'Old Man River' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Old Man River’s bridge was just ahead of them. Bronk and Prink both looked radiant, their skin studded with precious stones and their hair oiled and piled up on their heads in the traditional wedding style. Bronk wore the necklace of hip bones that was Prink’s proposal gift to her.

As they approached, the bridge started groaning, one of its pillars shifting ever-so-slightly. “Welcome, daughters!”

So the rumours were true: Old Man River, the venerable troll shaman, was so ancient that his body had begun to fuse with his bridge, becoming one with the stone.

“Venerable one.” They both kneeled before him.

“What do you bring as your sacrifice?” he asked.

Bronk removed a large diamond from a pouch. “My most precious stone – other than my true love, of course.”

Old Man River rumbled with laughter, shaking so hard that Bronk worried about the bridge.

Prink presented a thumb-sized ruby. “My most treasured possession – other than Bronk.”

The shaman chuckled once more, but more carefully this time.

“The necessary sacrifices have been made, and I can see that you love each other truly and dearly. I hereby declare you wife and wife. You may engrave your names into my pillar.”

Bronk and Prink thanked Old Man River and used their sharp nails to scratch their names into the pillar, hoping it wouldn’t hurt the shaman too much. As an afterthought, Prink drew a heart around their names, something she’d seen the humans do. They were good for something, after all.

'Measure Twice…' by Scott MacLeod

The bridge over the Ponderosa River offered some of the most breathtaking vistas anywhere downtown. Barb had a brainstorm while stalled there during rush hour one morning. It would be a perfect spot for the museum's annual summer gala, she thought. She moved heaven and earth with the business district zoning board, harbor patrol and local police to shut down the span for a few hours on what promised to be an unforgettable August evening. It was a sellout. The weather cooperated. The chef outdid herself. 

Years later in solitary confinement Barb could remember it all like it was yesterday. 

If only she had remembered to deactivate the automated drawbridge function. 

'Meant for More' by Allison Renner

I stopped going home for holidays once my brother—my baby brother—got a job over the Mississippi River. Before that, I’d been the one my parents were most proud of. No one expected two creek bridges from a botanic garden to raise a bridge that spanned six lanes and a median so wide the riding mowers had to make four passes to trim the grass throughout summer.

But a river… I couldn’t top that. And he was tall enough to stay in place even as boats passed beneath him, not like those movable bridges, “short kings” he was gracious enough to call them, reminding me that everyone had their role.

My “role” became all I had after I skipped Christmas dinner and New Years drinks. Without family to ground me, I started wondering why I’d become a bridge in the first place. To make my parents proud? They had my brother for that now.

I watched cars pass below me and wondered what else I might do with myself.

A loud engine startled the birds perched on my walls and I looked up into the sleek silver underbelly of a plane. Suddenly, my gray concrete looked dingier than ever, but I knew it wouldn’t matter; I’d be so far away, no one could see.

I took a cautious step out of the median, stretched my arms and practiced folding them, flapping them, and then, ignoring the honks, crashes, and mayhem below, flew off into the sky.

'Wooden Bridge' by Abida Akram

The heavy wood-slatted narrow bridge was at the side of Loughborough Canal going in the direction of Quorn. It was very new and unlike the single stone arch bridges that usually allowed one to cross from one side of the canal to the other.

This small narrow bridge was more like a pier, inches above muddy marshy ground. It had very flimsy thin metal poles to hold onto at each side. As I clung on, my eyesight wavered and I felt the wooden slats wobble and I felt that I could simply slip quietly underneath the metal poles and drift away happily to enjoy a swim.

‘Be careful’ Carol shouted from behind. ‘It doesn’t look that safe. It’s almost as if the Council didn’t have enough wood. It all looks bucolic but an accident could easily happen here.’

‘It’s fine Carol’ I said. ‘It won’t do me any harm. You see, I come from a family of bridge trolls back in the day. Bridges were our homes, mind you, I prefer the stone ones, they last longer and provided better shelter and income. We used to charge a toll for the crossing. This is a mere baby, practically born yesterday. It is still finding its feet, that’s why it’s a bit wobbly. It will soon settle down.’

I bent down and patted the slats in front of me. ‘Don’t worry, little cousin, I have got you. No need to wobble. I will visit and we can chat about the hikers, the canal boats, the dog walkers, the drug users, the homeless ones and the unsafe humans with fire to watch out for. No need to be afraid. Just think of me and I will come.’

'The Brainy Battle' by Rathin Bhattacharjee

“Is the river shallow or deep?” The mighty King, standing on the bank of the river, asked his Minister.
 
“Not more than 5 or 6 feet at the most, My Lord.”
 
“What might be the distance from this side to the other?” The mighty King, running his hand over his bearded chin, asked the Minister.
 
“Nearly hundred meters, Master.” The Minister replied in a trembly voice. He was never sure of his master’s intentions.
 
“Not very far away. If we want, our soldiers can easily swim across and attack them, right?”
 
“That’ll be risky, Master, as they’ll be protecting their territory like hell from the other side. Our soldiers will be massacred in the river itself.”
 
“Hmn…..Tell our soldiers to go rest right now.” The King pondered over for a few minutes before adding, “They’ll have some serious work to do in the evening.”
 
The King returned to his make-shift tent.
 
As the evening descended, the soldiers of The Island Kingdom, numbering over not more than a few hundreds, got back inside the kingdom, happy in the knowledge that the invading King had finally given up and was thinking of going back.
 
The King’s plan worked to a T. The taller and more powerful shoulders stood side by side forming a line, holding the flattened planks over their heads. Some one thousand shoulders crossed over led by the King.
 
There was no fight. By the time the Island Kingdom fell, the victorious sun was crackling out in the eastern region.

'Bridge Trolls' by Suzanne Hicks

Before the pedestrian bridge was constructed we were separated by the highway. There aren’t tons of cars clogging up that road cutting through the orchards, but those of us on the side opposite our school couldn’t just frogger across it so they built the bridge. Long gone were the days we could only play at recess because no one was around to drive us to each other‘s houses. Now it’s summer and we meet on the bridge every day. We go up there to jump rope, play hopscotch, and practice our dance routine to “Love Story.” We’re the biggest Swifties in this little town. There isn’t a single person that we don’t know who crosses that bridge. The other day we asked Mrs. Johnson for a dollar when she was walking to the market. She patted us each on the head and said, aren’t you two cute, like we were messing around. I mean, we have our fun but it’s not all games up here. We’re the ones who started growling at Mr. Park and his ugly old dog to scare them off after he started walking it up here to take a crap every day. So you can thank us for not stepping in it. We don’t know who everyone thinks is making sure the bridge operates the way it should, but we run this crossing. And unfortunately, our services don’t come for free. Which is why we invite you all to our performance later this afternoon where we’ll be shaking it off like Taylor. Five dollars per head entry fee. No discounts for kids, old folks, and pets aren’t free. Cash only, please.

'Somewhere In Time' by Kavya Janani. U

Is there an end to this? Will my body’s biology be irrevocably altered now? 

I have so many questions with no answers. Even scientists trying to solve this would be stumped.

It all began when I stumbled across that shiny new bridge in the middle of the night. There were no other cars behind me. They had all taken the route with the slow-moving traffic. So, when this bridge loomed ahead, it felt like the universe had given me a way to reach home faster. 

Everything felt normal as I crossed the bridge and parked in front of my cosy home.

The moment I realised something had gone wrong was when I noticed the brimming trash can on our lawn. The garbagemen had cleared it that very morning. I was damn sure. Keen observer that I was, I also noticed the clothes that my husband and daughter were wearing – ones they’d worn the day before. Drawing a sharp breath in, I ran out and started the car again, ignoring my family’s surprised calls. 

The bridge was there. I went back and crossed it again. Back home, I realised I had ended up on there yesterday. Panicked, I played along and lived through that day, deciding to take my usual, slower route that night. 

But that was indefinitely closed. It was as if the old route never existed in the first place. So, I took the bridge again. And emerged three days before.

Now, nobody leaves this part of the city, even to buy essentials. If we did, we’d be lost somewhere in the past. But when sick people needed hospitals and left, we’d never see them in our locality again. 

Ordinary life is now a bittersweet nightmare. But somehow, we survive.

And yes, I lost my high-paying job, too.

'Fable Fishing' by Leigh Loveday

A bridge cleaves through the space between stars. On it, the Titan, with ceaseless patience, takes the furious golden serpent and uses it to bait his hook. The wyrm is as large as a mountain pass, the hook like the sweeping curve of an island shore.

Others of his kind, crossing for who knows what purpose, pause to watch the Titan work. Some may ask his intentions. By way of explanation, he casts his line.

A hubbub erupts in the vast darkness where his bait is swallowed. The ordeal of reeling it in reveals profane shadows, things that should not be, swarming the wyrm as it fights for its life. The Titan strains. He hauls them up to where he sits on that narrow span across the void, mountainous legs engulfed by the dark.

Every last one of the demon-shapes is intent on devouring a legendary soul. The Titan knows how dangerous they could become if they did. But he is also sure of his purpose, his strength.

He plucks the bestial forms from his hook one by one, popping them between his fingers. They evaporate, spitting black fire. The serpent’s great sides heave. The Titan extricates it, gauges its vitality with one astronomical eye, and returns it to the hook.

The other passing Titans nod. This is worthwhile work.

'A Bridge To The Future' by Jean Feingold

A fight when he was only 15 had resulted in the permanent loss of four of Larry’s teeth. The missing teeth included one of his top front teeth and the three to its right. The gap in his teeth gave him a lisp and a whistle when he spoke. Biting and chewing food were difficult. Larry was embarrassed by how he looked. He stopped going out and never smiled to avoid having people he knew see the gap. 

Modern dentistry was prepared to implant four new permanent teeth. Larry’s family had no dental insurance and their budget couldn’t handle the cost. Instead, Larry got a dental bridge. The price was much lower than implants and the completion time was only three days.

After the new bridge was installed, Larry went to a party at a friend’s house. “Hey, Larry, where have you been?” Jason, the host, asked. 

“Just busy,” Larry said. He didn’t want to admit losing the fight along with four of his teeth. He didn’t want anyone to know he now had a bridge where his own teeth were supposed to be. Everyone treated him the same nice way he’d always been treated before his misfortune. They smiled at him and he smiled back. 

Larry was happy with the bridge – for now. He knew it wouldn’t last forever. He’d already started saving to replace it with those expensive dental implants. 

'Dancing Queen' by Bronwen Griffiths

It’s been two weeks that I’m sleeping under a motorway bridge with its piss-stink and loud-mouthed graffiti. No one else here because of the freeze-cold and needling rain. But one of these nights someone will turn up and I won’t feel safe and I’ll have to find another place.

In the daytime I walk into town and beg but the pickings are meagre and I don’t know how much longer I can survive. Going back is not an option. And I like it here. The sound of the traffic, the tyres swishing on the wet road, comfort me like a lullaby.

Sometimes I shout to hear my voice and the bridge shouts with me. It’s only an echo but it feels like company. The bridge is my cathedral too. I visited a cathedral once. A holy place my mother said. Nothing holy about our family.

I lie back in my sleeping bag but I’m lonesome tonight and I shout a hello like I’ve done before. There’s hello in return but it’s not my voice.

‘Who’s there?’, I shout, loud as I can.

‘Me,’ a voice booms. ‘The bridge. I get lonely too. Can you sing? I’ve never heard you sing.’

I’m a little shocked but I don’t show it. ‘Dancing Queen,’ I say. 'My Nan used to sing that. Do you know it?’

‘You lead and I’ll follow.’

We sing along together, the bridge and I, and over the weeks that follow we find new songs. The bridge protects me, as long as it takes, he says.

'Repurposing the Swamp' by Zoé Mahfouz

The double helix stairs were an optical illusion so you wouldn’t know who was getting up and who was getting down. I got up to see the cubic-shaped trees from a distance. I got down to look for the birds in the cubic-shaped trees. A black-helmeted, raspberry-colored surgeon was making sure the cubic-shaped trees remained cubic rooted. The bird’s refuge was crowned defunct. Birds chose to cross the moat to circle erratically like double helix stairs around the tuffeau limestone from 1519, exfoliating in yellowish cream in the main courtyard. A macchiato-infused bird abdicated, in spasm, on the last stair.

'Fuming' by J. F. King

Argumentative is the adjective people attach to me. I disagree.

Perhaps I do focus on particulars but I’m too old to back down. 

My latest is drivers keeping their engine running when parked. 

No exceptions.

‘Switch your engine off. Sir.’ I ordered the driver.

The driver pretended not to hear. 

This was beginning to get to me— 

‘And you can’t cross here.’

A figure emerged from the vehicle and shouted at me. ‘Why not?’

‘This is a peace bridge.’

‘This is a tank.’

Being told the obvious, that’s another trigger—

‘Switch your engine off when stationary. Switch it on to move back.’

The tank began to advance. Admittedly that addressed the first point, but not the second.

I remained unmoved. I become angry when I must repeat myself but I couldn’t see another way forward. 

‘You can’t cross here. We call this The Peace Bridge.’

The tank would have to go back.

The only alternative would be to rename the bridge. 

Above the roar I could discern voices – ‘what is happening?’ ‘Frida has started an argument… with a tank,’ ‘Alert the mayor, Frida will be crushed, you know what she is like…’

The tank was centimetres from me, it bounced to a stop, engine fuming.

We were no longer quadrilinear but two sided, the way we were before the mediators facilitated the mayor’s construction of the bridge. 

Half the crowd were now behind me on this side of the bridge, half behind the tank on the other side. A reversion.

The mayor edged forward, the town flag above her head. She was so proud of that flag she designed, the bridge motif flanked with pine trees. 

I met the tank driver’s eyes through that slot in front of their vehicle. 

He looked scared. 

NFFD 2026 Prompt #8: Strange Connection

Prompt #8: Strange Connection

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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The word bridge gets used a lot as a metaphor. For this prompt, write a flash in which a bridge — an actual, physical, structural bridge — does something unexpected, means something unusual, or is used in a way bridges are not normally used.

To make this prompt extra challenging, the following are not allowed: a bridge as a suicide location, a bridge as the setting for a romantic proposal, the phrase 'build bridges', any bridge that collapses, etc.  This is your invitation to some place new, strange, uncanny, off-kilter, silly or just plain weird!

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 8: Strange Connection.

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 the Golden Bridge with hand sculptures in Da Nang, Vietnam by Kirandeep Singh Walia via pexels.