'Two Rivers, Home' by Michael R Evans

One October morning before my mother’s funeral, I bring you back to my Upstate hometown at the river confluence. Your long black curls tucked into a hoodie, your cold face a patient light smile in response to my stories of walking by here on the way to school. It was once a little forest of drugs and hidden things, but a lot had changed since I moved to California. The trees are paved over and stone semi-circle terraces are steps into the city’s focal point. From our right, a section of the Erie-canal-turned-river flows in and from the left, the serpentine Susquehanna where the two boys my age were rescued rafting over Rockbottom Dam in swift rainwater claiming the lives of three firemen saving them. The rivers lap together against the third step, and in the breeze I’m blown downstream in the aluminium boat my friends and I borrowed when we skipped class and explored an island like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. You interpret my silence as sadness and squeeze my hand, the cold river sucking heat from our bodies. Upriver, the 1887 steel bridge is closed except for foot traffic. You and I found each other in California but now squint trying to see past the bend, then reach in my pocket as your thin California blood shivers, your kind face soft and open as I read you my new poem that you think honors my mother, grief clinging to the grey air and falling in the misty rain, then I kneel, produce my grandmother’s diamond as cold as the river. It ends in Cymraeg words: Dwy afon gyda'i gilydd. Cartref. Two rivers together. Home. I slide it onto your finger with elemental difficulty as the sun cracks the sky and grief flows into joy. 

'Love Is in the Air' by Rathin Bhattacharjee

Sneha goes down to the bank of the river. She has a towel flung over her shoulder. She looks up and down the vast stretch of the bank on both sides. Far away she can see a boat getting closer to the opposite bank. She also finds the street lights on the other side coming alive over the barren fields. The conch-sound is heard from the temple reminding her of the time, she visited Banaras with her parents. The sight of the orange-coloured, loin-clad priests standing on the cemented platforms, offering prayers to the Ganges, is something she will remember for life. Her Ma told her if someone prayed at that time from the bottom of her heart, her prayers would always be answered by the river mother.

She’d prayed to be Ashish’s bride even then! Sneha notices the footmarks on the bank on her left. Despite the repeated warnings, the boys have been fishing secretly. 

Ashish keeps brushing his teeth, sitting on the slab above. He has his lungi rolled up, showing his masculine physique. Sneha is driven to madness by an all-consuming desire. He catches that girl looking at him but doesn’t bother. A little boy comes running from somewhere and puts his head playfully in-between his knees. The next moment he gets out of Ashish’s reach and comes running down. Before Sneha can figure out what is happening, he dives into the river, splashing water all over. Sneha understands that there is absolutely no reason for her to worry.

Ashish goes past her after his boy. As he goes past her, he smells of sugarcane and lemon. The gentle wind carries a whiff of her hair-oil to him. That is when he looks back at Sneha for the first time. Love is in the air.

'Cleansing' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Jakov led the group towards the riverbank where Danijela was waiting. Dozens of candle lanterns cast a soft glow on the scene as she opened her arms, her wide sleeves fanning out like wings.

Any oohs and aahs were quietly and quickly shushed: the cleansing ritual had to take place in complete silence.

Barefoot, Danijela led them to the riverbank, climbing down and filling a bucket with water. They were scamming the poor bastards, but even so, the experience did feel cleansing. She let her toes explore the soft riverbed, digging in, scrunching around pebbles and slippery plants. A duck, rudely awakened by the presence of this many humans, quacked in protest, but eventually tucked his head under his wing and resumed his beauty sleep.

Danijela walked back out to Jakov’s side. The midges were out in force tonight. One of them buzzed right past her ear, then sat on her cheek. She wished she could just swat the little bloodsucker, but she had to maintain the illusion of serenity.

Jakov and Danijela each dipped a sponge into the water and washed the face of a young, pock-marked man, applying gentle pressure while maintaining their silence. A beatific smile appeared on his face, as if he was the personification of the placebo effect.

They worked their way round the circle, finishing with their own faces. They might as well jump into the river, Danijela thought, with how badly-stained their souls must be by now.

The ritual completed, they returned to their small rental unit to check their freshly-inflated bank accounts and sleep. In that order, of course.

'Get Lost' by Donna M Day

The redundancy had been so sudden, he’d been home by 11am. Too much of a surprise for his loyal, loving wife. 

He’d grabbed his tackle box, thrown it into the car and driven to the river his father had favoured.

His father had not favoured his marriage. Wise man.

When he saw her, he almost jumped in, but something told him she wasn’t in trouble.

She stared at him over the slick, murky surface. The odour of rotting maggots seeped into her gills.

Disgusting creatures.

She opened her mouth to sing, but something told her he was already in trouble.

She should return to the sea. She should never have left. She shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be here. He should never have left. He should go home.

Talk.

She felt her tail slowly pushing her towards the bank as he waded in.

'The Unfortunate Meeting of Echo and Narcissus' by Beth Sherman

Thousands of years ago in Greece, a boy meandered by the river’s edge. Olive trees swayed in the springtime breeze. Wild anemones tipped white petals to the sun. A water nymph splashed, playing hide and seek with eels. But the boy noticed none of that, so transfixed was he by his own image reflected back to him as he knelt on the muddy bank. This liquid gaze? That aquiline nose? Curls soft and pale as baby’s breath? Surely, his face deserved to be etched on a vase in the royal palace.

The nymph agreed. When she caught sight of the lad she was stunned by his beauty. She stared and stared at the human God, who only had eyes for himself. Her longing filled the river, tickling catfish, scaring her eel playmates. She forgot she was beautiful, too. Her flowing hair a ripple, her skin blue as sprigs of poisonous larkspur. She forgot she was cursed, with only an echo for a voice. She forgot she had wings. 

When he spoke aloud – what matter what he said? – all she could do was repeat his words until he was sure there were two of them. Him and the beautiful boy in the river, cloaked in a mist of clouds. Seasons shifted: sultry to crisp to snow that kissed the river with a thin sheen of ice and still the boy stayed, eating grass, drinking rainwater, craving the unattainable River Boy. The nymph pined and withered, her arms becoming circles that skipped stones traced on the surface, visible only for a moment before fading away. Her voice, rusty from disuse, was stolen by a raven one day. You can still here it near the river some nights. Harsh. Forlorn. Waiting for an answering mating call.   

'Water Bodies' by Anna Peter

The sun scorched my face and arms. Sweat flowed like a rivulet. I raced barefoot under the shadows of  trees and bushes. At the end of the mud path, I slipped on the wet clay and slid down to the edge of the  women-only part of the river.

There were only two guys in the distance. The water was clear. Black veins streaked through the fine brown sand, and sunlight glinted off mother-of-pearl fragments. The water sparkled, the gentle ripples intoxicated. Dried leaves and flower bunches from prayer offerings bobbed in the inlet. I peeled off my dress, waded in, and lay back. Just like matka water, cooled by the surrounding red hibiscus bushes, whose flowers women plucked constantly, and coconut tree fronds swishing and shuddering in the wind.

I couldn’t doze. I might die if I forgot to stay awake. So I dreamt of cousin’s friend Cute Guy. Strong white hairy legs, t-shirt clinging to his lean chest. Cousin said Cute Guy’s girlfriend in Mumbai was gorgeous. This was summer holidays. There were things like... Voices! I lifted my head. Shallow footsteps splashed towards me. I lowered my head below the water and shut my eyes. The footsteps stopped and then walked over slowly, some of the water slopping over my face. My heartbeat felt like a dinner gong beaten by an irate kitchen worker.

A shadow crouched. Ripples flooded my ears. A finger tickled my arm. The face came closer and blew on my nose. Fear coursed through me.

Eventually, he stood. My eyes flew open. Cute Guy! Grinning! He reached out a hand to help me up. I shook my head, my barely-clothed body tingling with embarrassment. He gave me a thumbs up.

My cousin shouted. Cute Guy hurried over, and their voices began to recede.

'River Keepers' by Jean Feingold

The river was about 25 feet wide as it flowed past the ruins. No one had lived in the area for years, but it was a popular place for campers, kayakers, other small boaters, and fishermen. The water was clear making it possible to see the white sandy bottom of the river. The flowing water made a pleasant sound as it went downstream. There was a natural watery aroma that could be smelled at a distance. 

That same white sand, soaked in river water, formed the river’s firm banks. Every morning it was possible to see bird and animal footprints in that sand. It was also possible, unfortunately, to see beer cans and empty chip bags on the sand left by careless visitors. 

People representing environmental groups would show up a few times a month to do the cleanups that should not have been necessary. At times one or more of them from different groups would appear simultaneously on each side of the river. The water sound made conversation impossible, but they occasionally waved at each other across the water. Each came from a different direction and had to park at least two miles away to hike to each river bank. Hiking back to their cars hauling a large bag of debris was the reward. 

'A Stranger' by Allison Renner

There’s already a figure by the water when I arrive well after sunset, but I don’t want them to acknowledge me, to make awkward chit-chat or worse, so I keep my distance and let the cicadas fill the silence.

I just want space, just want to be alone for one damn minute of the day, and can’t even have that.

The gravel crackles and I turn, hoping they’re leaving, but they’re taking a step forward, toward the water. Part of me knows I should reach out, put a hand on their shoulder, tell them it doesn’t have to end this way, but their posture reminds me of my husband, how he never does anything for himself, always needs to be told what to do next. How I have to care for him as much as I do our four under four, acting as not just mother but assistant and therapist for them all, which I should love, which I do love, at moments, in my way, but this stranger is not my responsibility.

They don’t seem to expect anything, anyway. They take another step, another, the crisp crunch of rocks and pebbles muffled now as the water swallows their footsteps.

Before I know it, the river is lapping at my ankles, colder than I expected on such a warm summer night, and I follow them into the river. As the water fills my mouth, I think it’s nice, for once, to do something you didn’t plan, that will surprise everyone, that will make them wonder if they ever knew you at all.

'A Tale of Two Rivers' by Stella Turner

It stunk really bad, hardly any water covered the bottom of the river. The extremely hot summer had caused it to evaporate. Weather forecasters trying not to appear gleeful as their global warming predictions were coming true.

The mud had dried to golden brown tanned by the unforgiving sun. Silt, what is silt he wondered? His geography lessons failing him. Rusty objects, half exposed, glinted in the sun, making him shield his eyes. He wondered again, when and whom had thrown them into the river. Each hiding their existence until this summer.

He sat down on the neglected bench, graffiti trying to obliterate the plaque to someone’s daughter. When this had first been dedicated many people would have found solace sitting here, the gentle sound of the ripples of the water, wild flowers, bees buzzing, the smell of quiet contentment not the stench of pollution.

An old lady supported by a wheeled walker was heading his way clutching a few straggly flowers. He’d leave soon so she could sit here and remember happier days.

'Multi-tasking' by Joyce Bingham

On the side of the river bank, Margaret placed her hand on the tree trunk and breathed in deeply, as the forest bathing self-help book suggested. She could smell the woody sap with undertones of vanilla. The birch bark was sticky and she reckoned there were a few squirming insects inhibited from their daily routine by the pressure of her hand. She glanced up into the canopy and a small leaf fell onto her glasses and the moment was lost. Many of the trees around them were spindly but others were old and gnarled like the remains of an ancient forest.

The deep water of the river swirled past the bank, but insects skated over the calm between the reeds and the rubbish. After she’d removed the leaf and cleaned her glasses, Margaret noted the litter and the run-down appearance of the trees. Margaret poured tea from her flask. The aroma of Earl Grey punched into the green algal smell and the cadaver scent of the mayflowers. Julie was drinking a coffee latte with all sorts of appendages to its description involving cardamom, orange and skinny milk. Margaret hated the taste of coffee, and perhaps so did Julie.

The bank of the meandering river was downtrodden and damaged, filled with empty bottles and crisp packets. The mud smelled sour with spilled beer and algae. Ducks moved forlorn amidst soggy pieces of white bread and half submerged plastic bags. As wash from small boats reached them it threw up a musty, fishy smell as the ducks bobbed.

Next week Margaret and Julie collected their litter picker sticks and waste bags. They would forest bathe and clean up the river bank, all at the same time. Perhaps it would smell better after they’d finished. 

'The Orange Kite' by Maria Sanger

It was spanking new and the woman unravelled the string fast. She relished the wind on her face, rather than the stale indoors. Finally, she was free like the young girl she’d once been. The canvas flapped in the wind and flew like an orange bird with a long-bowed tail. She tried to steer the kite first to the left and then to the right, but it was harder to control than she had thought. It responded keenly to every small movement, almost retaliating with an impulsiveness to reach new heights.

The woman scrambled along the footpath. Her heels gathered up twigs and leaves and she kicked layers of mud and shingle and roots of willow and alder. A rich earthiness of mushrooms rose up mixed with wild thyme and acorns. But the kite’s malice dragged her on.

On the opposite bank a girl with pigtails strolled with a labrador. The woman had owned such a dog once. At the sight of the kite’s tail, it leapt up, pulling the girl close to my river edge. The girl looked upwards and gave a sudden cry. She stood as though frozen in time, her mouth caught in an ‘O’ shape.

The woman looked down at her hands in disbelief, her mouth mirroring the young girl’s. The string had unravelled fully, unsecured to the control bar. The babbling of my waters continued, the movement of orange on its surface. I had seen this scene play out before – had heard the percussive rip of canvas on the willow branches – felt the rhythmic fluttering as the fragments touched the surface of my waters. 

'Every Good Boy Deserves Favour' by Anne Howkins

Guide your mother to the riverside.

She stands, always the maestro, white-stick conducting the riverbank’s soundtrack four/four time—grasshopper violinist, trumpeting frogs, piccolo-piping reed warblers and the whispered bass notes of willows. A soloist cormorant, takes her cue, silently darts into the river. She mouths something that might once have been a melody, flops exhausted to the bench.

 

The medics can’t do anything. The thing in her skull, missed ten years ago, was treatable then, but now it’s too late.

 

The water ripples around a second bird’s dive; a moorhen squawks at its brood of red-beaked hatchlings.

 

Mother’s fingers move, pressing keys on an imagined keyboard. Her wiring’s awry, sight and sound all mixed up into a synthesist morass of sheet music only she can play.

 

The frogs shift to a faster beat as a blue streak zings upstream through the willows. She taps her feet. You remember her hands racing across the piano, magically interpreting a language you never understood, no matter how easy the lesson, how simple the tune. 

A cormorant surfaces, a silver flash twitching in its beak, then the second, grabbing for the fish. The flapping birds paddle-chase across the water, scattering moorhen chicks, and a crescendo of staccato honking erupts across the water. 

Mother’s shouting incomprehensible sounds at the birds as if they were a stupid boy hitting the wrong notes, his clumsy fingers just asking for the whiplash of a correcting baton. You did try, you did. All those hours willing your woolly head to interpret black dots on a clef, send the correct message to your fingers.

Later, when mother’s in a drugged sleep, you’ll sit at her piano, open Chester’s Easiest Piano Course and become a river, let its song guide your fingers.

NFFD 2026 Prompt #13: River's Edge

 

Prompt #13: River's Edge

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.

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Write a story set entirely on the banks of a river. Include two or more characters who interact in some way, but avoid using any dialogue, direct or reported.  Focus heavily on the sensory details of the environment: the smell of the silt, the sound of the tide, the texture of the mud.  Use this sensory detail to help with the storytelling....

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 13: River's Edge.

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.

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Photograph by Mikhail Nilov via pexels.