Flash-Fiction EACWP Contest

2018 Winners per language

  • Catalan: Hypocrisy, by Josefina Maymó Puig
  • Danish: Roots, by Helle Perrier
  • Dutch (Belgium): The Jar, by Thomas Buysens
  • Dutch (The Netherlands): The Symposium, by Louis Bidder
  • English: I Don’t, by Damhnait Monaghan
  • Finnish: A Threshold, by Tarmo Ahvenainen
  • French: 6 m2 of love, by Leong Ho Shirley
  • German: Glass Bottom, by Dennis Mombauer
  • Hebrew: Kinetic energy, by סיון שיקנאג’י
  • Italian: High Water, by Beatrice Maffei
  • Portuguese: 6:00 a.m., by Daniel Henriques
  • Spanish: Daybreak in Paris, by Ángel Bravo Fernández
  • Swedish: The Entrance, by Camilla Bergman Mollung
  • Turkish: Untimely Wind, by Mehmet Ekinci

Catalan

Hipocresia

Setí a la pell bruna sota la lluna plena i a la mirada desig de futur. Albirà de lluny dotze estrelles daurades damunt d’un camp d’atzur i es llençà des de la pastera. Besà la sorra fina, ple d’agraïment el cor. Sobtadament, anaren davallant cadascuna de les dotze estrelles i l’encerclaren barrant-li el pas. Volgué acaronar-ne una. Ella respongué ferint-lo amb un dels seus braços esmolats. Dins la gàbia daurada fou transportat novament a la pastera. La lluna, replegada, anunciava dolor i deriva. I les estrelles tornaren a vestir màscara i disfressa, per lluir impol·lutes damunt d’un cel d’atzur.

Hypocrisy

Satin on his brown skin under the full moon and in his eyes a craving for the future.  He saw twelve golden stars in the distance over an azure field and he jumped from the dinghy.  He kissed the fine sand, his heart full of gratitude.  Suddenly, every one of the twelve stars descended and encircled him to block his way.  He tried to caress one.  The star responded by wounding him with one of its sharp arms.  In the golden cage he was taken back to the boat.  The moon, withdrawn, proclaimed grief and drifting.  And the stars dressed again in mask and disguise to shine spotless over the azure sky.

  • Author: Josefina Maymó Puig
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Danish

Rødder

Vi slog rødder lige midt i Valby. Pludselig stod vi, sad vi, lå vi, var vi bare. De uheldige slog rødder i biler, busser eller fly og kørte ind i hinanden eller et træ eller faldt ned, ned, ned. Jeg slog rod midt på sportspladsen midt i en helflugter, og dér blev jeg stående og så bolden sejle i mål bag Morten, der ikke længere kunne nå.

Roots

We put roots down bang in the middle of Valby. All of a sudden we were just there, standing, sitting, lying about. The unlucky ones put roots down in cars, buses or planes and crashed into each other or into a tree, or fell, fell, fell. I put roots down in the middle of the playing fields in mid-volley, and there I stood and saw the ball sail into the goal behind Morten, who could no longer reach.

  • Author: Helle Perrier
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Dutch (Belgium)

De kruik

Toen we na middernacht terugkwamen van de luchthaven, wilde Dagmar me nog iets laten zien, een goocheltruc die ze in Korinthe had geleerd. Ik moest in het midden van haar kille kamertje gaan staan. “Ik kan mezelf transformeren in een kruik,” zei ze. “Doe je ogen dicht en tel tot zeven.” Ik deed wat ze me vroeg. Toen ik weer opkeek, was ze verdwenen. Op de tafel voor mij stond inderdaad een kruik, met sluiers en dansende nimfen beschilderd. De truc is zo simpel en fijn dat ik hem weiger uit te leggen, teneinde de magie niet te verbreken.

The Jar

It was after midnight when we got back from the airport, but Dagmar still had something she wanted to show me, a magic trick she had picked up in Corinth. She made me stand in the middle of her cold little room. “I can transform myself into a jar,” she said. “Close your eyes and count to seven.” I did as she asked. When I looked up again, she had vanished. And there it was, a jar standing on the table in front of me, painted with veils and dancing nymphs. The trick was both so simple and fine that I refuse to explain it, so as not to break the spell.

  • Author: Thomas Buysens
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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
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English

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
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Finnish

Kynnys

Tuijotin elokuista Kymijoen suistoa seisoen kelluvalla mattolaiturilla.   Laituri. Uskomus, ettei mäntysuopa saastuta. Tunne, että Tuiskun lapsuus olisi pysyvä tila.  Laiturilla oli Tuiskun kanssa käyty mattopyykillä. Pienenä Tuiskun paikka oli turvallisesti pesupöytien välissä, eväskorin vieressä. Kymmenvuotiaana hän sai polskia kellukkeilla näköetäisyydellä. Kun Tuisku oli kolmentoista, hävisin jäätelön vedonlyönnissä siitä, tarttuisiko Venäjän metsäpalojen imelä savunhaju mattoon.  Nyt alkukesästä Tuisku sukelsi mattolaiturilta karanneen kynnysmaton takaisin. Sitä juhlittiin oluilla.  Kaupungin kuorma-auto peruutti rantaan. Neonhaalariset kiinnittivät koukut laituriin poisviemistä varten. Lähelle, kuivalle maalle, oli rakennettu uusi matonpesupaikka korvaamaan laituri. Muuttokuormasta kipeytynyttä selkääni varoen hypähdin laiturilta kuivalle maalle. Tuisku muutti sisämaan yliopistokaupunkiin.  Tästä alkoi kuiva kausi.

A threshold

In August I was staring at the Kymi river delta, standing on a floating rug washing dock. The dock. The belief that soft pine soap does not pollute. The feeling that Tuisku´s childhood would be a permanent condition. We had washed rugs on the dock with Tuisku. When he was small, Tuisku´s place was safely in between the washing tables, beside the picnic basket. Being ten years old he was allowed to splash with the floating devices within sight. When Tuisku was thirteen, I lost an ice cream betting on if the sweet smell of smoke coming from the Russia´s forest fires would stick into the rug. Now in the early summer Tuisku dived from the rug washing dock to get back the runaway doormat. That was celebrated by having beers. The city´s truck backed up to the strand. The guys with neon overalls fastened the hooks to the dock in order to take it away. They had built a new place for washing rugs nearby, on the dry land, to replace the dock. Minding my aching back that I got loading the removal van, I jumped from the dock onto the dry land. Tuisku moved to a university city into inner land. From this on the dry season began.

  • Author: Tarmo Ahvenainen
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French

6 m2 d’amour

Décembre 1992 à Vilnius. Une pièce, deux mètres sur trois avec fenêtre donnant sur la lune. Une porte close, loquet intérieur et cadenas extérieur accroché à une chaîne. Draps froissés, robinet qui goutte, deux mégots à peine éteints, la cellule est désertée, précipitamment. Les cliquetis de la chaîne résonnent encore dans l’escalier de service. Les pas aussi, recouverts par d’autres, despotiques. Cadenas forcé, porte ébranlée, ampoule allumée, lieux inspectés. Peu à voir. Du rouge sur un mégot, odeur de plaisir flottant encore. Le jeune homme aux lèvres badigeonnées de rouge passion, rêve de ne plus avoir à fuir. L’amant aussi.

6 m2 of love

December 1992 in Vilnius. A room, two meters by three with window facing the moon. A door closed by a bar inside and a padlock outside, hooked on a chain. Creased sheets, dripping tap, two cigarette butts barely extinguished, the cell hastily deserted. The clatter of the chain still resonates in the service staircase. The steps too, covered by others, despotic. Forced padlock, door shut, lighted bulb, inspected places. Little to see. Red on a cigarette butt, smell of pleasure still floating. The young man with lips brushed with passion red dreams of not having to flee any more. The lover too.

  • Author: Leong Ho Shirley
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German

glasboden

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
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Hebrew

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: סיון שיקנאג’י
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Italian

Acqua alta

La ragazza aveva pianto tanto che l’acqua era diventata alta a Venezia e i turisti invece di entrare a San Marco erano in fila, ognuno portando secchi per svuotare la città dalle sue lacrime. Tutti passavano davanti alla ragazza inconsolabile e al suo cuore spezzato. Chiuse la fila un ragazzo che teneva le lacrime con le sole mani. -Sono tornato, piangevi così tanto.- A Venezia tornò il bello e l’oro, la folla per le calle, i piccioni grassi al sole beccavano il pane. La ragazza e il ragazzo insieme, nella loro gondola sott’acqua.

High Water

The girl had cried so much that high water flooded Venice, the tourists instead of entering San Marco were lined up, carrying small buckets to empty the city from her tears. Everyone moving before the inconsolable girl and her broken heart. The boy holding her tears with his hands closed the line. “I’m back, you cried so much.” In Venice the beauty and the gold returned, crowd in the streets, fat pigeons in the sun pecking the bread. The girl and the boy together in their gondola, underwater.

  • Author: Beatrice Maffei
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Portuguese

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
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Spanish

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
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Swedish

Ingången

Jag har varit på väg in så många gånger. Det där varma gula lockande ljuset, som en sanningens innersta färg. Så vill hon att vi ska ses just där.   Men nu. Isvitt sken från takets armaturer rasar ner över lokalen. Inget av det andra, det jag ville möta. Och det måste vara hon där borta på änden. Rött svallande hår når diskens mörka yta. Stövletternas vassa klackar vilar på pallens fotstöd.  Jag tar ett steg bakåt, ut på trottoaren igen, ska precis fortsätta gå när blicken dras mot diskens andra ände. På den zinkvita väggen bakom.  En gul dörr.

The entrance

I have been on my way inside so many times. That warm yellow alluring light, as the innermost color of truth. She wants us to meet right there. But now. Icy white shine from the ceiling luminaires rages down the room. Nothing of the other, of what I wanted to see. It must be her over there at the end. Red swallowing hair reaches the dark surface of the countertop. The sharp heels of her low boots rest on the footrest of the stool. I take a step back, out on the sidewalk. I should just walk when my eyes are drawn toward the other end of the countertop. On the zinc-white wall behind it. A yellow door.

  • Author: Camilla Bergman Mollung
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Turkish

Zamansız Rüzgar

Kuru ve soğuk kış rüzgârı yıllar önce unutamadığım güzel bir anıyı buz gibi havasıyla yüzüme çarpıyordu. Unutamazsın diyordu sanki oysaki acıydı tadı, yüzüm kulaklarım kızarmıştı. Traunstein dağının engebeli ve dik yokuşunu küçük adımlarla artık çıkıyordum, arkamda bütün ihtişamıyla Traunsee gölü bir çarşaf gibi dik yamaçların ortasına serilmişti, berraktı rengi aşk gibi.Bana bir şans tanıyan bir aşık ve bunu yıllar sonra ciddiye alan bir çaresizdim artık.Geri dönemezdim;çok geçti kalbim acı içindeydi.sadece hayalini kurabiliyor ve şiir yazabiliyordum beni terk eden Natalie’ye.Kulaklarımda halen titreyen sesinin melodileri.Geri dönse göremediğim güzelliğiyle.

Untimely wind

The ice cold and dry wind hitting against my face was reminding me of a beautiful memory. As if it was telling me that I could never forget that memory. Yet, it tasted bitter, my face and ears turned red. I was climbing the steep and rough Traunstein Mountain with firm steps; I left behind the magnificent Traunsee’s slope that spread out like a sheet. The color was pure white like love. I was a coward who refuted a lover, when she had given me a chance so many years ago. Now I’m helplessly wishing for a second chance. I can’t go back, it’s too late, my heart ached. All i could do was dream of her, and write poetry to her, to Natalie. I can still remember her melodies voice, if she would return i would appreciate all her glory.

  • Author: Mehmet Ekinci
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International Jury and Voting System

In this second and last round of our Flash Fiction Contest, 14 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, 2018.

EACWP Jury 2018

  • Ana Guerberof (Escola d’escriptura del Ateneu Barcelonès)
  • Andrea Holland (University of East Anglia)
  • Conceição Garcia (Escrever Escrever)
  • Ílknur Tatar (Ondokuz Mayis University)
  • 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)
  • Paolo Restuccia (Scuola Omero)
  • Vesa Lahti (Jyväskylä University)
  • Xavier Roelens (Creatief Schrijven)
  • Yoram Tolub (Sadnaot Habait)