'Old friends and new' by Birgit K. Gaiser

“Where are you going?” Velika asked, looking at her friend with tears in her eyes.

Bruno looked down at her and lowered himself to his knees, groaning a little. He really wasn’t young enough anymore to kneel down without carefully planning the movement.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Then why are you going there?” Velika asked, her little face scrunched up in wonder.

“It’s our way,” Bruno explained. “We rarely stay anywhere as long as we did here. After a time, we pack up and go. Find a new place we like and stay there. Every town and village has a market, and they all need well-crafted goods.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Velika cried. “First my mum and dad died, and now you’re leaving.”

“What if I promise you that I’ll write you a letter?”

Velika sniffed. “That might be acceptable.”

Bruno laughed. “Where did you pick that up?”

“Auntie Melina said it to the man who’s courting her.”

Bruno laughed even harder. “Give her a hug from me. And don’t be sad. You’re such a smart little girl, you’ll find plenty of friends once you start looking for them.”

“Why do I have to do the looking?”

“Because not everyone has eyes as sharp as yours,” he said. “But now I really must go. Look, the sun’s about to set, and the others are waiting for me.”

He pointed towards the group of people, maybe twenty overall, who were waiting, their belongings packed onto old-fashioned carriages with – where had they been hiding the donkeys? Velika was twice-upset now.

“Byebye,” she said, turning away and hugging the other Bruno, the bear the old man had sold her at a heavily discounted price two years ago, tightly to her chest.

'On Trend' by Allison Renner

We thought we were in line for a new bakery, or a pop-up shop selling those new collectible keychains. That one musician had been showing up in nearby cities, too, announcing shows just hours before taking the stage, so if you weren’t in line, you wouldn’t get a wristband.

Once a few had gathered, others stopped too, not wanting to miss their chance.

Everyone was relieved when the line started moving, when they were a foot closer to a cronut or a pafrufru or a concert ticket. We marched forward into the building, unsure what was to come but sure it would be well worth the wait.

'Life's Heartbeat' by Rubi Kleinjans

The midwinter dawn light shone on us as we stiffly scrambled off the heaving bus. Sleep-blurred eyes found solace in the partial darkness retained from the night, and our skin was shivered, nipped and awoken from the cold.

Little feet, big feet, all ventured toward that cavernous building named School. For unending hours each day we remained in its womb, absorbing its unending supply of knowledge. Yet, despite it being an everyday occurrence, it was a constant source of rhythm which moulded each of our lives differently.

Each day was unique; new knowledge, new encounters, and as our footsteps wove the age old path into the innermost sanctity of School, curiosity kindled in my heart. For, even amid the endless pulsating of everyday life, joyful moments can be sought effortlessly. What would today bring?

'You’ll See' by Madeleine Armstrong

The tall man walks with such purpose that I can’t help but join him. Gaze forward, arms swinging. Past the shuttered pubs, their glamour blown away by the dawn. He kicks through takeaway boxes, barely breaking stride; I hurry to keep up.

“Where are you going?”

“You’ll see,” he smiles.

“You’ll see!” I sing, swigging cider.

Somerstown Bobby appears and falls in with us, his stinking jacket billowing.

The tall man doesn’t seem to mind, but he doesn’t slow. He just continues towards the seafront, his long shadow keeping pace.

A couple of students loitering outside a basement club call out as we pass.

“Where are you gents off to?”

“You’ll see!” I yell, and they follow too, their laughs echoing the seagulls’ shrieks.

We round the corner onto the common, the distant sea mingling into the lightening sky. The tall man marches on.

We pick up others as we go: a street sweeper looking for an excuse to lay down his brush; a couple of chambermaids from the Queens Hotel; a pack of lads playing football before school; a lollipop lady on the way to her shift.

By the time we reach the promenade there’s a whole gang of us, laughing and whooping, following the tall man like a tsunami. We don’t know where we’re going but it hardly matters. We’re together in this mystery.

He turns onto the pier and we gush behind him, our shoes rattling the wooden boards. We reach the railings at the end and he stretches his arms towards the sea, which glitters as the sun breaks over the horizon.

For a moment, I’m disappointed, then I notice them. Hundreds of jellyfish floating beneath the surface, their translucent bodies catching the dawn light. We all stop. And look. And see. Really see.

'Excursion' by Jeanne Troncao-Heath

We plod silently towards the vessel waiting on the tarmac. Dawn's cool hand lifts a strand of hair from my face as I turn toward the horizon. Sun gazes over the mountain range, wishing us a safe journey. Helmeted hosts usher us aboard with a slow waving arms.

Eyes rise to gloved hands, shimmering in the new light as we duck into the cabin. We sit together arranged by blood. A fountain of Tears flood the rotunda amid the cushioned seats trickling down the aisles. Seeping into our shoes, our souls. Generations of disregard churn the outside air kicking up dust as the vessel ascends. Glasses raised, we toast this latest venture.

'They' by Philip McGann

They came in black, in the hollows, like dreams. In the same matter-of-fact, unquestioning way. They were always passing outside the edges of your vision, and they were always leaving. For a while, nobody thought to speak of them, as if they must have been a singular anomaly. But once the first person mentioned them, in passing, just to say something, it was as though they had been waiting on the tips of everyone’s tongues—and then they were all that anyone could speak about. Of course, people became determined to understand them, to chase one of them down and confront them. But they never did. 

To those who never saw them, it’s hard to convey (though, really, no one ever really saw them). But they would only appear when you had forgotten that they were there, and they moved like the spots in the corner of your eye; as you moved, they would move, and then they would disappear out of sight. And so we never understood them, or contained them. And they left, as a dream. They left people’s words and minds, and were forgotten, just as soon as they came. You can only hold on to the edges for so long. 

The last time I saw them, I’d just finished my shower and was lost in thought, looking into the bathroom mirror. And I saw waves of them behind me, in pairs or small groups, passing away into the narrow strip of dusk. I watched, until I could hardly see their figures any more. I turned to open the window, to hold on to the frame, to lean out and stare into the dark. But they were gone, even as no one was really sure that they were ever here. 

NFFD 2026 Prompt #6: Advance

 

Prompt #6: Advance

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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Take a look at Joanna Campbell's painting, 'Advance'. This artwork features a skyline backdrop and figures casting long shadows as they move forward across a textured landscape. 

Write a story about a group of people journeying toward a shared, unknown destination at either dawn or dusk. 

To make this extra challenging, the journey must not be the result of a war, funeral, or real-life political event. What strange, exciting, or mysterious event are they walking toward?

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 6: Advance

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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Artwork by Joanna Campbell.