'At the Service Station on the M62' by Donna Day

What I Bought at the Service Station on the M62

Three magazines: one intellectual, one trashy, one TV guide, for the hotel

Two doughnuts, one with jam

So many chocolate bars

Four packets of crisps

Sunscreen, just in case

Clean knickers, you never know!

The Bridge at the Service Station on the M62

I told him I needed the toilet. Desperate.

I figure I’ve got ten minutes before he comes looking. Maybe five.

I run over the bridge, not wasting one second.

She’s there. Sat on the bonnet of her Polo. She holds up a bag. 

‘I got snacks!’ she yells.

OK. Let’s go.

'Reception' by Allison Renner

The motel was all hers, one-story, eight rooms in a line. Josephine made her way up and down the row each afternoon, cleaning when a family checked out, before a couple checked in. No one stayed more than one night; it wasn’t that type of place. It wasn’t a resort, or a home base where you unpacked while exploring everything the area had to offer, but still she found herself here, week after week, trying to find purpose or a way out. At this point, she didn’t care which.

***
We fought near the Grand Canyon; he wanted to go west to Vegas while I wanted to go east to Four Corners.

“Who cares about being in four places at once?” James yelled, not caring that tourists were turning to watch.

I thought of how I wanted to be in four places at once instead of with him, staring out the window at the flat nothingness we passed. I saw a rundown motel in the distance, the opposite of what James would book in Vegas, yet suddenly there was no place I’d rather be.

'Bardi Bids ‘Adieu’ with a Heavy Heart' and 'Jhuma’s Wedding' by Rathin Bhattacharjee

Bardi Bids ‘Adieu’ with a Heavy Heart'

 

As Tapasi was leaving her elder sister’s house and getting on to the rickshaw, she found Bardi red-eyed, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the fold of her sari.
 
Little Tapasi was surprised. Why was Bardi crying like that? She felt very unhappy finding her Bardi in such an unhappy state of mind.
 
Tapasi's pocketing the 100-rupee-note Bardi'd given her as she bent down to touch her feet.
 
“Come again.” She heard Bardi cry out in a soulful voice from behind the wooden gate.
 
This incident haunted Tapasi for a long time till she became an adult herself.
 
Jhuma’s Wedding
 
It was the day after her daughter, Jhuma's wedding. The whole day Tapasi was running around like one possessed. Jhuma would be leaving for her in-laws' soon. The flower-bedecked car was waiting outside. Then she saw Jhuma, with a corner of her sari tucked in her husband's hand, coming down. In a red- ordered sari with the vermilion mark on the forehead, she looked stunning.

As Jhuma bent down to touch her feet, Tapasi felt proud. Jhuma'd be a fantastic wife.

"Come again," Tapasi said, kissing Jhuma on the forehead.

The familiar picture of Bardi bidding her farewell, haunted her then.

'Portfolios' by Birgit K. Gaiser

“Why do you have such a weird suitcase?” Velika asked the young man once she’d purchased her stuffed toy from the merchant. She didn’t understand what he could possibly want to put in there.

“It’s called a portfolio,” Anton explained. “You put big pieces of paper in there. Drawings. Or paintings. Or big prints.”

“Oh,” she said. “Are you a painter?”

“I’m kind of an artist,” he said. “But not yet. I’ll have to study first.”

“I also have to study,” Velika said earnestly. “I’ll be a doctor.”

*

Zitko furrowed his brow looking over his portfolio. His investments hadn’t just decreased in value, the company had gone bust. And worst of all, he had to tell Ivelina. She’d warned him not to put all his eggs into one basket, and he’d been too proud to listen to her, intent that he was the man, the one who understood finances. He should’ve known better. He had known better. Not knowing how to tell her, he printed the overview out and left it on the table with a scribbled note saying “sorry”, then went for a walk.

'Abundance' and 'Scarce' by Abida Akram

Abundance            

The first warm ray of the sun and wild buttery daffodils and bluebells bloom everywhere. A spring opera of blackbirds, house sparrows and chiff chaffs wakes me. Sap starts rising, trees start greening their heads.

In the growing woods birdsongs compete, willow warblers and swifts, in matings, warnings, gossiping about goings on in the season, whilst cabbage-white butterflies  drift and flit like wedding confetti.

Grasses grow tall in the heat, swaying gently with whole worlds for tiny insects. Streams and rivers meander, carving out messages to the sea about abundance and ripeness in summer. 

Scarce

Your kiss is cold as the moon. The look in your grey eyes as distant as the stars. The words that come from your red lips drop like dead black flies.

Each time I pull away, you gift me buttery daffodils and my boundaries melt again. Then you freeze and push me away again, so, there am I building walls back up, feeling blue.

I need to become a brave traveller with a green backpack prepped for the wild outdoors. With the hope that out there - the air is warm, breathable and can revive me again.

'Crumbs' by Lucienne Cummings

‘No Mum, you click on ‘decline’. You can’t accept cookies every time you go to a new Web page!’ We’ve been at this for hours, but it feels like days.

‘What cookies? I didn’t order any cookies, did I?’

I bang my head on the desk. ‘No, that’s not what I mea–’

‘I could just go for a piece of cake though.’

***

‘Good grief 009! Do you mean to say you jumped off a sheer cliff, fell into the Amazon, fought off a 20-foot anaconda, swam over rapids, scrambled to the shore, crawled through a forest of fire ants on your hands and knees, and then still won an international poker tournament, killed 50 evil henchmen and prevented an apocalypse?’

009 smoothes back his hair, displaying the single plaster on his index finger. ‘Piece of cake Sir.’

'Genesis' and 'Revelation' by Suzie Broughton

Genesis 

Eyes flickered open, at the entrance to the world, she breathes the breath of life. The angel came to visit and enveloped her beneath a wing of love. She sprang into life peering into their eyes pooled with wisdom and devotion, guiding her into the first chapter, forever present in strength and enlightenment.
 

The Revelation 

Eyes clammed shut, face of marble. She rests now, hands hugging an empty heart, thoughts expired in the shroud of death. Peering into her soul, it mirrors a life lived with strength, which came and left in a flash of indelible print. The angel came to visit and scooped her under a wing of love, soaring above and beyond, to write the next chapter.

'Saturday Morning Scrapes' by Melissa Flores Anderson

The bicycle chain whirs and the wheel skids on sand that has blown onto the pavement from the Marina dunes. Charles is a skilled rider, but he’s off his game today and careens into the ground. His hand looks like raw hamburger as he rights the bike to continue forward. It doesn’t hurt much, but as he rides along a main road, dodging vehicles, the pain intensifies. He is nine miles from home, where he will deal with it later.

***

Jack hates the helmet, but Lilly insists on it. Jack teeters forward, training wheels holding him upright. He goes faster  and she runs to catch up. He tips over into a rose bush. He has a small scrape on his arm, but wants a band aid. Lilly kisses his forehead, lifts him into her arms, holding him against her hip with one arm while wheeling the bike beside her with the other. The last time she rode a bike was with Charles. She was too slow, just like in high school when she was last to finish the mile.

'Playing Matters Sometimes' and 'Musical Heritage' by Jean Feingold

Playing Matters Sometimes

Peter was 50 when he began taking guitar lessons. He’d inherited a guitar from his uncle. Learning to play was required in the will as a condition of his new ownership. 

Oddly, although his uncle had owned the guitar for many years, he never played it. He had bought the guitar at a yard sale for $5. It was an attractive instrument he hung on his wall. He liked it that way and never thought of doing anything else with it. 



Musical Heritage

The auctioneer slammed down his gavel. “Sold to the lady in the back for $50,000.” 

The object she had purchased was a vintage guitar. Over the years it had changed hands several times. Many former owners were famous musicians. Along with the guitar, the purchase included a detailed provenance. There were bills of sale and photographs and recordings of those musicians playing it. 

This was the buyer’s third attempt to own this guitar. Her late father was one of the previous owners but had sold it due to financial trouble. She was happy to bring it home.

'Foraging Rules' by Rachel Burrows

Much like Monopoly pieces, favourite items chosen repeatedly granted ownership – I was the dog and the big white Tupperware jug. My hand was barely large enough to fit around the handle but it’s the one I was plonked on a rock with as the others scoured the hedges. I was the receiver of the decanted. As quickly as they picked, I consumed and greeted my Sisypheans with purple-stained delight and encouragement. And after many thumbed-pricked hours, not trusted with the load this close to wine, we both would get carried back home.

My sister is making pancakes in the big white jug. I haven’t thought about it for years. 

‘How come you’ve got that?’ I ask. I know Dad got custody of it in the divorce – but I hadn’t seen it when we cleared his house. 

‘It was by his bedside when they found him,’ she says. ‘I knew then it wasn’t suicide. You wouldn’t take a sick bowl to bed…’ 

‘But how come you took it?’

‘Because it’s Dad. Alive. It’s mushrooms and gorse, blackberries and wine.’

She’s totally ignoring the rules! Or is this just revenge?

'The Longitudinal Section of a Hen's Egg' by Maria Sanger

‘Robert, can you neatly draw the longitudinal section of a hen’s egg and indicate the chalazae?’ says Mr Birtwhistle.

The boys snigger as I struggle to erase the pain of my body and legs being swung against the brick pillar.

‘I’ll try, Sir.’ I tap off excess ink from my pen.

Our third-floor classroom is beamed, spacious, and we sit at tiered desks, overly worn. Outside, through the arched window and beyond the pink brick warehouse, red-sailed barges approach the bridge.

The bell rings. 

‘Robert, Robert…’

My eyes lock on the bascules, willing them to open.

* * *

I stare through the arched window, but the barges have disappeared. I doubt if the bridge opens twice a day now.

‘Robert…’

I flinch, but my wife’s voice is soft. Shadows still lurk in this room, but I don’t say why. The stay is her surprise. Instead, I say, ‘Thank you, Ceri.’

I start when the doorbell rings.

‘Dr Watkins?’ The girl smiles. ‘We do hope you enjoy your stay. Will you be taking cooked breakfast, Sir?’

I shake my head. ‘I can draw a longitudinal section of a hen’s egg with the chalazae marked, but I don’t eat eggs.’

'When I Was Seven' by Sumitra Singam

When I Was Seven, My Mother Told Me …

We were baptised in incense and droning Sanskrit, sandstone pillars holding us up and our sense of duty - boys lead and work and manage and girls cook and clean and serve. The idols plump, voluptuous, sated, watched with fish eyes as we wended our womanly ways. Choice was not one of the options - we were tied in place by six yards of silk folding and pleating us into submission.

… God Is Everywhere

She came to me in a dream, Shakti sitting on a tiger. There was a pounding in my chest and all my ribs cracked open like an eggshell and she burst out of it.  She said the temple is just a building I live in your heart I am your heart you have always been this brave this full of love you have work to do but it is not in the kitchen my daughter my friend - look up from the ground, see the way the stars point. Mount your tiger. It is time. 

NFFD 2026 Prompt #7: Bridge the Gap

Prompt #7: Bridge the Gap

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 two separate flashes, each no more than 100 words (and shorter is fine), that can stand alone but are connected by a single element: an object, a phrase, a location, a gesture. The element should appear in both but mean something different in each.  Let this element bridge the gap between these two distinct pieces.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 7: Bridge the Gap.

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 of Tower Bridge by Inselmann via Wikimedia Commons.