was fluttering the curtain. The old man dragged his deformed body into the wheelchair, then he closed the window.
 
 Vero Anttheia Teodoru
I have learned the misteries of riding on two wheels in a park. The fear was quickly gone when I was feeling my dad's hand on the bicycle. I'm right behind you, you won't fall, just keep looking forward. He was running by my side. I was taking my feet off the pedals, knowing he is next to me. I can still feel that, sometimes. I can almost see him remaining behind me with his hand above his eyes. Self assurance is in fact the assurance that somebody is there next to you. We don't come into this world self-confident, but we become like this with the help of a hand on a saddle.
 
 Iulia Stavre
When he fell asleep, my tears had dried. Only pain throbbing in unseen places. Over my sexy underwear I threw on a loose dress and the denim jacket. Holding my boots in my hand, I stuffed into my bag some of the uncounted cash he had in his drawer. The other girls were in the rooms with the clients. The dark hallway took me out into the darkness of the red-lit neighborhood. I got on the first bike that was leaning against the wall. I set off down the canal, the wind blowing into my face. At dawn, I lit a cigarette in front of a field of tulips in bloom.

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