'Clearance' by Christine Reeves

This story begins with a once idyllic slow-moving river patrolled by dragonflies in high summer. Sections of its steep earth sides ideal for voles whose homes nestled hidden amidst lush greenery.  Where kingfishers had lived, excavating into mud, creating tunnels leading to their nests. Somewhere fish swam, insects buzzed, flowers bloomed.

One year, when autumn came, trees were cut down producing nothing more than firewood, all vegetation, bushes, hedgerows ripped out, removing natural barriers which formerly soaked up heavy rainwater. 

That winter the rain never stopped, fast-flowing water gradually cleared away impacted soil, undermining banks, destroying sensitive ecosystems.

Perpetrators declared these actions necessary. Environmentalists protested saying illegal destruction was responsible. Protests aside, apportioning blame proved irrelevant, nature’s valuable habitats and vulnerable wildlife irrevocably destroyed. Why?

'Growth' by Allison Renner

Bought plants at Marton’s Nursery, brought them home. Digging grass took hours, then tilling soil: clean slate. Body sore, meaning time for rest. Laying on the garden bed, I planted myself.

Roots twined around me, tickling. Arms too heavy to lift. Legs deep below ground. Flowers sprouted, drank rain and shared nutrients. Days passed, months, years. Life felt better outside. It began feeling like there was more out in such a world, well beyond what society thought of as living.

'Musings for Carvings' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Zitko Iliev.

Rada engraved each letter carefully into the ring of blue marble. Eventually, all stones would line up, forming two faces, features represented by different-coloured materials. 

Ivelina Ilieva. Black granite. Grainier texture. Extremely hard. 

Which made this job much harder. That bloody award-winning memorial design was even more clever, and irritating, than its designer.

Jakov Mrdjan. White alabaster. Easier to carve.

Admittedly, Anton Mihaelov possessed some positive qualities, being passionate about his work. Creative. Talented. Decent-looking, one might say. Endearing. Sometimes, incredibly frustrating. 

Twice she thought he’d ask her out, but nope. Nothing.

Danijela Pavelec. Grey soapstone, softer still.

Somewhere, a mobile buzzed. “Phone, read message.”

“Do you fancy dinner tomorrow night? AM

“Should I Respond?”

“Yes.”

“Please speak now.”

“Finally, exclamation mark. RK”

'Possible Futures' by A.M. Udy

Rounded bends push rambunctious youths faster towards fate’s unknown. They still carried with them some childish wonder, had desperate need for freedom. Innocent children's naivety would always believe that adulthood brought forth what a collection, both young men and women, wanted. Almost cyclical from repetition. Ten teens rode not within industry safety standard approved vehicles their parents begged, the kids drove motorbikes wearing no helmets. Ride high at life’s edge or crash, burn out, trials we all must experience. Mysteries lay in open air, true endings to this short journey. Impossible possibilities.

'What Are You Thinking?' By Melissa Flores Anderson

Mick brings the d-word into conversation first. Divorce, a sharp sound that hangs between them every time they talk now. But Lilly packs bags, holds Jack's hand, turns language to action. Sleeps in an old bed, under her parents' roof. Awake, alone, uncertain, turning away from known routines. Imagines unburdened husband, bachelored, happy with separation, drinking merrily at bars. While he thinks she is released, free falling for someone handsome, intelligent, dapper, world traveler, man of big plans. Neither correct, unhearing, unseeing, unknowing each other.

Unspeaking, negative thoughts clouding forward movement. Love still there lingering, unreceived.

'Maisie Loved Her Doorbell Camera' by Debra A Daniel

She bought it when burglars were sweeping the subdivision, stealing electronics, tearing big screen televisions right off walls, rummaging through personal intimate belongings nobody was ever supposed to see.

Fearing victimhood, our paranoid friend installed protection. There’d be warning if someone sinister approached. Defenseless damsel would have time for double-locking valuables, hiding unmentionables, grabbing baseball bat.

At first, Second Sight, aptly named, posted generic messages. Person. Cat. Motion. Then more detailed descriptions followed. Man walking. Woman pushing stroller. Dog peeing.

Technology proved its worth. Alarmed single female could rest easier. Robbers undetected. Whew.

Soon though, re-dubbed Nosy Neighbor, got smarter. Poodle burying bone. Mail carrier rough-tossing package. Next door bachelor’s loser ex snooping. Teenage yard boy leaning upon rake thinking about losing virginity after prom.

Did anyone really need know all that? Certainly not this lady minding only individual business.

Still dealing with such particular info remained doable until rechristened Scary Stalker ventured too close. Details coming from inside. Picking your nose? Aren’t you putting on extra pounds? Four glasses of wine?

Miss M had enough. Ripping out device, hammer-banging, throwing into garbage. Done. Looters. Pillagers. Thieves. Who cares?

'Summer War' by Emma Bolton

I whisper desperate words of encouragement: “Hang in there, darling Rose. Mummy loves her girl.” My fingers smooth creased leaves; cool swollen buds. Soft hands lend temporary strength to a pink, drooping head. Despite these efforts, every hour another leaf shrivels, turning yellow and then brown.

We fight two related battles: spider mites swarm already sun-ravaged flesh. Beasts smother axils; suffocate half-open petals; overwhelm bracts. But none are safe before the spray gun’s merciless tsunami. Necessity transforms me from absent parent into gleeful spree killer.

Three days ago, all was well. Now only far-fetched pleas remain: “Just stay alive until Daddy comes home. He is bringing reinforcements: rosemary, garlic, coriander. Together, you can win this summer war.”

 

 

'Orphan Seeds' by Rosaleen Lynch

It’s history class, with postcards already laid out, of old-world flowers, waters, skies. Holding up a seed, I explain it grew like them. Germination. Seedling. Adult plant. Students can’t understand the pictures, that they’re photos not fiction. Water cycles. Seasons. Trees growing wild. We talk about why today we’re wearing green in remembrance. Without any idea what’s been lost they feel no loss. Now these cards will just be used for games. Sometimes ‘lotto’. Other times ‘memory match’. I’ll make my own rules playing ‘solitaire’, also called ‘patience’, depending how much hope you can bear, and if waiting to remember or forget.

'Political Coop' by Anna Peter

Lizzy found her hen Heen comatose at noon yesterday. Or was she acting. Sprinkled water sorted matters fast. Drama queen! Diva! It all proved addictive. Our family has been glued to the backdoor, peeping out, listening for sounds. Just as prima donna took up abode here, nosy neighbours began complaining about extremely loud squawking. Rooster Bobby always wanted space and silence. Gruff old soldier, strong, silent persona. Type that attracts unwanted attention. New bird a rowdy show-off. Today, Le Général is still sitting with his back towards Madame. More backyard politics in store. Stay tuned. 

'Seeing Red' by Rachel Burrows

I remember whiteness – parents’ faces and echoing ward walls. The smell of disinfectant so different to school where it somehow carried painty milkiness in its waftings. My sister, blanket-tucked, pillow-plumped, sat up beaming against spotless metal rails. Someone else had loved her, which made me itchingly jealous. But nothing like that heart-splitting envy on seeing those new red slippers. Just for having pain - crimson pompommed toe-warming treasures. Tidal-nausea, greater than hers, rose within. Because even this five-year-old knew she was faking! Adult-her confessed years later - from backstage, dressing-room Number One, minutes before opening.

'Predators' by Maria Sanger

Slippery was that rope bridge suspended over the rainforest canopy. Sign said “Danger! Keep out! Wild animals. Don’t go across.”

There were horizontal logs with wide cracks between – made you weak at knees to cross. Kids wove grass, binding it together, but some little’uns fell down onto swamps of alligators. 

Heard Mamma’s anger. Told us we’re mad, Ma did. Someone took an axe and chopped those middle wooden strips deliberately. 

Honey, believe me. Old neighbour Joe e’en saw them fall.

'At Last' by Pam Makin

Although nobody accepted the fact, Nancy is single by choice. She chooses her life, along with everything about it, deliberately. No man, or woman come to that, could possibly meet this exacting standard. Dating remains uninteresting, even after decades on apps. Matchmakers tried but they ran out of options. Clairvoyants searched crystal balls. Nothing! Until Tom strutted past one sunny morning, demanding attention, affection, food. Poor Nance fell truly, madly deeply in love. These two are a typical couple now – spinster and cat.

'Bull-headed Descent' by Emily Macdonald

Mother wisely warned against listening at doors. “You’ll deserve what you think you’ve heard,” she’d say.

Now there’s me, pinning hot ear upon wood, hearing faint yet distinct words: ‘love’, ‘heart’, ‘leave,’ ‘forever’.

If there’d been some window or peephole to peak through—into his room where she honestly stood beside him—context would have only revealed truth. But buoyed by hubris, using stray syllables as stepping stones, I made a treacherous crossing then descended and lost myself within mazes of invented betrayal, until finding my monster in the labyrinth’s dark centre.

'Happy Hour' by Emily Hall

Vodka tonic dribbles from the corner of Mom’s mouth. Discarded limes, all squeezed out, rest beside unused dinner forks.

“Never wanted to be a mother,” she murmurs, slumped over.

Miles offshore, passenger ferries blow lonely horns. Sandcastles, built by loving families, dissolve into mud.

“Yeah, you’ve said this many times,” I confirm, quietly.

In her dark sunglasses, my reflected image is distorted.

“Like another?” Bartender asks us, meaning drinks, but we answer as if he’s reading our hearts instead.

“No.”

“Yes.”

'Snow in June' by Julia Goodlet

Stories. I always loved those our Nan told us - sometimes believable. Others not so, her imagination vivid. There was one, which still clings to my mind. Snow in June. Really. Soft hail, possibly. Whatever… doesn’t matter.  The images it created, of a city stranded, blanketed with white, dialled back into February. Temperature reset. Next thing tooth fairy myths, rainbows, unicorns or goblins guarding some bridges? Laughter filled memories, now only echoes. Wishing for more time - just sitting and talking. Even companionable silence. Worlds we built together - child-like dreams - eagles on your roof, griffins behind mum’s hearth, gremlin’s wreaking dad’s garage. Sleep well, dear heart. Gone yet forever remembered.

'Once Upon a Pandemic' by Sravanthi Challapalli

COVID came, jobs went. Migrants decided they would go back. On foot, you see, little money or transport was available. World-weary legs, families included, set out with some rations, hoping to make it across distances spanning over hundred, thousand miles in the harsh Indian summer. Rides were hitched atop trucks, water tankers, autorickshaws, milk vans, other small-commerce vehicles. Helping hands, where present, could not do enough. Pavements, roadsides, railway tracks served for beds. Accidents occurred. Days broke, nights fell. So did many humans as home dwindled into an impossible destination.

'The God of Unwanted Children' by Kathryn Reese

The god of unwanted children herself grew up wild, breasts bursting out from a t-shirt, face slapped for defiance or an insistence on climbing trees then hanging upside down. There’s always escape but nowhere to go, no food, only fruit stolen, skin ripped with thumbnail, not-quite-ripe acid souring that belly, heat rash prickling at unwashed neck. She’ll take you in, share everything: smokes, coin, threadbare blanket, lice, kisses, rage. Spin stories past belief, long beyond bedtime, gathering kids forgotten like her, me worshipping those star-fire eyes.

'Rewind' by RR Menon

Imagine coughing up a painting. Postcard perfect. Grass blades, green with envy around tall trees swaying to the crooning wind. Butterfly memories circling. Water gurgling. Thoughts swirling. Details eddying. Every step taken moves forward. Grandma understands, basin in hand. Awaiting more, surely. Throat hurts. Familiar but strange. There is no stopping now. Mouth widens. Tongue scrapes canvas and swallows it whole. Stomach swells. Burp follows. Tasting of art. We begin crossing again. Backwards this time. Keep your clock ready. Tic Tock.

NFFD 2026 Prompt #9: Single Crossing

 

Prompt #9: Single Crossing

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 using no word more than once, and yes, this includes small words like the, and, I, and is. The minimum word count is 75 words.  Bonus points for longer stories.

This is fiendish. We recommend drafting freely first and then editing ruthlessly.

You may wish to use a tool like https://www.online-utility.org/text/analyzer.jsp to check that you've not unintentionally duplicated a word. 

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 9: Single Crossing.

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 Wuhazet via Wikimedia Commons.