'The Auto-Bio Of A Rock' by Rathin Bhattacharjee

We’ve been the only witness! Oh, sorry! This isn’t how a story begins, right? Human stories! The very concept makes me chuckle to myself. All made up of lies, falsity, untruth and deception.

To come back to my story – I’m a solid rock in the river with a history but I won’t tell you the name for you humans are not only curious, suspicious by nature but dangerous too.

The fast-flowing river with its surroundings is a treat for the eye. If it’s remained so for years, the reason being the village is far away. But the lovers would come sit on me, dangling their feet for hours. They were so much in love that we all were happy for them.

They came in the early hours one day. They’re a handsome pair and lightened up the atmosphere with love and laughter. We didn’t mind as they’re simple, innocent love-loans like most of us.

After some time, the lovely lass, totally uninhabited, got undressed, threw the clothes on the shore and invited the lad to do the same gleefully. They’d so much fun that they didn’t see the hairy, bare-chested man turn up and hide behind the tree. I knew from the way he was ogling the girl, that he’s evil. I prayed to The One Above to save the lovers.

No sooner did the evil man stealthily step into the river than something strange happened! I don't know how but his still body was floating on the water a few minutes later!

I heard the girl wail out, ‘Ron, it’s Shyamal Da from our locality. Hurry up!’

Unable to save him, they’d to leave the body behind finally. That way we all were saved otherwise, there is no imagining the level of destruction you could of caused us.

'Life’s a Beach' by Allison Renner

So sick of being one of the crowd, crammed together with others who looked the same, but did they think the way he did? Did they hate the sun beating down, the feet crushing them into the buried glass fragments, the buckets stuffing them together before they’re hoisted to a height that made them dizzy, then punched down, collapsing back to the ground while screams rang out, cries for mommy only stopped after tromping across the expanse of them to the snack bar.

He didn’t think anyone else noticed all this; it was routine by now.

But he knew there was more out there. He had memories of being minerals, of being on land, far away from the water that washed over them, packing them even more tightly together, compressing them into one thing, “the beach,” though he wishes it could dislodge him, sweep him into the current and take him to another country far away, where he could finally see what else was out there.

'What the river knows' by Angeline Tyler

By morning I have returned to my bed, spent. I lie reduced, crystalline, a weak sun tickling my surface.

Last night, lifted by angry rains, I swirled around her house, feeling for a way in with my wet fingers. Once I reached the sill I found a window, ill-fitting, and poured myself through, a rapid. I soaked the carpets, rose like the tide and seeped into the sockets, then I crept upstairs towards her in the ink-black, silent on each new tread.

When I departed, I took things I like in payment: a bejewelled Persian carpet, a new apple Mac, a cookery book with recipes for fragrant aubergine and peppered soup, out-of-date cucumber seeds, a yellow hose pipe on a reel, an unopened chisel set, a lampshade of purple silk with beads that go tic tic when they touch, screws she collected in a jam jar, a rattan sun lounger from a friend in Brazil. I swam them downstream and emptied them into the sea. 

But I left her an Astrantia root-ball from a neighbour’s garden, seeds soaked then stolen from poppy heads sown in wild rows between her Campion and Vetch, potatoes, carrots that will emerge between her raspberry canes, rich river water, decomposing leaves from the bank, rotting wood, nitrogen food for new growth.

I watch her through the dapple. She is distraught, disarmed and angry with me. By spring she will be grateful for this dirty baptism, a chance to start anew.

'The memory of stone' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Zitko Iliev became aware the moment the nice young woman with the facemask and the engraving pen carved his name into his body. He hadn’t known the tool was called an engraving pen at first, but as he lay in his box and the others joined him, he heard her use the word.

Ivelina Ilieva joined him in his box, followed by Jakov Mrdjan, Danijela Pavelec, then others, until the box was full. They were moved to a place called a bridge, a span of wood and rock over water. 

Next, a man with gloves carefully arranged them all on a sticky substance the name of which Zitko didn’t catch, then filled the spaces between them with more sticky substance. It felt weird at first, unpleasantly moist and sticky, but then hardened, keeping them all in place.

They were covered in cloth in the colours of what Zitko took to be the place they were in, though nobody bothered explaining. People came and went, asking questions such as was the troll really gone, and had there really been forty victims just in the last year, why hadn’t anyone done anything about it, and what would the government do to prevent anything like this happening again.

On a bright, sunny day, the cloth was removed. There was music, much talking. People came to look at them, first with reverence, walking carefully around where they were embedded in the bridge’s surface, then more casually. Some returned again and again, weeping, laying flowers, but eventually, even they stopped coming.

Engravings that were once meticulously cleaned accumulated dust and grime, which hardened, until the forty stones looked just like all the other stones, and Zitko and the others had slipped back into oblivion.

'Might We Meet Again' by Heain Joung

As you lie there, the undertaker removes me from you. Your sweat, your smell pervades me. The undertaker places me by your side for now. I am shocked to find that you are leaving without me. He puts some others made of hemp on you and starts to comb your thick hair. I lie next to you still, but I cannot touch or hold you, I feel powerless without you. Your body is still there, lying in this room, yet I feel like I have lost it already. I don’t have your shape anymore, and you, not mine. The undertaker wipes your face with a soft gauze cloth. You used to use me like that. You didn’t mind my slight roughness. I sometimes felt you even welcomed it. I don’t remember much of what I was before we met. Surely, I had a past though, don’t we all? Do you know where you are going now, without me? Do you know what you are going to be, without me? Will you leave your body just as you left me? Now I know that I am only a reminder of what you were. I wait as you prepare to leave, leave this life without me. The undertaker finally takes me somewhat gently on his arm. We head towards the fire burning hot, I know my fate. I am about to disappear. In the flame, is that you I see? Are you there too? Might we meet again somewhere, sometime? Would you have use for me?

'The World’s Longest Suspension Glass Bridge in Huangchuan, China' by Elisa Dominique Rivera

It’s not easy being an introvert with the job that’s been bestowed upon me by the gods. Every time the Sun is out, throngs of them turn up to cross me which always make me shiver inside. I’ve watched every single one of them present with a smile before they step on my belly. Instead of marvelling at my structure, the strength of my red arms holding on to the sides of the Lengjia Gorge, and my transparency (a gift to them from the gods), they gather for a talk about “safety”.

Safety from what? Here I am giving them a corridor to witness the ancient Lianjiang River and they are too busy putting on harnesses and funny foot coverings which tickle my glass skin.

These miniscule souls, they don't marvel at me or the Lianjiang River, they are too busy looking at their devices, using me as a crutch instead of a window into the natural world. They laugh at my belly, as if there’s anything amusing about carrying their fear of mortality in the middle of me. Why do they cross me, then cry as if it’s not the best experience to be up in the air above the ancient Lianjiang who has seen a millenia of history pass by, but never saw humans over it with a structure like me?

I wish the criers, or the gaggling young ones preoccupied by their reflection on their devices, or the ones who find gratification in seeing others suffer are not allowed to even set foot at my side. I wish I could sway to the breeze to nudge these annoying tourists, so I could worship the mighty Lianjiang River in peace.

'What The River Knows-Water' by Julia Goodlet

The water molecule bubbled up on its first journey to the surface. It had lived its whole life out in the depths of the ocean, floating along dark crevices, silence wrapping it in its tight embrace.

Yet water is never still, never fixed and the currents had pushed it closer to the land. There were whispers from others, those that had been to the surface before, of strange creatures all shapes and sizes, another universe on top of this one.

It didn’t believe the others, how could it, this universe was all it knew. However, as the current sped faster there was a lightening in the depths, a brightness all around that it had never experienced before. The small creatures it had shared its world with were replaced by gigantic long beasts, which it had no words for.

First these were living breathing beasts and then the long metallic inert monsters that moved alongside it for a time. Then the light lifted further and the quiet of the ocean around it became filled with sound, the notes flowing and caressing it, pulling it further to the surface.

Breaking free, it rushed to the surface and it was alone, pushed out into the air, no brethren around it. It tried to scramble free but it was caught in an updraft, lifting it higher and higher until it began to meet its kind again, circling round and round as the darkness descended once more.

Time stretched out and then it found itself falling, rushing towards the ocean once more before bouncing on its surface. What stories it will have now, how large the world is and the strange creatures it met. 

But first…

…first it wanted to sink back for a while and enjoy the quiet.

'Being the Beach' by Jean Feingold

The beach was known for its white sand. Next to the ocean, the incoming tide transformed the sand into something gray and hard. Once the tide went out, the sand dried and was soft. 

People visiting the beach had a choice for where they walked. The beach watched some choose the wet firmness that let them walk fast, while others worked hard as the soft sand captured their feet. 

Parts of the beach were covered with blankets, towels, and reclining chairs. The beach saw people lying down getting tans. Some foolishly got burned. The beach could do nothing to warn them. The lifeguards the beach watched on their towers were too busy doing water protection to worry about skin damage. 

The cigarette butts, plastic bags, and other garbage left on the beach made it sad. This junk continued to appear despite an ample supply of trash cans and “Keep Your Beach Clean” warning signs. Sometimes the beach had a low opinion of humans. 

That opinion soared on days when people made elaborate sandcastles. The beach enjoyed these temporary artistic displays until the tide washed them away. 

'Nest' by Lisa Williams

She’d chosen the place to make me well: we were safe from foxes, people and passing boats. A half-submerged shopping trolley wedged against the river bank distanced us from the university rowing teams speeding past.

This year I could feel seven eggs nestling in my twigs and sticks. They took it in turns keeping them safe and warm. The undergrowth grew denser around me. A ball flew over from the park and bobbed like a bird on the water. Waterlilies appeared; yellow buds bloomed into flowers. The eggs hatched and they all left me for another year; that evening a storm that lasted all night raised the water level around me, but even in the torrential rain I held safe. I hoped they’d all found shelter.

The next day the calm river reflected a morning sun and they unexpectedly returned to me. One sat on the nest with chicks by their side. The other took position on the bank and they both fell asleep. Even the furry pom poms couldn’t keep either of them awake. I could only guess what a night they’d endured. There were only two cygnets with them.

'An Iceberg in the River' by Joyce Bingham

I am a glacial erratic, but my friends call me Chuck, and I live in this river, not quite in the middle. My top is smooth and I am well embedded within the riverbed, I extend down far more than people think. But my fellow stones do not induce a lot of confidence to cross the river. They can be a little shaky, in more ways than one.

The bipeds built a bridge next to me, an honour to me for my devoted service as a stepping stone. Bridge often complains about the weight it is expected to deal with. But the builders were excellent; those bipeds know a thing or two about physics.

I settled down to a retirement, to enjoy the fish gliding past and the water boatmen paddling beside me. But now the bipeds think it is a thrill to cross the river on foot.

“Dare you!” they scream to each other.

The depth of the river between me and the next rock, Sal, is more than they expect.

Sal is not reliable and often wriggles. Further dips into the water by their bodies disrupts the pebbles of the river bed and makes the channel deeper. It will all be fixed when we go into storm waters, but for now I worry about them getting hurt.

Bridge is getting old and we don’t see so much traffic these days. Children play Pooh sticks, and I do love it when I can get involved in catching the odd one.

I hope Bridge will be here as long as I am, but I fear I may lose my friend as I am eternal. I’m like an iceberg, I show only the top of me, my best stepping side.

'Before the Game' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Every morning, I watch the sunrise. It shifts by degrees as the seasons change. Sometimes it is in front of me and rises above the looming pine trees, sometimes behind me over the dry creek bed I can barely glimpse through the brush. Now is my time to enjoy the sounds of songbirds perched above me in the early morning hours, the dew on the grass, a soft breeze before the heat emerges. Someone passes on the concrete path behind me in running clothes, and feathered wings flap away. Unlike the birds, the people out at dawn ignore my diamond and dugouts. 

Later, cars fill the parking lot, children in blue and green jerseys with ball caps run across the smooth dirt. They smile and laugh, or cry if a ball escapes their leather gloves to land and roll across my grass outfield. A foul ball hits my chain-link fence and I flinch. The boy on deck, a small boy with brown hair and eyes and the word Jack across the back of his jersey, puts a small hand against the metal of my fence and says, “That must have hurt.” A woman waves at him from my bleachers, surrounded by families of the pint-sized players. People eat popcorn, dropping kernels and crumbs under the metal seats. In the morning, the birds will return to pick up the scraps and enjoy the sunrise with me again.

'Blue Light Speaks of Its Blueness' by K. Roberts

This that vibrates. This that scatters. Caresses a surface and is turned aside. When water pours, this escapes from the spout. Refuses to stay in a cup. This soaks through a body. Excites the sprites in a naked eye. Delves deeply into pores. An object can mirror. An object can sponge. The hungry sea is never full, for this floats. Blood in a wrist is not empty. This is something that loves to be held by a prism, the way sound loves the embraces of air. That can mask and unmask colors in a gemstone, but never perceives a self-reflection.  Turns anonymous when passing through space. An invisible traveler. Going everywhere, and nowhere

NFFD 2026 Prompt #3: What the River Knows

 

Prompt #3: What the River Knows

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 flash from an unusual point of view, one that is neither human nor animal. You might consider writing from the point of view of a bridge, a stretch of river, a piece of salvage, a tide, a building watching people cross below it.

To make this prompt extra challenging, your narrator should not be omniscient. They should only know what they can directly observe or have directly experienced.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 3: What the River Knows.

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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Image by Abel's Shots via Unsplash.