A waterfall in the mountains. The picture is blurry, its colours are not defined. The title, “To lose”, is located in the bottom centre.
Photo by Sam Lee on Unsplash (modified by me)

Flash Fiction February by Storytelling Collective, day 21— Prompt: Creature

Crawling hands like insects grasp its every inch. Its hairs stand up at the touch of infinity. An endless gaping teethed void smiles while it absorbs its vessel.

Beyond a waterfall, the silence of a lone cave in the mountains is broken. If not for the crushing noise of water one could hear noises coming from inside. And amidst the glory of sunlight one could make out the sound of faint laughter.

The cry of the mind who wanders deserts with no wind, lost forever, and forgotten.

The laughter of those who lost themselves, in order to become everything.



An astronaut in an orange suit floats above fake magenta grass. He is in the middle of a grey cloud of smoke that encircles him. It’s a surreal picture. The title is written like C# code in many colors.
Photo by Sharan Pagadala on Unsplash

Flash Fiction February by Storytelling Collective, day 20— Prompt: Dream

Look what the cat dragged out from his sack!

No wait, that’s not how it goes, how does it go?

Check out what the lion’s den has in store!

Nope, doesn’t sound right…

Oh, hi Mark.

You tryna help me with my homework? Nice, thanks, mom!

Yeah, it’s about floating in space, but, like, we are like in the middle ages, you know? And it’s like we are an eagle and we, like, see all the wars and shit, you know? Look! That’s my school! I went there for years!

Oh! Now I remember! It’s look what…








Flash Fiction February by Storytelling Collective, day 19— Prompt: Senses

Your lips, I can feel them. And I can smell your body, your neck and your breasts. I gaze upon your beauty, ecstatic, meandering through my primal drives, from love to mere need of reproduction. I crave your touch, my tongue runs and dances, explores your every aspect. And I can taste you. Your flesh, and your blood. Your guts and your skin. The cold of my blade makes you shiver, while the warmth of my bite loosens your shyness.
And I keep feeling your very essence in me, piece by piece, swallowing your breasts, your lips, your blood. Until we are no more a separate being. Until we ascend. Until your blood be my blood.



Thorsten Antonson

Thorsten Antonson

Born in 867, Thorsten found himself in a world full of people, scary metal horses and stinky red fog. Everything is always running, he writes to find out why.