Winners Flash-Fiction EACWP Contest

Winners per language 2019

  • Catalan: Unavailable, by Iñaki Iglesias Cancio
  • Danish: Seventies idyll, by Heidi Bobjerg
  • Dutch (Belgium): Enyoy your meal, by Johnny Nys
  • Dutch (The Netherlands): (click), by Marc van der Holst
  • English: The English Way, by Amanda Addison
  • Finnish: A small boy, by Saila Korhonen
  • French: Here, by Valérie Thierry
  • German: The Crows, by Karl Kreiner
  • Hebrew: Summits, by Dina Mukmal – Fridman / דינה מקמל – פרידמן
  • Norwegian: Not at home, by Kine Merete Svisdal
  • Portuguese: Taxi, by Pedro Alves
  • Spanish: Dopey, by Alex Merino
  • Swedish: I Think About Myself, by Åsa Wintoft


No disponible

“Torna a trucar”, va dir una veu femenina plena de preocupació. “Si us plau”.

“Ja ho hem provat, no responen”, va respondre una altra veu de dona, amb un to lleugerament més oficial, més solemne. “No són a casa”.

La televisió sonava de fons, anunciant les notícies del dia i omplint els silencis de la conversa.

“He dit que tornis a trucar”, digué, i amb un fort cop va fer tremolar la taula. “¡Ara!”.

“D’acord…”, respongué l’altra veu. Marcà el prefix estranger al telèfon.

A cada to, la dona plorava.

I de fons, a les notícies, una ciutat cremava.


“Call again”, said a worried female voice. “Please”.

“We’ve tried already but they don’t answer”, replied another female voice, with a slightly more official, more solemn tone. “They are not at home”.

The television sounded in the background, announcing the daily news and filling the silences of the conversation.

“I told you to call again!”, said the woman banging on the table so that it began to shake. “Now!”

“Okay…”, replied the other woman. She dialled the international code number.

To each ring tone, the woman wept.

And in the background, in the news, a city was burning.

  • Author: Iñaki Iglesias Cancio
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I provinsen i 70’erne er der altid nogen hjemme et eller andet sted. Mor drikker kaffe hos nabokonen, jeg cykler af sted på min røde trehjuler. Helt hen til købmanden. Alene.

Han kigger på mig over sine sjove halvbriller og stikker mig en slikkepind uden beregning. Jeg smiler tilbage og følger med ham ind i baglokalet.

Der er ingen pædofile i 70’erne, det er ikke et tema. På købmandens væg hænger en pinup. Jeg studerer benovet hendes store babser og pelsede tissekone.

Jeg er fire år, købmanden aer mig på kinden og ringer efter mor.

Hun er ikke hjemme.

Seventies idyll

In the provinces in the seventies there’s always someone home somewhere. Mum’s over for coffee at the neighbour’s. I pedal off on my red trike. All the way to the shop. On my own.

The shopkeeper peers at me over his funny half-glasses and hands me a lolly, no charge. I smile in return and follow him into the back room.

There aren’t any paedophiles in the seventies, it’s not a thing. There’s a girlie picture on the shopkeeper’s wall. Sheepishly, I study her big bosoms and hairy lady parts.

I’m four years old. The shopkeeper smoothes my cheek and phones for my mum.

She’s not in.

  • Author: Heidi Bobjerg
  • Translator: Martin Aitken
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Dutch (Belgium)


Het koppel zit in het restaurant. De jongen haalt een ring uit zijn broekzak. Hij reikt naar

haar hand, plaatst de ring om haar vinger. Hij stelt de vraag. Ze knikt. Gejuich alom.

Daar komt de maître met een nieuwe fles wijn.

“Het diner is van het huis,” zegt hij, en scheurt hun rekening stuk.

Ze drinken hun wijn en verlaten hand in hand het restaurant.

Buiten trekt het meisje de ring van haar vinger. De jongen laat hem lachend in zijn jaszak vallen.

“Tot morgen!”

“Chez Maurice?” vraagt het meisje.

Hij knikt. Ze verdwijnen in de nacht.

Enjoy your meal

A couple is sitting at a table in the restaurant. The young man takes a ring from his trouser pocket. He reaches for her hand and slips the ring on her finger. He pops the question. She nods. Cheers all round.

There is the maître-d’ with a fresh bottle of wine.

“Your dinner is on the house,” he says and rips up their bill.

They drink their wine and leave the restaurant holding hands.

Outside, the girl pulls the ring from her finger. The young man laughs and drops it in his coat pocket.

“See you tomorrow!”

“Chez Maurice?” the girl asks.

He nods. They disappear into the night.

  • Author: Johnny Nys
  • Translator: Willem Groenewegen
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Dutch (The Netherlands)


Ik heb alle klokken het raam uitgegooid en hou met het klikken van mijn balpen de tijd bij (klik). Ik maak aantekeningen voor een roman in schaakzetten (klik). Buiten: een zacht schommelende schommel, hoewel het niet waait (klik). Binnen: een drieliterpak rode wijn en twee glazen, alsof ik nog iemand verwacht (klik). Buiten: een berg kapotte klokken onder het raam (klik). Ik ben vergeten wie er aan zet is (klik). Ik ken honderd woorden voor eenzaamheid (klik). Totdat de deurbel gaat, ben ik zowel wel als niet thuis (klik).


I’ve thrown every clock out of the window and keep track of time by clicking my ballpoint pen (click). I’m taking notes for a novel written in chess moves (click). Outside: a slowly swinging swing, even though there’s no wind (click). Inside: three litres of boxed red wine and two glasses, as if I’m expecting someone (click). Outside: a pile of broken clocks beneath the window (click). I’ve forgotten whose move it is (click). I know a hundred words for loneliness (click). Until the doorbell rings, I’m both at home and not at home at the same time (click).

  • Author: Marc van der Holst
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The English Way

Out of habit, rather than cold, she wraps a beige Marks & Spencer’s cardigan over her colourful shirt. Back in the early 60s, the city’s cold and rain – and the loneliness – had almost driven her crazy. This gated house in Wilmslow, with footballers’ wives for neighbours, is climatically controlled and never drops below 25 degrees – a spring day in Lahore.

Maryam lays out a platter of deep-fried savoury snacks on a silver tray for her grandson. She stops herself from spooning sugar into the tea. He drinks it the English way: no sugar and a dash of milk.

  • Author: Amanda Addison
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Pieni poika

Yli viisikymmentä vuotta – maailmalla, poissa kotoa. Vain kerran kävin, äidin hautajaisissa.

Ovi aukeaa nykäisemällä. Näin pienikö tämä tupa oli ja hämärä? Hiiret ovat tanssineet häitään harmaalla pölymatolla pitsiverhot huntunaan. Ei tee mieli koskea mihinkään.

Katolta valunut vesi ruskeina vanoina tapetissa, särkyneitä tiiliä lattialla ja leivinuuni irvistää kuin hampaaton suu. Kurkkua kuristaa, pöly tukkii hengityksen, on päästävä ulos, saatava raitista ilmaa.

Seison kuistin portailla, pahoin lahonneilla. Ne olisi pitänyt korjata kauan sitten. Niin asioille pitäisitehdä – korjata ajoissa, eikä yrittää sitten, kun on liian myöhäistä.

Vanha taivas tuli esiin pilven takaa. Pieni poika istui harmaan mökin portailla, peitti silmänsä ja itki.

A small boy

More than fifty years – abroad, away from home. Only once I was here, at mother´s funeral.

The door opens with a twitch. Was this room so small and obscure? The mice have been dancing their weddings on the grey dust carpet with lace curtains as their veils. I do not feel like to touch anything.

The water dripping from the roof as brown trails on wallpapers, broken tiles on the floor and the baking oven grinning like a toothless mouth. My throat is choking, the dust is blocking my breathing, have to get out, to get fresh air.

I am standing on the badly rotten steps of the porch. They should have been repaired long ago. That is the way things should be done – to fix in time, and not to try when it is too late.

The old sky came forth behind the cloud. A small boy was sitting on the steps of the grey cottage, covered his eyes and was crying.

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



Alors, il était reparti dans la nuit humide. Les rues désertes étaient jonchées de détritus. Depuis hier, le vent soufflait fort, les cargos étaient à l’arrêt. Le trafic ne reprendrait que plus tard, sporadique. Et comme toujours sous contrôle. De part et d’autre, quelques lampadaires. Une lumière sombre rasant le bitume. Son regard attrapa quelque chose, là, sur le sol. Un petit panneau de bois peint qu’il ramassa. Rouge, vert, blanc, façonné de style faussement rustique : « Home sweet home ». Il frôla de ses doigts ces quelques lettres gravées. Puis glissa dans sa poche cette mince promesse.


Then he was gone again in the damp night. The deserted streets were littered with garbage. Since the day before, the wind blew hard, the cargo ships were at rest. The traffic would resume later, sparsely. And as always under control. On both sides, a few lamp posts. A dark light embracing the concrete. His eyes caught something, there, on the ground. A little painted wood panel that he picked up. Red, green, white, manufactured in a pseudo-rustic-style: “Home sweet home”. He ran his fingers on these few engraved letters. Then he slipped the thin promise in his pocket.

  • Author:  Valérie Thierry
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Die Krähen

Zwei englische Friedhofskrähen diskutieren auf einer Mauer die Beschaffenheit von Hoch- und Tiefnebel. Sie haben sich, wie unter Krähen üblich, in Rage geredet:

Der Nebel ist hoch.

Nay, der Nebel ist tief.

Unter ihnen setzen zwei Frauen Trauerblumen an den Gräbern ihrer Männer.
Sie sagen einander:

Hier bist du zuhause.

Nay, hier bist du zuhause.

Die Krähen picken an einer Nuss.

Die Frauen an den Blumen.

Niemand weiß, was an diesem Tag tatsächlich gesprochen und:

ob etwas entschieden wurde.

The Crows

On a wall, two English cemetery crows are debating the nature of high and low fog. As is usual among crows, they have talked themselves into a rage:

The fog is high.

Nay, the fog is low.

Below them, two women place flowers of remembrance upon their husbands’ graves.
They say to each other:

You’re at home here.

Nay, you’re at home here.

The crows peck at a nut.

The women pick at the flowers.

No-one knows what was really said on this day, nor

whether anything was resolved.

  • Author: Karl Kreiner
  • Translator: Peter Waugh
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ג’וליה לא מפחדת מאפרול שפריץ. בשבוע שעבר חגגה שבע עשרה עם מטפס הרים מקריח בן ארבעים ושלוש

מפירנצה, אחרי שהשקתה את עצמה בבר בקומה העליונה של מלון הבוטיק היחיד בסנט יוהאן. משם, אפשר

להשיט את התודעה בקו ישיר עד לחידודי ההרים הלבנים. גם בלילה הכי שחור, הם עדיין בהירים יותר מהקצפת

שיוצקת אמה על צלחות מעוטרות ורדים מתפוררים במסעדה המשפחתית. כששכבה עירומה וסדין מלון קר על

גופה, סיפר לה האיטלקי על המטפס הכי מקצועי באלפים. מחר, יוכל לפגוש אותו, חייך מנצנץ. אל תטרח,

חשבה. שבע עשרה שנים אני מחכה לפגוש בעצמי את אבי. אבל שתקה. כל אחד והפסגה שלו.


Julia isn’t afraid of Aperol-Spritz.

Last week, she celebrated her 17th birthday with a bold 43-year-old Florentine alpinist, after drinking at St. Johan’s only boutique hotel’s rooftop bar.

Here, one’s consciousness can float straight towards the white sharp peaks.

Even in the darkest night, they’re brighter than her mother’s cream on the crumbling rose patterned plates at the family restaurant.

Lying naked under cold hotel sheets, she listened to the Italian’s plan to meet the Alps’ premier climber tomorrow. His smile sparked. Don’t bother, she thought, 17 years I’ve been waiting to meet my father.

But kept silent.

For each, their own summit.

  • Author: Dina Mukmal – Fridman / דינה מקמל – פרידמן
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Ikke hjemme

Hun lette i helgene, feriene og ukedagene. Hun lette i musikk. I ansikter. I øynene til noen hun håpet at skulle realisere visjoner. Drømmer. Hun lette i tanker. Hun lette i kjente. I ukjente. I andres kropper. For der å finne bare mer ensomhet. Mer bekreftelse på at hun ikke var bra nok. Hun lette under dyna. Dedagene kroppen ble for tung, hjertet lå utenpå brystet, og øynene var for våte til å møte blikk. Hun prøvde å lete i de innerste kroker av seg selv. For bare å finne ut. Hun var ikke hjemme.

Not at home

She searched through weekends, holidays and weekdays. She searched in music. Within the eyes of someone she hoped would realise visions. Dreams. She searched through thoughts. Through those she knew. And did not know. Their bodies too. Only to find more loneliness. Confirming that she was not good enough. She searched down under her blankets, on days that her body was too heavy, her heart outside her chest, her eyes too wet to meet another look. She tried to search the inner corners of herself. Only to find: She was not at home.

  • Author: Kine Merete Svisdal
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Aproveitou o raro final de tarde sem preocupações e apanhou um táxi sem destino traçado.

Queria percorrer a cidade, olhá-la apenas com os olhos de quem é conduzido, gozando o efeito difuso da paisagem nos vidros molhados pela chuva.

Viu as ruas velhas e os prédios modernos e percebeu a propalada harmonia que tantos e tantos arquitetos apregoam. O “rush” da cidade transformado em calma.

Uma hora depois pediu para parar e deu ao motorista a única nota que tinha no bolso – sem pedir troco. E foi aninhar-se debaixo da ponte que todas as noites lhe servia de abrigo.


He took advantage of the rare careless end of the afternoon and picked up a taxi without destination.

He wanted to go across the city, to look at it only with the eyes of someone who is driven, enjoying the diffuse effect of the landscape on the windows wet with rain.

He saw the old streets and the modern buildings and realized the proclaimed harmony that so many architects preach. The city’s ‘rush’ turned into calm.

An hour later, he asked to stop and gave the driver the only note he had in his pocket – without asking for change. And he went to nestle under the bridge that, every night, served as his shelter.

  • Author: Pedro Alves
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En cuanto aterrizó la nave, los alienígenas salieron en estampida. La policía no pudo apresarlos a todos y algunos lograron huir. Como Bobo, que ahora vive en mi sótano. Llegó hace dos meses, todo verde y famélico, apestando a vertedero espacial. Le di una cama, ropa limpia y hasta su bonito nuevo nombre. Le enseñé a cocinar, limpiar, planchar y cortar el césped, le introduje a mi Dios y le enseñé mi idioma. Todavía no lo domina, confunde las palabras “socorro” y “gracias”. Si se porta bien, le seguiré enseñando pacientemente, como haría cualquier buena persona.


The moment the spaceship touched down, the aliens stampeded out. The police couldn’t catch them all, and some managed to escape. Bobo, for example, who lives in my basement now. He arrived two months ago, all green and starving, stinking like a rubbish dump from outer space. I gave him a bed, clean clothes and even his sweet new name. I taught him to cook, clean, iron and cut the grass, I introduced him to my god and I taught him my language. He hasn’t got it quite right yet and mixes up the words “save me” and “thank you”. If he behaves himself, I’ll carry on teaching him, patiently, like any right-thinking person would.

  • Author: Alex Merino
  • Translator: Henrietta Fielden
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just for one text but not for the text from your own country) 


Jag tänker på mig själv

Det finns en berättelse om två flickor. Den ena är som jag, den andra är som jag. Den ena är för mycket, allting sväller ut på henne. Så som den blir som inte håller hårt i sig själv. Hon som inte tänker på vad hon låter komma in i sig, för henne går det illa. Den andra är för lite, är tyst och tom. Det är att vara fri. Jag behöver inte det de säger att jag måste. Jag får inte ha det i mig. Inte det sockersöta, inte orden. De är feta, fulla av smak. De måste vara tomma.

I Think About Myself

There is a story about two girls. One is like me, the other is like me. One of them is too much, everything swells on her. As she does, who does not keep a tight control over herself. She, who does not think about what she lets enter her, things go bad for her. The other one is not enough, she is quiet and empty. It means being free. I don’t need what they say I have to. I can’t have it inside me. Not the sugar sweet, not the words. They are fatty, full of flavours. They must be empty.

  • Author: Åsa Wintoft
  • Do you like it? Vote for it here (you can vote just for one text but not for 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 regard 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 like that:

  • 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, 2019.

EACWP Jury 2019

  • Ana Guerberof (Escola d’escriptura del Ateneu Barcelonès)
  • Andrea Holland (University of East Anglia)
  • Conceição Garcia (Escrever Escrever)
  • David Troch (Creatief Schrijven)
  • Hans Tajei Skaare (Nansenskolen)
  • Magnus Eriksson (Linnaeus University)
  • Maja Lucas (University of Southern Denmark)
  • Mariana Torres (Escuela de Escritores)
  • Marie-Pascale Lescot (Aleph-Écriture)
  • Monique Warnier (ArtEZ)
  • Peter Waugh (Vienna Poetry School / sfd)
  • Yotam Shwimmer (Sadnaot Habait)
  • Vesa Lahti (Jyväskylä University)