2021 Winner per language

  • Catalan: The demon-cove connoisseur, by Leila Ghassemi Farreras
  • Czech: Parisian blue, by Lukáš Samek
  • Danish: Army of trees, by Signe Kierkegaard Cain
  • Dutch (Belgium): Bicycle, by Geert Simonis
  • Dutch (The Netherlands): Grandpa, by Jilly Naaijen
  • English: Rip current, by Kim Clarys
  • Finnish: To beyond this world, by Rami Bärman
  • French: Comet, by Jade Samson-Kermarrec
  • German: Every day, Barbara Kobalt
  • Hebrew: Medusa, by Asaf Dvori
  • Portuguese: The Caretaker, by Sandra Henriques
  • Spanish: The crazies, by Asier Susaeta Diez de Baldeón
  • Swedish: Akureyri, by Sofie Gisslén

Catalan

El connaisseur tapadimonis 

Tres orificis succionen la segona pell de tela. La dona i la remor interna: redreçaràs el cap el dia que la ciència i l’art s’associïn.
—Com se sent avui? —Els ulls s’enfilen sobre les ulleres.
—Millor. —La mirada fugissera, les mans damunt les cuixes, a punt d’escapar.
—Ensenyi’m les ungletes.
Se les ha menjat totes. La veu, implacable: durant segles, cossos en els marges, entranyes on tots han vingut a niar. El murmuri dels djinns enamorats i el formigueig dels microbis rabiosos floreixen en trastorns amb noms exquisits. Veus d’un món desconegut i la urgència d’expulsar l’insostenible.
—Ajustarem la dosi.

The demon-cover connoisseur

Three holes suck out the second skin of cloth. The woman and her inner murmur: you will straighten your head when science and art come together.
“How are you feeling today?” His eyes align to his glasses.
“Better.” Her elusive gaze, her hands on her thighs, about to escape.
“Show me your fingernails.”
She have eaten them all. His relentless voice: for centuries, bodies on the margins, entrails where everyone has come to nest. The whisper of the jinns in love and the tingling of the rabid microbes blossom into disorders with exquisite names. Voices from an unknown world and the urgency to expel the unsustainable.
“We’ll adjust the dose.”

  • Author: Leila Ghassemi Farreras
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Czech

Pařížská modř

„Chtěla bych být tam,“ hlesla a ukázala vpřed. Letní slunce pálilo. Mráz jí přejel po zádech.

Slyšela šum řeky, daleko.

„Co jsi to řekla?“ zasyčel mužský hlas.

Dlouhou ulicí v Paříži (či Pařížskou?) protékal dav turistů. Prostor protklo dusno.

„Že bych chtěla být… tam,“ řekla.

Kaskáda turistů zurčela. Ryba davu do ní narazila.

„Tam…“ šeptla znovu. Zmateně se otočila. Ryba na zemi se plácala. Muž ji pořád propaloval pohledem.

„Ať tě to ani nenapadne.“ Stiskl jí zápěstí.

Kapky potu se smísily, jako ryba vyklouzla ven.

Viděla se v odrazu vitríny jako v řece. Chtěla být Ofélií, ale byla ve výlovu.

Parisian blue

“I’d like to be there,” she uttered and pointed ahead of her. The summer sun was burning. A shiver ran through her back. She heard the murmur of the river, far away.

“What did you say?” hissed a male voice.

A crowd of tourists flowed via a long street in Paris (or a Parisian street?). The sultry air cut through the space.

“That I’d like to be … there,” she said.

The cascade of tourists rippled. The fish of the crowd hit her.

“There…” she whispered again. She turned in confusion. The fish flipped around on the ground. The man kept piercing her with his gaze.

“Don’t even think about it.” He clutched her wrist.

Droplets of sweat mixed, she slipped out like a fish.

She saw herself in the shopping window reflection as in a river. She wanted to be Ophelia but she was being fished out.

  • Author: Lukáš Samek
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Danish

Træernes hær

Det første træ, der udvandrer, er det mindste; blommetræet, som vi lige har plantet. Planteskolearmbåndet sidder stadig på, da det trækker sine spinkle rødder op og spæner over plænen. Det er så spædt, at jeg tænker, vinden vil tage det. Vinden vil løfte det op og bære det over villatagene, plante det i en anden have, måske så langt væk som på den anden side af legepladsen. Men træet holder sig ved jorden, tager fortovet, løber med de letteste fjed uden at ramme stregerne.

Army of trees

The first tree to leave is the smallest; the plum tree we just planted. Its nursery bracelet still attached, it upheaves its spindly roots and dashes across the lawn. It’s so slight I think the wind will take it; that the wind will pick it up and carry it over the suburban rooftops, plant it in some other garden, perhaps as far away as the other side of the playing field. But the tree stays grounded, uses the pavement, runs with the lightest of steps without touching the cracks.

  • Author: Signe Kierkegaard Cain
  • Translator: Martin Aitken
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Dutch (Belgium)

Tweewieler

Toen ik na een lange dagtocht volkomen afgepeigerd het Rode Plein opfietste, wist ik het ontvangstcomité moeiteloos te vinden. Het verwachte gejuich bleef echter uit. Nikita maakte zelfs geen aanstalten de fles zelfgestookte wodka die hij had meegebracht te ontkurken. Konstantin liep met open armen en tranen in de ogen op me af. “Wat is er gebeurd?” wilde hij weten. “Overvallers of terroristen?” viel Leonid hem meteen in de rede. Ik zette verward mijn helm af, inspecteerde vluchtig mijn fluovestje en bagage, toen pas begreep ik hun onrust. Ergens tussen Michnevo en Moskou was Gunther van de tandem gedonderd.

Bicycle

When, at the end of a long daytrip I cycled onto the Red Square utterly spent, it took little effort on my part to localise the welcoming committee. However, the expected cheer failed to arise. Nikita even abstained from uncorking the bottle of home-made vodka he had brought for the occasion. Konstantin, all teary-eyed, walked up to me with open arms. “What happened?” he enquired. “Muggers or terrorists?” Leonid suddenly interrupted. Somewhat confused, I took off my helmet, quickly inspected my fluorescent vest and backpack and only then did I realise the reason for their anxiety. Somewhere between Michnevo and Moscow, Gunther had fallen off the tandem.

  • Author: Geert Simonis
  • Translator: Willem Groenewegen
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Dutch (The Netherlands)

Opa

We moesten opschieten nu. Over drie weken moest het klaar zijn voor de eerste zomergasten. Ik had oma geholpen met de online advertentie. Het zag er gelikt uit, maar we wisten allebei dat we er nog niet waren. Eerst moesten we opa kwijt. Opa die al jaren niet meer de deur uit wilde en het tuinhuisje bezette met enkel zijn ouderdom. Oma zou dat deel op zich nemen. Terwijl ze op het erf naast het huisje de laatste hand legde aan de diepe kuil schreef ik de oneliner die onze gasten zou moeten aantrekken: “Great location for a short stay“.

Grandpa

We had to hurry now. In three weeks everything needed to be ready for the first summer guests. I had helped grandma with the online advertisement. It looked slick, but we both knew we were not quite there yet. First we had to lose grandpa. Grandpa, who had not wanted to leave the house in years and occupied the garden shed with just his old age. Grandma would take care of that part. While she put the last touches to the deep ditch on the lawn next to the shed, I wrote the one liner that would have to draw in our guests: “Great location for a short stay.”

  • Author: Jilly Naaijen
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English

Rip current

We used to meet outside the co-op, but not anymore because of that one time when Jay nearly saw us. So we went to the hidden beach where we kissed for the first time and you told me that I was the one who would get away, even though I was sitting right in front of you. We were walking and my hand brushed yours, but your fingers refused to wrap into mine.

“The weather is turning”, you said instead.
“I know”, I answered, and felt everything we had flooding out of me with the strength of a rip current.

  • Author: Kim Clarys
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Finnish

Tämän Maailman Ulkopuolelle

Olin kinastellut vuosikaudet professori Kurkelan kanssa siitä, onko tämän maailman ulkopuolella jokin toinen todellisuus. Minun mielestäni on, hänen mielestään ei. Tarvittiin koe. Onnistuin suunnittelemaan platonisen antivirtuaalikypärän. Sen tarkoitus oli kumota kaikille tuttu aivojen luoma virtuaalitodellisuus ja paljastaa mahdollinen platoninen maailma. Kutsuin Kurkelan paikalle todistamaan historiallista ensimmäistä koetta.

Laitoin kypärän päähäni.

Pelkkä musta tyhjyys, kaikkialla. Ja kaiken tuon pimeyden yläpuolella silmä, jättiläisplaneetan kokoinen. Tutkiva, kylmä, halveksiva, pahansuopa, vihamielinen silmä. Se tuijotti minua. Tunsin sen lukevan ajatukseni. Kammottavaa!

Tempaisin kypärän päästäni.

“Olit oikeassa, ei siellä mitään ole”, sanoin.

Kurkelan lähdettyä voitonriemuisena tuhosin keksintöni ja sen piirustukset.

Ihmisen ei ole hyvä tietää liikaa.

To beyond this world

I had argued with Professor Kurkela for years, whether there is another reality beyond our universe or not. I thought that there was, he disagreed with me. An experiment was needed. I succeeded to design a platonic anti-virtual helmet. Its purpose was to erase the virtual reality, produced by brains and familiar to all of us, and to reveal the platonic world there possibly was.

I called Kurkela to witness the historical first experiment.

I put the helmet on my head.

Plain pitch-black darkness, everywhere. And above all darkness: an eye.

Size of a giant planet. Investigative, cold, contemptuous, malevolent, hostile eye.

It stared at me. I felt it read my thoughts. Creepy!

I wrenched the helmet off my head.

“You were right, there’s nothing there”, I said.

After Kurkela had left triumphantly, I destroyed my creation and all the blueprints.

It is not good for human to know too much.

  • Author: Rami Bärman
  • Translator: Tomi Sirviö
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French

Comet

Dehors, Comète, les hordes éclatées. J’étale, tu plaques, elle guette. Une fenêtre s’ouvre, une portière claque, au loin, un hurlement, la sirène retentit. A l’orée verticale, je jette une cordée par-dessus bord. Les anoraks antiréflexifs bruissent au rythme des rafales qui bousculent les grues. La tôle se plie, vite, courir sur les toits de la ville. On détale le long des murs, dégringolades silencieuses. Défiant ceux qui nous emmurent, dans la poche clandestine, les maux accrochés la nuit, arrachés le jour, peu importe le prix, Comète, dehors, fuir les hordes sauvages.

Comet

Outside, Comet, hords have scattered off. I spread, you press down, she – on the look out.

A window opens, a car door slams, a scream, the siren goes off. At the vertical edge, I throw a rope. The anti-high-visibility anoraks rustle with the gusts that shake the cranes. The sheet metal roof top sags, must run and fast. We scurry off past the walls and silently tumble over. We are walled up, yet we stand up to them, in our secret hide away. Our pains, hung up at night, torn down in the daytime, whatever it costs, Comet, outside, fleeing the wild hords.

  • Author: Jade Samson-Kermarrec
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German

Jeden tag

Der Junge zupfte einen Spross aus der Erde. Niemand hatte es bemerkt; durch die endlosen Fensterfronten sah er die fahlen, zu Boden gerichteten Gesichter, von denen sich keines mehr hinaustraute – hinaus aus den grauen Bauten in die grüne Welt, die immer grauer wurde, weil sich niemand um sie kümmerte.

Eigentlich, dachte er, bräuchte er den Spross nicht zu verstecken; mehr als ein kleines Verbotsschild versuchte nicht, ihn vom Stehlen abzuhalten. “Wenn Pflanzen uns Geld geben würden …”, seufzte er. “… nicht nur Sauerstoff.” Mitsamt dem Spross eilte er nach Hause in den bewachsenen Hintergarten. So, wie jeden Tag.

Every day

The boy plucked a shoot from the earth. No-one had noticed; through the endless window façades he saw the wan faces, gazing toward the ground, of those who no longer dared to go out – out of the grey buildings into the green world, which was becoming ever greyer because no-one was caring for it.

Actually, he thought, he didn’t need to hide the shoot; nothing more than a small prohibition sign attempted to stop him stealing it. “If plants would give us money …”, he sighed, “… not only oxygen.” Complete with shoot, he hurried home through the overgrown back garden. Just like every day.

  • Author: Barbara Kobalt
  • Translator: Peter Waugh 
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Hebrew

מדוזה

היא סובבה את המפתח לכיוונה ושלפה אותו, חותכת את הפזמון השני של השיר. אפר נשבר
והתפזר על שוק רגלה ועל שטיח המכונית. היא קיללה והעיפה את הבדל מהחלון. בחצר הבית ניצבו אישה ואיש, שקועים בשיחה. היה משהו מטעה בזקנה שלהם. הם נראו שלווים, רכים, כמעט טובים.

בחוץ בער אוגוסט. היא העיפה מבט אל החלון שהיה חדרה ותהתה אם המיטה בה שכבה
יומיים, גוססת – עדיין שם. עשרים ושתים שנים עברו מאז שברחה. מוחקת כל סימן לעבר, זיכרון, רגש. תלתלי הזהב שלה התפתלו כמו שערות ראשה של מדוזה בזמן שהיא נעצה בהם מבט. היא פתחה את

הדלת, אחזה בתיק והתחילה לפסוע לכיוונם.

Medusa

She pulled the key out of the ignition, cutting the song short. Ash broke and scattered in the car. She threw the stub out the window, swearing. A couple stood outside, deep in conversation. There was something misleading about their old age. They seemed soft, almost good.

Outside, August was burning. She looked up at the window and wondered if the bed she lay in for days, dying, was still there. Its been twenty years since she left.
Her golden locks swirled like Medusa
s while she stared at the couple. She opened the door and started walking in their direction.

  • Author: Asaf Dvori 
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Portuguese

A Encarregada


Todas as manhãs, Albertina abre o portão mesmo que não venham visitas. Varre os trilhos entre os lotes, junta as folhas caídas numa pilha ao lado do barracão e abre latas de atum para os gatos do bairro.


Depois senta-se no banquinho de plástico ao guichê. com a sua revista das cusquices das celebridades. Para pretexto de conversa, não para ler.


Todas as manhãs, eles vêm, curiosos, espreitam por cima do ombro dela pelo postigo e sussurram-lhe, “o que há lá fora?”


“Nada”, responde Albertina enfastiada, sem levantar os olhos da revista. E, um a um, resignados, regressam às sepulturas.

The Caretaker

Every morning, Albertina opens the gate, even if no visitors come. She sweeps the trails between the lots, gathers fallen leaves in a pile next to the shed and opens cans of tuna for the neighborhood cats.

Then, she sits on the little plastic stool in the admission booth, with her celebrity gossip magazine. Just for the sake of conversation, not to read.

Every morning, they come, curious, lurking over her shoulder by the window and whispering to her: “What’s out there?”

“Nothing,” Albertina replies, annoyed, without lifting her eyes from the magazine. And one by one, resigned, they return to their graves.

  • Author: Sandra Henriques
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Spanish

Los locos

Sara nació entre los muros del manicomio. Los viejos le han contado que ahora son los locos quienes viven afuera, así que a veces Sara coge un tomate del huerto e intenta hacerlo llegar hasta el otro lado. Y lo consigue si el tomate es pequeño, pero ella sospecha que los locos solo se interesarán por él si es rojo y grande, que por eso afuera callan sin parar. Imagina el día en que oiga sus gritos de asombro, aunque de momento solo escucha las risas y burlas tras de sí al añadir una mancha al grueso muro de piedra.

The crazies

Sara was born within the lunatic asylum’s walls. The old people have told her that now the crazies live outside, so sometimes Sara picks a tomato from the orchard and tries to get it over the other side. She succeeds when the tomato is small, but she has a feeling that the crazies will only be interested if the tomato is big and red, which is why the people outside keep quiet all the time. She imagines the day when she will listen to their cries of amazement, but for the moment she only hears their laughter and taunts behind her back as she adds a stain to the thick stone wall.

  • Author: Asier Susaeta Diez de Baldeón
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Swedish

Akureyri

Den dagen hade det stått GO HOME på hans och polackernas skåp, skrivet med spritpenna. Han bytte om och började måla som ingenting, trots det vassa som rev inuti. Om någon hade frågat något skulle han ha gått sönder, där på en smutsig byggarbetsplats i Akureyri, men ingen gjorde det. Efteråt tog han vägen förbi en av de heta källorna. Det var då som himlen började vibrera och något grönskimrande, vilt, bröt sig ut. Tårarna rann, hela han ett med naturen. Det var inte vad någon annan velat, men det var så det kom sig att han stannade kvar.

Akureyri

That day someone had written GO HOME with a felt-tip pen on his and the other Poles’ cabinets. He changed into his overalls and started painting like nothing had happened, despite the sharpness that tore him apart from inside. If anyone had asked him anything, it would have broken him, there on a dirty construction site in Akureyri, but no one did.

Afterwards he took the road past one of the hot springs. It was then that the sky began to vibrate and something shimmering green, wild broke forward. His tears flowed, he was one with nature. It was not what anyone else would have wanted, but that was why he stayed.

  • Author: Sofie Gisslén
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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 July, 15, 2021.

EACWP Jury 2021

  • 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)
  • Rubén Abella (Escuela de Escritores)
  • Marie-Pascale Lescot (Aleph-Écriture)
  • Peter Waugh (Vienna Poetry School / sfd)
  • An Leenders (Creatief Schrijven)
  • Moran Levi Moses (Sadnaot Habait)
  • Frederike Luijten (ArtEZ)
  • Annemari Ahoste (Jyväskylä University)