'More than enough' by Birgit K. Gaiser

“Turn left.” 

Liv obliged. Magnus, her best friend, tucked a blonde curl into just the right position and applied a touch of lacquer.

“Can we stop? Am I pretty enough.”

“Darling, you’d be pretty enough naked, unkempt and without any product whatsoever. You know I only want what’s best for you.”

“Then let’s go, or I’ll explode!”



“You look beautiful. She’d be proud.” Milena wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“I’m glad you could use the veil.”

“And the necklace!” Velika pointed towards the string of white beads around her neck.

“Oh my! She must’ve hidden that from –“ Milena stopped herself. “No, not today.”

“Don’t worry. I know about dad and the family money. And in case I never said it: thank you for taking me in without getting anything for it.”

“I got your love,” Milena said. “That’s always been more than enough.”



“Now that we’re married, are you finally going to tell me about the cake?”

“No, you’ll find out.”

“Don’t make me divorce you after just an hour, Liv!”

“I believe that would technically still be an annulment.”

“Sometimes I do wonder why I said yes.”

“So do I, my love. So do I.”



The wedding cake was glorious. Not the usual dry fruit cake covered in half a centimetre of horrible icing that Velika knew and hated, but chocolate heaven: chocolate sponge with chocolate ganache, covered in chocolate sprinkles. One layer dark, one layer milk, and one layer white. And on the top layer…

Velika stood with her mouth open. A life-sized chocolate model of Bruno, her beloved toy bear, looked at her from his one eye, the other covered with a chocolate eye patch.

“Am I forgiven for keeping it a secret?” Liv asked.

'Days Passing' by Abida Akram

I watch the cheating drama of Australia's 'Married at first sight' with envy of the sunny clime. A surreal 'Chinese Monkey King' on iPlayer draws my laughter but ‘Taskmaster' is King. 

Daily walks alone to rage against betrayal by my father. I have no time for guilt or for his grievances from so long ago. He will never let go of his sense of injustice and trying to evoke a response from me. 

I have been searching, but have never found a home. Chasing for belonging. I sniff the air for you. I am wayward - a wild woman, I cannot cure what lies beneath my own skin, but I can cure you with nature’s remedies.

You gave me just a season of gifts. Sci-Fi books, and world music CD’s in so many languages - all singing about love. Silver jewellery with semi-precious stones, gave me the moon and the stars. And time, precious time, with laughter - the colour of sunshine yellow, that you spent with me. Then you disappeared.

I once told another you that my favourite colour was purple. The other you gave me a tiny posy of violets on my birthday. They meant loyalty and faithfulness, I yawned. I betrayed you in a long-grassed French field with one of my secret lovers, under the holy colour of summer, the vast blue sky. I fled from the turgid molasses of your sad brown eyes and the disappointed grimace of your small pursed mouth.  

Doctor Who tracked me here over time and space; my breathing quickens. Had you tasted my tamed magic on the cold breeze?  I feel danger flashing in the blood being taken from my arm at the hospital and in the flaring red of autumn leaves outside my window.

Days passed. Days halted. Days wasted.

'First Place' by Emily Hall

My grandmother and I watch as Surya Bonaly lands the backflip at the 1998 Olympics. She’ll win gold, I think. But alas, she comes in tenth.  

Right before we drive back to Indiana, she tries to hug me. I slip away and go to my other grandmother, the one who doesn’t call me “hussy.” 

Years later, my brother will get off a plane and mention casually, in the back of my car, that she died. “When?” I’ll ask, shocked. “Back in February,” he’ll say, staring at the fields of ripening corn.

At night, her father, a World-War II veteran would get drunk, lean out the window, and swear that he could see Nazis coming for him. She’d tuck him into bed and clean him up. She was his oldest daughter, but in the end, when he was frail, he’d choose to live with her youngest brother. 

The hierarchy was this: his violence gave way to her sour tongue, which gave way to my father’s stone silence, which gave way to my tendency to make jokes that hurt. 

Long day at work. I take refuge in a quiet bathroom. When I look up in the mirror, I’ll be surprised to see her face in mine. Stubborn chin. Haunted eyes. What an odd way for someone to finally come in first. 

'Popsicle' By Melissa Flores Anderson

Lilly and Danny hide behind the gas station with popsicles in their hands, the sticky white, red and blue layers melting onto their fingers. They aren’t supposed to have them so close to dinner. When the ice cream man’s bell came down the street, Danny had enough change in his pocket for two rocket pops. They giggle and run away when Danny’s brother comes around the corner.

***

They line up for Red Rover, Red Rover, during sixth-grade P.E. They send Carolyn over and she slams into the arms of two boys, who force her back, but gently so she doesn’t fall. They laugh and open their hands to let Carolyn slide in. Lilly is last to be called over. When she nears the line, the boys she approaches drop their hands apart to let her through. She stands alone on the losing team.

***

When Lilly arrives at the coffeehouse, she recognizes Mick. They didn’t have many classes together. Just the one year of P.E. He was an athlete, ran cross country, and track and field. P.E. was the worst period of the day, her least favorite activity, running. When they had to run in class, Mick finished first and looped back around to her, as though he wanted to rub it in, how slow she was. When her brother- in-law set up the blind date, he must not have remembered who she was from high school.

***

Jack’s popsicle is melting quick in the summer heat. Jack’s hands are stained blue and red, his lips turning purple. He laughs when Mick tries to clean him up with a wipe, and squirms away. Mick’s mother-in-law said they shouldn’t have let Jack have sweets so close to dinner. Lilly says it’s hot, let him be.

'She-Bear' by Shon Mapp

Period Panties
A spectacle of pale pink stock soaks in our bathroom sink. Afterwards, I scrub them until my hands become prunes.

Theft
Nicole stops by unannounced one morning. We drink coffee in the kitchen while she prattles on about needing the balance of a man. She says that there’s too much estrogen in this space, not that it isn’t nice. I don’t respond, only study her unfurled locs and hunched posture. Almost recognizable after years of missed calls and unreturned messages, I watch her gel set claws click-clack against the phone screen. In an instant, she slinks to the floor. On her hands and knees, she grips the hardwood, transfixed by scent. Expelling a few breathy huffs towards the hallway, her wet nose twitches. She asks to use the bathroom and saunters off. Minutes pass before Nicole returns erect and composed. I should go. Tell your wife I said hi. At the front door, we limply hug our goodbyes, her purse trailing pale pink droplets down my driveway.

Salmon Run
Before I recognized myself as prey, you held the high ground, wading at the crest, slack jawed and watchful. For years, we returned to the same river, spent seasons co-existing while you gorged on the others. Each time that I weaved between your paws unscathed, it steeled my fortitude for the journey ahead.

The October I was heavy with roe, you must’ve spotted me at the boil line. I remember the deafening rush of the rapids and my white muscles bursting with ache. In a single bound, I hurled my body above the sill and into the spray. You seized the opportunity and bared your soul to me for the first and only time.

'The Journey' by Julia Goodlet

"Is that Mr Grant? Sorry we missed you but phoning to confirm your reservation for Tervine Suite is confirmed. We look forward to welcoming you both next week.” End of message. Please press ‘3’ to play the message again or “1” to call back.

***

Annabell scrubbed the plate in the sink, her attention elsewhere. She hadn’t noticed that the plate had been clean a few minutes ago but she kept scrubbing.

“I’m sure Connor is up to something.” Annabell turned to her friend, the scrubber still in her hand, the soap suds flying about as she spoke.

“Come on, what could he be up to? He hasn’t a deceitful bone in his body,” Mary turned away as Annabell spoke, trying to hide her grin. 

***

“Sorry John, I can’t go out tonight. Bit skint, money is tight.” Connor, pulled his empty pocket out, exposing a hole, which illustrated his point further.

“Whit ya been spending on, you’ve had that hefty promotion. Sure as hell ain’t a flashy new wardrobe.” 

***

“Where are we going?” Annabell giggled as she was bundled into the car, her breath misting up in front of her in the cold December air, “it’s Baltic,” she added.

“Well that would ruin the surprise.” Connor smirked as he handed her a rolled up piece of paper.

“What’s this for?” She asked, starting to unroll it before Connor shouted “nae peeking. I’ll tell you when to read the next set out.”

***

The maid rushed into the room, she was already behind. The couple were late leaving for dinner and she was going to get into trouble again. A string of curses were rattling around in her head until she spotted the small ring box sitting open on the dresser. 

“Oh bless.” All negative thoughts forgotten.

'Young Love in Fragments' by D. X. Lewis

1. Diary entry 14 February 1949. "Took Jean to watch Fonteyn in R&J at Covent Garden. (Balcony, half a crown.) Shared tub of ice-cream (strawberry, sixpence). Walked her back to her hostel."

2. Crumpled black and white photo of a smiling young woman with curls.

3. Photo of a young man with spectacles in an RAF uniform.

4. Wedding photo with many smart-looking people on the bride’s side and fewer, less well-dressed, on the groom’s.

5. Faded wedding announcement from the Leek Bugle, 30 June 1951.

6. Photo of a young man with spectacles paddling in a black woollen one- piece swimming costume.

7. Photo of a baby boy in his mother’s arms.

8. Photo of a baby boy in his father’s arms.

9. Photo of all three.

'Dust to Dust' by Michele Catalano

Your room is always dark. The lampshade is heavy and the bulb dim; they only make shadows of everything.

I run my finger along your desk. I hold back the urge to scrawl my name in the dust that clings to my pinky. I wipe it on your shirt, the one you wore the last time I saw you. It hangs on the bedpost, a ghost of you with loose arms and wrinkles and a fading marker stain on the sleeve.

Your bed is cold and sinks down in the middle. I rock back and forth, arms folded inside themselves, legs crossed, a piece of hair caught on my dry lip. I touch your pillow, craving its familiarity. 

I imagine you’re here. You tuck my hair behind my ear, annoyed that it always ends up in my mouth. I promise to get a haircut. You promise to introduce me to your friends. I stop imagining.

I touch the snow globe on your desk, the one with the taxicabs and synthetic snow falling down on plastic people. I shake and the snow falls and falls and no matter how hard I shake, the people always smile and the little taxi never goes anywhere.

I crawl back into your bed and remember the way it felt to have your arm draped across me. I remember how you laughed in your sleep. I will myself to feel the weight of your arm on me, to hear the dry whisper of your last good night.

It’s starting to snow, light puffs of white slapping against the window. I imagine I’m in the snow globe and I’m always smiling and the clock never moves and the headlights never appear outside the window, making me tumble from the bed and toward the back door.

NFFD 2026 Prompt #11: Fragments

 

Prompt #11: Fragments 

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2026 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of Bridges. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one prompt every hours from 00:00 until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until 23:59 BST on Sunday to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In over the course of the next week.

*

Mudlarkers often find broken things, things like shards of pottery, stems of clay pipes, and rusted keys. 

Write a story told entirely in fragmented, disconnected vignettes that, when read alongside each other, piece together a larger narrative. 

*

If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 11: Fragments. 

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 14 June 2026 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting our badges page.

---

Photograph by Beth Macdonald via Unsplash.