2020 Winners per language

  • Catalan: Unedited manuscript, by Aurora Tàrrega Gàlvez
  • Czech: My Sweet, by Daniela Straková
  • Danish: Ad Hoc, by Cindy Lynn Brown
  • Dutch (Belgium): Captured Moment, by Elske van Lonkhuyzen
  • Dutch (The Netherlands): Everything waits, by Gert-Jan Van den Bemd
  • English: Motorway Service Stop, by Anna Lu
  • Finnish: The lady on the train, by Maisa Kurko
  • French: Time lag, by Christiane Leydet
  • German: Sparkles, by Eva Pilipp
  • Hebrew: Summer Camp, by Yael Statman
  • Portuguese: Better Late, by Monica Menezes
  • Spanish: Picture Postcard Workers, by Rafael Olivares Seguí
  • Swedish: From Above, by Anni Svensson

Catalan

Manuscrit sense editar

Tots els dijous i a la mateixa hora, s’asseia en el moll per a veure l’arribada del ferri. Amb l’illenc sol acariciant les seves galtes, s’entretenia mirant com desembarcaven els passatgers. Imaginava històries per a cadascun d’ells, i després les escrivia en el seu quadern amb tapes daurades. Avui em pesen els dies sense ella, em sento en el port per a recordar-la, i mentre arriba el ferri, llegeixo les seves històries, sé que en alguna trobaré les meves arrels.

Unedited manuscript

Every Thursday at the same time, she used to sit on the pier to see the arrival of the ferry. With the sun of the island stroking her cheeks, she would distract herself as the passengers disembarked. She imagined stories for each of them, and then wrote them in her notebook with golden covers. My days without her are still gloomy, I sit in the port to remember her, and while the ferry arrives, I read her stories and I know that in one of them I will find my roots.

  • Author: Aurora Tàrrega Gàlvez
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Czech

Brouček

Čekám v hotelové restauraci, kterou si z vlastní peněženky dovolit nemůžu, na muže svýho života, co to zacvaká, toho si taky dovolit nemůžu, a on se opozdil, a opožďuje se dál, píše „už přicházím broučku, něco si přečti“. Přichází, přichází ještě chvilku, až přijde doopravdy, a na límci mu svítí jasně růžový otisk rtěnky. Moje matka dosud používá tmavé odstíny, pomyslím si bezděky. Předstírám, že to nevidím, a nevidím nic ani na jeho krku, ani nad jeho uchem, usmívám se, jsme naleštění a elegantní jako tato restaurace.

„Čekáš dlouho, broučku?“ skládá si ubrousek na klín.

„Ani ne, tati.“

My Sweet

I’m waiting in the hotel restaurant, which I couldn’t afford myself. I’m waiting for the man of my life, who’ll pick up the tab, the man I also can’t afford, and he’s late, still late. He texts: “I’m on my way, my sweet, read something in the mean time.” He’s on the way, still on his way, until now he’s actually coming in the door, and on his collar, blatantly glistening, the pink print of lipstick. My mother still uses darker shades, I think involuntarily. I pretend that I see nothing, and I see the same nothing on his neck and the same nothing above his ear. I’m smiling. We’re shiny and elegant, like this restaurant.

“You been waiting long, my sweet?” folding his napkin on his lap.

“Not really, Dad.”

  • Author: Daniela Straková
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just one text and not the text from your own country)

Danish

Ad Hoc

Venter tavse på en kantsten, mens appen tæller ned. Din Uber er fem minutter væk, fire, syv, to, din Uber er ankommet. Er det okay? siger chaufføren og peger på det skælvende gedekid i bunden af vognen. Benene bundet sammen med reb. Da vi sætter i gang, læner kiddet sit varme hoved mod mit bare ben, jeg rækker hånden ned og mærker faldet gennem det rullende kaos. Langsomt slapper kiddet mere og mere af, indtil vi er fremme. Så slynger chaufføren kiddet tilbage ned på metalgulvet. Lang tid endnu til aftenens sidste ankomst, gedeslagteren.

Ad Hoc

Waiting silent at the kerb as the app counts down. Your Uber is five minutes away, four, seven, two, your Uber has arrived. OK? the driver says, indicating the trembling goat kid on the floor of the vehicle, its legs tied together with rope. As we pull away, the kid leans its warm head against my bare leg. I reach down and sense the fall through the rolling chaos. Gradually the kid settles, and then we’re there. The driver swipes the kid away, back against the metal floor. A while yet until the evening’s last arrival, the butcher’s.

  • Author: Cindy Lynn Brown
  • Translator: Martin Aitken
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Dutch (Belgium)

Momentopname 

Toen we de hoek om kwamen stond de magnolia zo hevig in bloei dat we in de lach schoten. Victor lag zelfs helemaal dubbel. (Zijn ouders waren aan het scheiden.) Hij maakte een foto. Mijn moeder had altijd gezegd dat je geen foto’s van landschappen moest maken. ‘Mensen zien uiteindelijk het liefst mensen.’ Ik wist niet of een boom een landschap was, maar ik geloofde haar, ze had geen reden om tegen me te liegen, ze zag mij graag. ‘Kijk’, zei Victor. Bij elke windvlaag vielen een paar bloesemblaadjes op de grond. Alsof we voor een reusachtige zandloper stonden.

Captured Moment

As we turned the corner, there was a magnolia blooming so lusciously it made us laugh out loud – Victor was even in stitches. (His parents were going through a divorce). He took a picture. My mother had always said you shouldn’t take pictures of landscapes. ‘At the end of the day, people want to see people.’ I didn’t know whether a tree was a landscape, but I believed her, as she had no reason to lie to me, she loved me. ‘Look,’ Victor said. With every gust of wind a few flower petals fell to the ground. As if we were standing in front of a massive hourglass.

  • Author: Elske van Lonkhuyzen
  • Translator: Willem Groenewegen
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just one text and not the text from your own country)

Dutch (The Netherlands)

Alles wacht

Alles wacht. Tobias, languit op de kokosmat bij de voordeur, de stoel met kuiltjes in de zitting waar jouw billen precies in passen, het kopje waar je altijd een restje koffie in achter laat, de gordijnen, onbewogen achter het glas.
Pas als de schemer valt, wint de ratio van de hoop. Ik sta op, sluit de gordijnen en zet het kopje terug in de kast. Ik klik Tobias aan zijn riem. Stram maken we onze ronde. Terwijl hij plast kijkt hij me aan en ik zeg: ‘Morgen, misschien.’

Everything waits

Everything waits. Tobias, stretched out on the coconut mat by the front door, the chair with dimples in the seat perfectly shaped after your bum, the cup with a bit of leftover coffee like you always do, the curtains, frozen behind the glass.
It’s not until dusk that reason beats hope. I get up, close the curtains, and put the cup back in the cupboard. I put Tobias on his lead. We make our round stiffly. As he’s weeing he looks at me and I say: ‘Tomorrow, maybe.’

  • Author: Gert-Jan Van den Bemd
  • Translator: Laurens van de Linde 
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English

Motorway Service Stop

Tuesdays, on your way to the motorway service stop, she is wearing perfume. Before she disappears in the motel, she buys you a Fanta at the self-service restaurant. You wait for her in a plastic chair, like the ones in your school cafeteria. Sometimes, you go outside where the air is heavy with gasoline and sit on the curb. Once, the sun had already started to bleed into the horizon, a grown-up invited you into his truck. You shook your head. You felt sick. You stayed on that curb waiting for your mother, shivering despite the heat of the day.

  • Author: Anna Lu
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Finnish

Rouva junassa

Kuljen kouluun päivittäin junalla. Sen saapumisaika asemalleni on aina sama: 8.27. Istun joka kerta kolmanteen vaunuun paikalle numero kuusi. Vieressäni istuu aina mukava vanha rouva, jonka nimeä en vieläkään ole uskaltanut kysyä, vaikka olemme matkustaneet vierekkäin samalla junalla jo melkein kaksi vuotta. Matka kestää 15 minuuttia. Sen aikana rouva ja minä pelaamme korttia. Hän antaa minun aina voittaa. Se hieman ärsyttää, mutta en kehtaa sanoa hänelle kuitenkaan mitään. Rouvalla on myös aina tuoreita sämpylöitä mukanaan. En yhtään tiedä miksi. Kun nousen junasta, rouva jatkaa matkaansa. Koulupäivän päätyttyä hän istuu jälleen samalla paikalla, aivan kuin hän olisi odottamassa minua. Ja kun nousen päätepysäkilläni pois, vilkuttaa hän minulle hymyillen ikkunasta.

The lady on the train

Every day I travel to school by train. Its arrival time to my station always is the same: 8.27. Every time I sit on the third wagon´s seat number six. Next to me always sits a nice old lady whose name I have not yet had the courage to ask, although we have travelled on the same train side by side already almost for two years. The travel takes 15 minutes. During the ride the lady and I play cards. She always lets me to win. That irritates me a bit, but I don´t dare to say anything to her. The lady always brings fresh buns with her. I have no idea  why.When I disembark, the lady continues her travel. After the schoolday she sits again on the same seat as if she was waiting for me. And when I disembark at my final stop, she waves to me smiling through the window.

  • Author: Maisa Kurko
  • Translator: Vesa Lahti
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just one text and not the text from your own country)

French

Décalage horaire

Louis mordilla son crayon et termina sa lettre en indiquant son heure d’arrivée. Le surlendemain, le front avança et son bataillon fut rappelé. Le même jour, Lalie entendit le facteur et courut ouvrir. Une heure plus tard, le sifflet retentit et Louis monta à l’assaut. Les mains de Lalie tremblèrent un peu. La balle le repoussa bras en croix. Lalie se mit à rire et à pleurer. Louis tomba lourdement. Lalie fit voler son tablier, oublia son chapeau à rubans et fila vers la gare. Ses yeux noyés fixés sur un carré de ciel bleu.

Time lag

Louis chewed on his pencil and ended  his letter with his arrival time.The following day, the front advanced and his battalion was called back.That very day, Lalie heard the postman and rushed to let him in. An hour later, the whistle blew, and Louis went on the attack. Lalie’s hands shook slightly. The bullet pushed him back, arms outstretched like a cross. Lalie started to laugh and to cry. Louis fell heavily down. Lalie tossed her apron in the air, left her ribboned hat behind, and dashed to the station. Her eyes full of tears, staring at a spot of blue sky.

  • Author: Christiane Leydet
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German

Funkeln

Sie kommen funkelnd, sind wie wir. Fortbewegung als strukturierte Gruppe. Die Großen fressen nicht die Kleinen. Weltherrschaft? Wir sind nicht wie sie. 15 Nanometer Leben. Wohin die Angst? Lauf in die Wudang Berge, 72 Gipfel bis zur Pagode. Wer spuckt heute noch Blut? Die Fledermaus im Sonnenstrahl auf der Höhlenwand, vor 10.000 Jahren. Provinz Hubei, am Fluß Han, goldenes Wasser, Brombeersträucher, Schnee. Der Kampf um Trockengerm, der Drogeriemarkt im Jungel. Wir brauchen dich, COVID-19.

Sparkles

They come sparkling, they are like us. Locomotion in a structured group. Large ones do not eat small ones. World domination? We are not like them. 15 nanometers of life. Where does the fear go? Running in the Wudang Mountains, 72 peaks to the pagoda. Who’s still spitting blood today? The bat in the sunshine on the cave wall, 10,000 years ago. Province of Hubei, on the River Han, golden water, blackberry bushes, snow. The fight for dried yeast, the drugstore in the jungle. We need you, COVID-19.

  • Author: Eva Pilipp
  • Translator: Peter Waugh 
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just one text and not the text from your own country)

Hebrew

מחנה קיץ

לכל מי ששאל ענינו בגאווה: מדריכים בקייטנה לילדים בכסאות גלגלים.

בלילה, באוהל, יפית הנכה התחילה לדבר. את יודעת, היא אמרה בקול הנמוך שלה, השבור, בלילה בבית אבא שלי בא אליי לחדר. המילים שלה העלו לי את הדם לפנים. רגע יפית, עצרתי אותה, אני חייבת לצאת שניה.

השמיים היו עיסה רחוקה ושחורה. נכנסתי לאוהל אחר. יפית נורא נוחרת, עיוויתי פנים. אני חייבת לשנות מקום.

בבוקר, אבא שלה הגיע לאסוף אותה. השמש עמדה גבוה בשמיים, ואחר כך הנמיכה, ושקעה, ועלתה שוב. הוא מגיע בכל הזמנים האלה. ואני ממשיכה לצהול איזה יופי שבאת אבא של יפית, הנה התיק שלה, להתראות, להתראות.

Summer Camp

Counselors at a summer camp for kids in wheelchairs, we boasted to anyone who asked. At night, Yafit, one of the disabled campers in our tent, started talking. You know, she said in her low, jagged voice, at home, my dad comes into my room at night. I felt the blood rushing to my face. Wait a sec, Yafit, I cut her off, I have to go outside for a moment. The sky oozed black. I stepped into a different tent. Yafit is snoring like a fog horn, I said, pulling a face. I can’t sleep there. Her father came in the morning to pick her up. The sun was high in the sky, then it sank and set and rose again. He comes at all times of the day and night. And I can’t stop babbling, Hey, Yafit’s dad, so nice to see you, here’s her backpack, bye bye now, bye!

  • Author: Yael Statman
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Portuguese

Better Late

Ana was born by C-section, pulled out with forceps, after 42 weeks. To her, everything happened late. Her first tooth appeared at 27 months. Her first steps were given at the age of three. Her first word only came out at four. She was eight when she began school. She learned to read when she was ten. She wore bombazine pants when they were no longer in fashion. She made a perm when all women were straightening their hair. She fell in love, for the first time, at the age of 37. She was proposed at 38. She was to be married at 39 but, for once, she was early. The groom was kissing her cousin.

Mais vale tarde

Ana nasceu de cesariana, arrancada a ferros, ao fim de 42 semanas. Tudo lhe aconteceu tarde. O primeiro dente apareceu-lhe aos 27 meses. Os primeiros passos foram dados com três anos. A primeira palavra só se soltou aos quatro. Entrou na escola aos oito. Aprendeu a ler aos dez. Usou calças de bombazine quando a moda já tinha passado. Fez uma permanente quando todas as mulheres esticavam o cabelo. Apaixonou-se pela primeira vez aos 37. Foi pedida em casamento aos 38. Ia casar-se aos 39 mas, pela primeira vez, chegou cedo. O noivo estava aos beijos com a prima.

  • Author: Monica Menezes
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Spanish

Funcionarios de postal

El abuelo se fabricó las alas artesanalmente, con restos de tela, cola y alambre. Las usaba para transportar el correo con la capital; todos los días, de lunes a sábado. A la ida hacía un alto en el cerro del Hoyuelo para tomarse el tentempié que la abuela le preparaba en una fiambrera. La vuelta la hacía de tirón. Los vencejos y somormujos le miraban con curiosidad, pero solo al principio. A las seis de la tarde, cuando llegaba, teníamos que ahuyentar a pedradas a los mozos que, conocedores de su puntualidad, le esperaban con escopetas de perdigones y tirachinas.

Picture Postcard Workers

Grandfather made the wings by hand, with scraps of cloth, glue and wire. He used them to transport the post to and from the capital: every day, from Monday to Saturday. On the way there he would take a break on the hill at Hoyuelo to eat the snack Grandmother prepared for him in a lunchbox. He would return without stopping. The swifts and grebes looked at him with curiosity, but only at the beginning. At six in the evening, when he arrived back, we would have to scare off the local boys with stones. Knowing how punctual he was, they would be waiting for him with air rifles and catapults.

  • Author: Rafael Olivares Seguí
  • Translator: Henrietta Fielden
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just one text and not the text from your own country)

Swedish

Från ovan

Jag tar ett sista andetag. Strax därefter kommer en sjuksköterska in i rummet och stänger av maskinerna för gott. ”Det är över nu”, viskar han som sitter på stolen bredvid sängen samtidigt som den blonda sköterskan med försiktiga, nästan obemärkta steg lämnar rummet. Som om hon inte vill väcka någon som sover eller störa mannen på stolen. ”Vad är över?” tänker jag, fortfarande med blicken riktad mot rummets enda fönster. Här sitter jag i taket, ser på kroppen i sängen och mannen på stolen. Det här går aldrig över. Vet inte hur jag andas, rör mig eller pratar.

From Above

I draw one last breath. Shortly afterwards, a nurse comes into the room and switches off the machines for good. “It’s over now,” whispers the man, he who sits on the chair next to the bed, while the blonde nurse leaves the room with gentle, almost unnoticed steps. As if she didn’t want to wake someone who sleeps or disturb the man on the chair. “What’s over?” I think, still with my eyes directed to the single window of the room. Here I am in the ceiling, looking at the body in the bed and the man on the chair. This will never go away. I don’t know how I breathe, move or talk.

  • Author: Anni Svensson
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just one text and not the text from your own country)

International Jury and Voting System

In this second and last round of our Flash Fiction Contest, 13 European representatives (one per each leading institution) will empanelled our EACWP jury. The general voting guidelines are directly inspired by the Eurovision contest, which regards the following rules:

1) The international jury cannot vote for the winning text of their own country.

2) The international jury will divide the points as it follows:

    • First text: 12 points
    • Second text: 10 points
  • Third text: 8 points
  • Fourth: 7 points
  • Fifth: 5 points

3) The text with more votes from the popular vote will be awarded with 3 extra points.

The final winner will be announced in June, 30, 2020.

EACWP Jury 2020

  • Andrea Holland (University of East Anglia)
  • Conceição Garcia (Escrever Escrever)
  • Daniel Kubec (The University of Creative Communication)
  • Franco Chiaravalloti (Escola d’escriptura del Ateneu Barcelonès)
  • Magnus Eriksson (Linnaeus University)
  • Maja Lucas (University of Southern Denmark)
  • Mariana Torres (Escuela de Escritores)
  • Marie-Pascale Lescot (Aleph-Écriture)
  • Peter Waugh (Vienna Poetry School / sfd)
  • Rudie Verbunt (Creatief Schrijven)
  • Tal Bachini (Sadnaot Habait)
  • Tom Verstappen (ArtEZ)
  • Vesa Lahti (Jyväskylä University)