Flash Fiction Contest | European Winner 2018

After an exciting and tight competition, our EACWP Jury has finally come to a consensus for the final results of the first edition of our Flash Fiction Contest. Five authors from Israel, Spain, Germany, The Netherlands and UK were our 2018 European finalists

Considering the highly responsive participation of 1885 texts received from the 15th of January to the 1st March, the EACWP 2018 Jury is delighted to officially announce the final results of the first edition of our  Flash Fiction Contest.

Taking Eurovision’s voting system as a model, five European authors have reached the final stretch to the honour roll: one final winner and four finalists.

With 95 points, the 2018 winning text of is the one entitled “Kinetic energy” by Sivan Shiknagy from Ramat Gan (Israel). You can review the full contest results here.

On behalf of the EACWP family, we would like to thoroughly congratulate Shiva for her commendable merit as well as the four European finalists and all the participant authors. Ultimately, we would also like to deeply thank the valuable and voluntary work of the jury, the translators and the different participating institutions for their engagement over the full process of the contest. Thank you all for heeding the call and for accepting the challenge of continuing to  dream and to write Europe!

See you in our next edition!

Winning Flash Fiction Text 2018


אנרגיה קינטית

4863ק”מ מכאן יש בחור, קוראים לו רוּפּרט, הוא נהג רכבת בלונדון. את רוב היום הוא מבלה במהירות 150 קמ”ש. פעם קרא בעיתון שהאוויר בתחתית דחוס פי 20. באותה שנה התחתן עם בחורה בשם לנֹורה. לפני שהתקבל לעבודה מילא טופס עם שאלות כמו “האם לפעמים יש לך מחשבות אובדניות?” ובאמת, כל כמה שבועות, מישהי קופצת לו לפסים. תמיד מישהי. “ליידיס קילר” קוראים לו החברים וזה מצחיק כי זה דו משמעי. אחרי שהרכבת עוצרת יש כמה שניות שהמוח עוד מרגיש בנסיעה ולפעמים רופרט מפחד לבדוק אם זה מתאבד או מתאבדת על הפסים שלו, או אם לנורה עדיין אוהבת אותו.

Kinetic energy

3022 miles from here there’s this guy, his name is Rupert, he drives a train in London. He spends most of the day at 93 miles per hour. He once read in the paper that the air in the subway is 20 times denser. That same year, he married a girl named Lenora. Before he got this job, he was asked to fill a form with questions like “do you ever have suicidal thoughts?” and actually, every other week, some woman jumps on the tracks right in front of him. Always a she. “Lady Killer” his friends call him, and it’s funny because it has a double meaning. After the train stops, there’s a few seconds where the brain still feels like it’s moving and sometimes Rupert is afraid to check if it’s a he or a she on his tracks, or if Lenora still loves him.

  • Author: Sivan Shiknagy 

Finalists’ Texts 2018

First finalist


Amanece en París 

Cuando finalmente puse en marcha el Gran Colisionador de Hadrones, cerca de Ginebra, ni provoqué el colapso del tiempo y el espacio, ni desencadené la formación de ningún agujero negro; tampoco abrí la puerta a otra dimensión. Pero, desde que regresé a París, sufro cada noche la misma pesadilla. Con esa certeza que tienen los sueños, veo, desde mi casa, alzarse a orillas del Sena una gigantesca torre de hierro de un tal Gustave Eiffel. Y cada mañana, cuando despierto, me asomo por la ventana y compruebo aliviado que el altar de Shiva continúa en su lugar junto al río.

Daybreak in Paris

When I finally set up the Large Hadron Collider, outside Geneva, I didn’t trigger the collapse of time and space, nor unleash the formation of a black hole; I didn’t even open the door to another dimension. But, since I’ve been back in Paris, I have had the same nightmare every night. With the certainty of dreams, I see a giant iron tower by some Gustave Eiffel guy rise up by the banks of the Seine. Every morning, when I wake up, I lean out of the window and note with relief that the altar of Shiva remains on its spot, next to the river.

  • Author: Ángel Bravo Fernández

Second finalist



Die heimatlosen toten betrachteten den sonnenaufgang von unter dem ozean, das licht verzerrt und gedämpft durch die salzsatten fluten. Strandkörbe reihten sich aneinander wie perlentaue, surfer glitten mit shorts und nacktem oberkörper über die wellen. Das wasser war glasklar, die toten gut sichtbar zwischen sich wiegendem seetang. Eine fähre tuckerte aus dem hafenbecken, containerschiffe verdunkelten den horizont wie künstliche inseln. “Sieh mal, ist das nicht miran?” Ein junge zerrte am arm der mutter, zeigte mit dem finger über die mole hinaus. “Nein, der sieht ihm nur ähnlich. Miran ist bei seinen eltern, den triffst du morgen in der schule.”

Glass bottom

The dead waifs viewed the sunset from under the ocean, the light blurred and subdued by the salt-glutted tide. Beach chairs stood aligned in rows like beaded ropes, bare-chested surfers in shorts glided over the waves. The water was clear as glass and the dead were easily visible between the swaying seaweed. A ferry chugged out of the harbour basin, container ships darkened the horizon like artificial islands. “Oh look, isn’t that miran?” a boy tugged at his mother’s arm, his finger pointing beyond the breakwater. “No, it just looks like him. Miran is at home with his parents, you’ll see him tomorrow at school.”

  • Author: Dennis Mombauer

Third finalist

Dutch (The Netherlands)

Het symposium         

Uit Zweden kwam de hazelworm. Nederland zond een stekelbaars, Frankrijk natuurlijk een pad. Alleen de voorzitter was maar een mens, die moest dan de boel in goede banen leiden. Alle deelnemers hadden een pas met de vlag van hun land erop aan een koord rond hun nek als ze die hadden. De eerste dag deden ze spelletjes om elkaar beter te leren kennen. De tweede dag was de voorzitter ziek en gingen ze allemaal maar wat rondhangen. De derde dag moesten de pony en de meerkoet naar huis. Toch was men het erover eens dat er belangrijke stappen waren gezet.

The Symposium                    

From Sweden came the blindworm. The Netherlands sent a stickleback. France, of course, a toad. The chairman was the only human, he was supposed to channel the whole thing. All participants had a corded badge with their country’s flag on it around their necks, if they had a neck. The first day they played games to get to know each other better. The second day the chairman had fallen ill and they all just hung around. The third day the pony and the coot had to go home. Still they all agreed important steps had been taken.

  • Author: Louis Bidder

Fourth finalist


I Don’t

I sit outside at the little round table on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and sip my café crème. A man walks by, baguette tucked up under his arm like a newspaper. The waiter lounges against the open door; his plain white apron a distant cousin to the frothy wedding dress still wreathed in plastic in my closet back home. The spring sun is weak, but contentment is a warm shawl.

  • Author: Damhnait Monaghan

Finalist for the popular vote


6:00 a.m.

Um surfista entra no mar da Nazaré. Uma criança atravessa a estrada de mão dada em Bucareste. Um ciclista desce a Côte de la Croix Neuve. Um viajante espera um autocarro em Assis. Um namorado chega a casa em Berlim. Um padeiro acende um fósforo em Madrid.  Um engravatado conduz um carro na Westminster bridge. Um padre ajoelha-se perto de Cracóvia. Num barco um refugiado navega ao largo de Creta. Dois amigos abraçam-se no centro de Split. Um homem beija uma mulher em Veneza. Um escritor português estica as costas e escreve num papel: fim.

6:00 a.m.

A surfer enters the sea of Nazaré. A child led by hand crosses the road in Bucharest. A cyclist goes down the Côte de la Croix-Neuve. A traveller waits for a bus in Assisi. A boyfriend arrives home in Berlin. A baker strikes a match in Madrid. A man in a suit drives a car on Westminster Bridge. A priest kneels near Krakow. In a boat, a refugee sails off Crete. Two friends hug each other in the centre of Split. A man kisses a woman in Venice. A Portuguese writer stretches his back and writes on a piece of paper: the end.

  • Author: Daniel Henriques