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[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Family Bible.\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1135\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story inside a character’s mind, literally." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Laughter is good for the immune system!\" Flossie Boomer told herself. This was it, the day she planned to start her new online career. www. clairvoyant-at-home.com\nFlossie was descended from an impressive and scary array of the society of dead Grandmas. Their team leader had been Great-Grandma. Flossie, a style icon of fat fleecies, was the holder of the definitive family Bible. \"And you're fat!\" the shade of Great-Grandma spoke.\nYes, Flossie and her boomer sisters had inherited the cuddlesome gene. Phwoar! Flossie was not a hottie. She smiled. But wait. She was receiving a clairvoyant's message from the other side. The symbol and signal were clear. Flossie was hearing, \"I see \"S\" for shower in your immediate future.\"\nEver complicit, Flossie did her ablutions. \"Cleanliness is next to Godliness!\" My, oh my, the spirit world is lively today. She, too, could sound like Great-Grandma.\nSo Flossie wiped the mirror, and cleaned the shower. \" 'H' is for housework.\" \"Housework makes you slim.\" That was the theory of all her grandmas. Quite prophetic, if not entirely accurate. Flossie's Great-Grandma was never lost for an adage in her family Bible.\n\"And you're fat!\" \"Yeah, yeah, got that.\" Flossie muttered, wondering why the mother of such boomers was emerging in her brain. It was an age thing, she guessed, that all her grandmas' thoughts had melded with her neurons. It might have been terrifying, but one was never alone.\n\"Procrastination is the thief of time!\" \"The nights are drawing on, and Christmas is coming.\" Flossie was receiving a vivid image of Christmas gift wrapping in her future on the weekend. \"Post early!\" said an advertisement on the radio. It seemed life was full of hidden instructions.\n\"You're fat! That's about that!\" \"Yeah, yeah,\" muttered Flossie Boomer, the as yet unlaunched online clairvoyant. She sneezed. Oh no! Germs! Did she see a health provider in her future? What would he or she say? \"Here's a script for antibiotics. You have the flu. Off to the pharmacist. See me next week if you do not improve.\" Flossie was a great reader of beyond the pharmacy's veil, or was experience a great teacher?\n\" 'B'stands for bed rest....\" \"Come on, prophets, come on!\" Flossie told herself. \"Now you've got something to whinge about!\" Great-Grandmas words echoed from beyond the between. The family Bible was getting a workout today. \"Too true, too true,\" Flossie Boomer was having a whinge as she went back to bed.\nFlossie Boomer had a cold, influenza, or Covid. \" 'N' stands for nap,\" she told herself, \"Cannot be too hyperactive. Poor old me.\" \"Strike while the iron's hot!\" the shade uttered. Flossie dozed off, snuffling her germs. Her new website could wait.\nWaking up, Flossie Boomer received a message from the other side. \"Waste not, want not!\" So she ate in bed, some leftover chicken. Tomorrow, she would make some good old chicken broth. If she ever arose from this bed of virus.\nToday, Flossie Boomer had dispensation. She was hearing a retinue of messages from her other side, whether anyone in her family believed in witching. She checked her witchline. \"Go to bed early and get a good night's sleep.\" Good, sound, practical advice. Let's face it, no one in Flossie's family was ever short of a word.\nThe morning dawned, raining and cold. \"Loose lips sink ships.\" Flossie was not going to tell her fearsome sisters about her upcoming future career as a mystic visionary life coach. That good news would be for her unmet online clients and fans. \"Do not trip up trouble.\" Great-Grandma was the chattiest one in the bloodline.\nFlossie Boomer had wrecked her knee doing the vacuuming the day before. Hobbling back to bed, she noted 'B' is for bed rest, as a suitable past time before she started her brilliant new career and lifestyle. If, indeed, boomers in fleece can be thought of as having a lifestyle.\nFlossie lay in bed, gazing at the rain pouring past her window. Maybe she had a temperature. \" 'H' is for hypochondriacs,\" she prophetically told herself. \"Cleanliness is next to Godliness!\" \"Yeah, yeah. Okay, okay.\" Flossie Boomer staggered through her shower. Back to bed, too exhausting. 'N' stood for nap, in Flossie's future. Gee, she was good. Or goofy.\nStill, no one is ever alone, Flossie considered. She held the family Bible, from the spirit world. Then she picked up her large print Christian Bible, reading the part in Matthew about not being under the same roof. That said it all. Soon she would start her website.\n\"Guess there's your positive thinking, and your negative, stinking thinking.\" Flossie Boomer was being wise today. This sounded like some good mystic advice she could dispense online, very ethereal. For a fee, of course. Her clients could cross her online palm with silver. A premium fee would bring Flossie's individual lotto numbers, predictions, life coaching, and messages from the other side, across the veil on this side of midnight. Winner!\nShe still had not established her website. Flossie lay back on her pillows, feeling woozy. \"When do I want to procrastinate?\" she asked herself, \"Now, or later?\" Feeling undecided, she nodded off into another nap for mysticism of senior esprit de corps with all her germies.\nFlossie's red face matched her red, bleary eyes when she awoke again. Flossie still did not feel alone. Both her family Bibles gave her free messages from the beyond. She sent a silent prayer for healing. Flossie Boomer believed that no one prays alone. All the angels are still on their thrones, barracking for their loved ones, here in this mortal coil.\nWith that uplifting thought, Flossie Boomer foraged in the fridge, in true hunter gatherer style. There was a lot to be said for chocolate as a food group. God was still good, for He or She had created rich, luscious, family size blocks of chocolate. In addition, if she could stagger to the computer, she could order more food groups to be delivered.\nNot to worry, \"Things will look better in the morning!\" She could still receive such optimism in the ephemeral. Or maybe she had a fever. Whatever. Nothing to worry about, really.\nOn the third day, Flossie Boomer rose again, thanking the Lord above for the healing talents of chocolate. Flossie turned on her desktop, in the old-fashioned way. Perhaps she could combine her talents. As well as being an online clairvoyant, she could become an online healer, like a female Bishop of a worldwide church of faith in chocolate. Plus some racing tips. Race One, Number Three. A handsome chestnut, Mildly Delusional.\nWhat would Great-Grandma say? \"Put your best foot forward.\" Old Great-Grandma seemed to say. \"Great, Flossie, great!' Flossie said. Anyone for a sweet little grandma? Or was Halloween time of year? Scary........" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Adam Pearmain\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1062\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters going apple picking." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Gabriel stood on his toes, reaching for the dangling shiny treasure just grazing his fingertips. “Godwin will like this one,” He smiled at the prize, now in his hand. The breeze rustled the trees, the orchard was lovely with its colors. The sun gave a small relief from the chill, warm enough when you stood in its light. Gabriel loved this time of year, loved it when the air was colder but the homes were warmer. Summer was so balmy and the rain never seemed to end. The winter was too harsh and raw, unforgiving to anyone’s comfort. The Spring was well enough, fresh, and flowers aplenty. But the Autumn it was met with such color and softness. The season of the poems and leaves shedding, and the smell of wooden fires. The brisk feelings were Gabriel’s first love in the entire world. \n“Gabriel,” A voice flooded his ears. The voice that entered your mind and took it’s time to leave. Marius, his second love. A giant who overshadowed the average man, with long dark hair, and inky eyes. Though he spoke with only warmth and love, and his face was kind and soft.\n“Hello Sir,” Gabriel declared brightly. \nMarius was, to say in the least, a creature with a lack of social aptitude. He preferred the company of books, wine, tea, or the peace of the evening. Though upon meeting his aide he discovered perhaps people were acceptable after all. One such as Gabriel, bright and full of genuine kindness, could not be compared to Marius’s sober behavior. It was his own lack of courage that forbade him to properly express himself, especially in his hopeless romantic love. “You have been busy?” Was the question he chose to ask. \n“Not much, but the colors are lovely, yes?” Gabriel pointed up at the tree he was shaded by. “Godwin wanted to make pies!” Gabriel, despite being a social butterfly, was nervous in his own demeanor. Understanding of his own feelings and what he knew, to be honest, but when his Master spoke he felt a fool. A complete and utter fool. “The orchard is wonderful, don’t you agree?”\n“Yes,” Marius watched Gabriel beam at him. “Yes, it is simply magnificent.” Gabriel turned to his next pick, not straining for his reach this time. Marius, mindfully, went to join him. He reached further above Gabriel’s head, wrapping his long fingers around the fruit. “Adam Pearmain.”\n“Sir?”\n“The name of the apple, it is an Adam Pearmain.”\nGabriel burst into a giggle, covering his mouth. Marius raised his eyebrow, scanning him for a second. “An apple named Adam, sir. It’s a little absurd.”\n“Adam yes, I shall eat Adam specifically.” Marius offered. He placed it into his aide’s basket. “Would you ever eat an apple that has a name?”\n“Not if he is an Adam!” He offered. “Perhaps a Louis, or maybe a Richard,” Marius smirked, seeing Gabriel laugh. Marius touched Gabriel’s shoulder, watching him nearly fall from the tree root he tried to step over. “Oh goodness, thank you. I was going across here, would you like to go with me, Sir?”\n“I will do nothing interesting for you.”\n“I do not mind sir, I enjoy your company all the same.”\nIf Marius had the capacity to blush completely, he would have. “I will go with you.” He managed, softly. The wind ruffled Marius’s long hair, Gabriel merely adjusted his cap. “Quite,” He managed, spitting out some strands that entered his mouth. “Quite a nice chill wind.”\nGabriel looked up at him, “You wear such gloomy colors, Sir.” He caught his voice, looking at him directly. “It suits you of course.”\n“Not many of us can look so natural in normal colors my friend, you have the luck of looking handsome in most everything.”\nGabriel felt his heartbeat through his chest, “I...Sir, you are so kind.”\n“It is not kind it is honest.” They met the next section of the orchard. The Blenheim Oranges, blends of red and green from it’s bottom to top. \n“Well, sir I thought your outfit was most appropriate.” Gabriel managed with his most tender expression. “Your cloak is rather fitting.”\n“Steward Elm thinks me a vampire.” He went to the first tree, plucking down the first prize. “You should see how the staff mock me so openly.”\n“Godwin thinks you vampire too Sir, he gossips to me every now and again.”\nMarius signed, seeing Gabriel’s grip increased to hold the basket. “Hand it to me, please.”\n“Oh no, it is not heavy!” Gabriel strained. \n“I insist that you let me have it.” He offered, placing his hands on his. Gabriel turned flushed, releasing the hold of it to him. “Thank you.” Marius looked gentle. Gabriel looked down, feeling very nervous all of the sudden. “I assure you it is not heavy. To me, it is like a newspaper.”\n“It is beneath you to carry for me, Sir.”\n“I quite disagree, it is not beneath me at all. Now help me pick from this tree.”\nIt took only a few moments of selection including the study and plucking. Gabriel watched Marius move with ease, as graceful as always, with hardly any effort. “Blenheims have interesting colors, do you like them?”\n“I have never eaten one uncooked Sir,” He offered, looking up at him. Marius handed him one, unbruised and pretty. “Godwin would scold me if I eat before dinner!”\n“He will not, I will have a word with him if he does,” Marius replied. \nGabriel obediently took it and bit into the fruit, he covered his mouth as soon as he bit, feeling the juice all over his lips. “Sir it’s sweet! And quite crumbly.”\n“Is it good?”\n“It’s delicious!” \nMarius touched Gabriel’s hand again, turning the apple to a clean side, taking a bite for himself. Gabriel was a little shocked that he bit down from the very same, it seemed intimate to do such a thing. “It’s very good.” He offered, hand still holding his. “It will make a lovely cider, I rather like Godwin’s cider.” He caught what he was doing, looking at the hand he was holding, immediately dropping said hand. “I think we have enough don’t you?”\n“Yes Sir.”\n“Let’s go back in and deliver our good fortune.”\nMarius began the walk first, followed by his aide taking another bite from their shared treasure." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Yearning For Bananas\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1049\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a daydream sequence, before snapping back to reality." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A Yearning for Bananas\n \"Michael! … MICHAEL! …STOP! \"\nI jerked back the blowlamp with a curse that my Ma, God rest her, would've clipped my ear for. My workmate pushed up his welding mask.\n “Jesus, Mary and all the Saints, you nearly torched your own leg, y' eejit!” he shouted through the biting, salty gusts. He shook his head and ran his big hand over his salt and pepper chin. \"What the divvel were you playing at, lad? A welder can’t get distracted - especially strung from a shipside at this height! Wake UP, lad, or you won't be seeing Christmas, never mind 1912!\"\n\"Thanks, Seamus.\" I clutched the rough ropes and turned off the hissing blowlamp. I'd have crossed myself, but the cradle was swaying fit to bring breakfast back.\nHe was right, of course. But I couldn't help but glance back across the dock again … and sigh. Against the shipyard, sky and buildings - all equally grey and grimy - the brightly painted crates being unloaded were little square nuggets of beautiful. Colours that would never be used in the front parlour, even - exotic and thrilling and vivid against the Guinness-coloured arms of the men lugging them. The sight gripped me with a fascination I was embarrassed to admit to. What was it like where they came from? Anything but grey, I’d wager. They’d told me one time about the trees and birds and wildlife and music, and my mind had been in half a trance over it for days. Ever since then I kept thinking, what if -\n \"MICHAEL! … Daydreaming again, is it? Get your head straight, lad!\" Seamus’ frowned, but his expression softened as he followed my gaze.\n\"Ah, c'mon - lunchtime.\" Seamus called. “Help me winch us into the shelter of the prow.” I put down my mask and pulled my cap down over my ears, dulling the sounds of the riveters and distant carols.\nBrown paper hid a brown, buttered crust, a brown boiled egg and a dull, brown russet apple.\n “Here we go again…” I heard myself sigh.\nSeamus was oblivious, reading a flapping newspaper and muttering about unionism and Home Rule - I was tired of the hearing about it.\n \"I was thinking … I might emigrate, Seamus.\" I ventured. \"Now my apprenticeship's finished. Don't be letting on to the gaffer yet, though, eh? ... I might see if I can get passage with the darkies - lugging can't be too hard if they're singing half the day like they do.\"\n \"Shows what you know, lad.\" he mumbled through a mouthful of pie. \"They work far longer hours than us for far less pay, poor blighters... And them's hymns they're singing - I think it keeps ‘em sane, God bless 'em. … Anyway, what's wrong with a nice, steady life here?\"\n \"Oh Seamus, it’s ok, I suppose... But you should hear the stories! Kingston, New Orleans, New York, they all sound so grand... exciting and sunny and bursting with life, and …and colour! Even their food – have you seen the exotic fruit? ... I really like those peculiar, curvy yellow ones...\"\n \"Bananas?\"\n \"Aye, bananas! They're like... … like little slices of sunshine!\"\nAs if to emphasise the point, it started to rain.\nA shrill whistle brought me back from my daydream. A girl's voice was calling through the dockside hubbub.\n \"DA! …You forgot your tobacco, Da! … Lower a pail and I'll send it up!\"\nIt was Seamus' daughter Kathleen, looking a real picture in the Sunday best ribbons that she usually saved for Mass - their vivid green as gloriously pretty as the long, burnished copper curls they held.\nShe waved up at us, smiling that beautiful, sunny smile. But knowing how fiercely protective of his only daughter Seamus was, I didn't dare wave back or answer.\nBut to my surprise, he tapped my boot with his own.\n \"Well? ...\" He chewed on his empty pipe and squinted at me with a half-smile.\n \"Go on and wave back, lad! ... Or did you think I didn't know it was you as bought her those ribbons?\"\nMy lungs felt like they were fighting each other for a moment, and maybe it was the sway of the cradle, but my stomach threw itself into the fray too.\nSeamus hauled up the pail and loaded his pipe bowl, addressing it more than me.\n \"...Well, I did know, and any decent man who spends a week's wages on Mrs Shaughnessy's overpriced fripperies on the quiet like that is worth a dinner invite in my book, so you can thank our gossiping gasbag grocer for it.\"\nHe took a slurp of his tea and we waved Kathleen off. She smiled up at me… and for a moment I lost track of where I was. The shock that her Da might let me court her made me grin like a fool.\n \"So, Michael, you’ll join us? ... Sunday? After Mass? Nothing fancy, mind, though herself'll be making a cake most likely... What do you say? Oh, and maybe …” He waved his pipe at me and gave me an odd look. “Maybe think twice about haring off on a boat? ... Eh?\"\n “I will, Seamus, I will… thanks…” I blushed. Of the few reasons I had to stay, the lovely Kathleen could be one of them. And I think he knew it.\n “I think I’ll be getting myself down to the barber’s later on.” I murmured, rubbing my burning cheeks.\n \"You won't be going anywhere but the Gaffer's hut for an earful if you don't sort that thing out\" Seamus pointed. \"Mind you fit it right - he'll swing for you if you put it on the wrong way round!\"\nI stared up at the five-foot-high painted letter hanging from the approaching hoist – I’ve never been too good with letters and spelling and such – thank the Lord Seamus noticed. We heaved it into place and watched the riveters fix it down.\n “That’s one big “C\" there.” Seamus smiled. “But it’ll look tiny from the quayside when she goes.”\nI nodded. I don’t think I’ll be too sad to see her off without me now…\nGod bless you and all that sail in you, Titanic.\n-- END --\n(1038 words)" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Okay 🍎\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1179\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters going apple picking." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There are characters from my story, \"You've got the wrong girl\" in this one. You might want to read that first. If you don't care, keep reading.\nMAX'S POV:\n\n“Max?” Lola says to me, poking my shoulder.\n I look up. “Yeah?” \n Lola is my best friend. We’re at her house, and I just told her I have to go. \n “Do you have a date?” She asks, trying not to smile.\n I blush, and she laughs. I do have a date. Finally. “It’s with my cousin's boyfriend's best friend.”\n “What?” She says, wrinkling her nose in confusion.\n “Laura’s boyfriend Hunter’s, best friend, Abe.”\nLola grins. “Have you met him before?” \n“Yeah, once, when we were younger.” I say. “But Laura gave him my number, and we’ve been texting for a while.”\nShe slaps my arm. “You’ve got to tell me these things, Max!”\n“I just did!” I laugh, getting up. “But how’d you know?”\n“You’ve been very distracted, and you keep looking at your phone.” \n“Oh.”\nMy name is Max Lonner. I'm in seventh grade. I live with my dad and brother. I have shaggy brown hair, and olive skin. I wear glasses I don't need, since Lola hates hers. Everyone knows I'm gay, but I haven't been on a date for two years.\nShe rolls her eyes. “I want to hear everything tomorrow, okay?”\n“Okay, okay.” I grin, walking out of her bedroom.\nI leave, waving to her mom and sister on the way out. I walk to my house, thinking about the date. He’s going to pick me up in a while, so I change into a plain white shirt, and jeans. I try to neaten my hair, but give up, and go downstairs.\nI’m freaking out, and my dad tries to calm me down.\n“But what if he doesn’t like me?” I ask, Doug and Duffel, our dogs running around my feet. My little brother, Micheal, is sleeping.\nMy dad shakes his head. “Son, If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t ask you on a date.”\n“Yeah, but what if-”\nThe doorbell rings. “It’s him!” I squeak, jumping in surprise. My glasses fall off, and I pick them up.\n“Just don’t do that, and you’ll be fine.” My dad says, walking to open the door.\n“Okay....” \nAbe looks better than he did three years ago. He’s more built, and his hair is longer, and twisted into dreadlocks. \n“Hey,” He says, smiling. \nI walk to the door, biting my lip. “Hey.”\n“Nice to meet you,” My dad says. “Abe, is it?”\nThey talk, and my dad seems impressed by him. “Alright, I don’t want to hold you up.” He says finally.\nI smile nervously, walking out the door with Abe. “See you later, Dad.”\nWe walk to his car quietly. I don’t know what to talk about. \n“How have you been?” I ask him.\nHe smiles. “I’m fine. You?”\n“Okay…”\nWe’re quiet again as he starts driving. I think off the things we’ve talked about to start a conversation.\n“How’s football?” I ask.\nHis eyes light up, and he talks about the team. After that it's not as awkward.\nHe tells me he hasn’t come out to his friends yet, but is planning to soon. He says he lives with his two best friends, Hunter and Duke, in an apartment since their parents finally let them.\nRealizing I have nothing interesting about my life, I let him talk as he drives. I don't know where we’re going, but he said I’ll love it. We pull up in the parking lot of the apple orchard, and I almost hug him. Two years ago I told him I’ve always wanted to go on a date here, and I can’t believe he remembered.\n“Thank you so much.” I say as we walk to the front.\nHe smiles. “No problem. I love apples.”\nWe spend the next hour picking apples. At some point, we start throwing leaves at each other, which somehow leads to him tickling me.\n“Okay, okay! You win!” I laugh, trying to roll away from him. \nWe get up, and walk hand in hand on the path, both of us holding a bag of apples. \n“Thanks for tonight.” I say. We’re sitting on the top of a hill, watching the sunset. \nHe squeezes my hand. “I had a great time.”\n“So...are we dating? Or..”\nHe smiles at me. “Only if you want to be.”\n“Yeah, I’d like that.”\n“Okay, then.”\n 🍎 \nWhen we get back to his car, I check my phone. \n“Ten missed calls?” I say. All from Lola.\nI glance at Abe. “Can I take this real quick?”\n“Yeah, go ahead.” He says.\nI press answer. “Lola?”\n“Max, where are you?” She asks. “Why didn’t you answer?”\nI blink. “I’m at the orchard with Abe. I left my phone in his car.”\n“You need to get to the hospital. Now.”\n“What happened?” I’m worried now.\n“Your dad. There was a fire.”\nI gasp. I guess Abe can hear too, because his eyes widen.\n“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” \nAbe starts driving, and tries to calm me down. Lola said Micheal and the dogs are fine, and they are at her house with her sister. They don't know what started the fire, but they did get it put out, though it destroyed most of the house.\n\"Max, it'll be okay.\" Abe tells me. \"We're almost there.\"\nI nod, trying to hold back tears. \"Yeah. Okay.\"\nWhen we get to the hospital, we rush inside. Lola and her mom are waiting in the lobby, and come over when they see us.\n“How is he?” I ask, worried. \n“He’s fine.” Lola says. \nI sigh in relief. “What happened?”\n“He was trying to get your brother out of the house, but got burned at the front door.” Mrs. Plix says. “He’ll have to stay here for a while.”\nI nod, and sit down in one of the chairs. It’s okay. He’s okay. Micheal’s okay. Everythings okay. We’ll be okay.\n“Who’s this?” Lola asks, glancing at Abe.\nMy eyes widen. I forgot he was here. “This is Abe. My...boyfriend.”\nLola squeals loudly, and starts asking him a bunch of questions. Ms. Plix walks off to talk to the people at the front desk. \nLola and Abe sit by me, and Abe slides his fingers through mine. Lola grins at that.\n“You okay?” He asks. \nI nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.” \n 🍎 \n“Dad!” I say when we can finally see him. \nHe grins, and sits up. Micheal’s with me, and he runs over, and throws himself in my dad's arms. Micheal is six, and looks just like me. \n“Hey, guys.” My dad answers. He sounds and looks tired, but is trying not to show it.\nI sit next to him. “Are you okay?”\n“I’m fine, Max. How was the date?” He asks.\nI smile. “I have a boyfriend now.”\n“Seriously? Good for you, bud.” \nHe starts talking to Micheal about how he’s going to get to stay at Lola’s house for a while. \nI smile at them. We’re going to be okay.\n🍎" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Just 18 years old\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1094\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a daydream sequence, before snapping back to reality." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "All I wanted was a move-out.\n I recently graduated from high school and applied to a university far from my family, and here I'm packing my bags with a big heart, the heaviest thing I'm carrying.\n For a change, love, and new starts' sake, wait for me. I'm going to chill.\n I want to change my ways and get away from nostalgia and my lovely hometown.\n I want to change my perfume, smell differently, create new playlists and make some friends.\n I want to forget my first love, leaving it behind, and the fact that I went to prom alone.\n I want to erase every inch of my past.\n Right now, I'm ready for the brightest days of my life.\n My dad called from the car, \" Girl, let's hit the road.\"\n\"And don't come back no more,\" I said\n My mom interrupted, \"Well, we still want to see you on holiday if you mind, Mrs.\"\n During our trip in the car, I dreamt of the good life, of being a social girl, funny and smart.\n I imagined having long conversations with boys. I dreamed of having coffee with an adorable roommate and watching movies together with popcorn everywhere.\n I also thought of being active in class. I wasn't looking for a specific major, but I was looking for a specific way of life.\n It doesn't matter what future job I'll have because my attention was all shifted to my social skills, and this was happiness for me.\n After a long drive, we arrived at the city where I'll be settling and blooming.\n For a moment, I felt something in my belly, something stuck in my throat, and suddenly, for only this moment, everything was different from what I imagined. I was eighteen years old, and my family was no longer with me, so my safety and responsibility fell on me rather than my parents.\n The future ahead is not clear, and the seriousness of the situation is killing me.\n With no permission, tears came down my eyes like a volcano that had just exploded.\n I lost control of my own emotions.\n My mom saw me and said in her deep voice directly to my ears, \"Honey, don't worry. It starts to look like that and life treats the whole population the same, so you are not alone. \"\n I believed her, although no one seemed to be as nervous as me. Everyone at this college seemed to be having a good time.\n I said goodbye to my parents and watched them leave me to grow up and be a strong woman.\n The girl I shared a room with was everything a girl could be, but she was not the one I imagined drinking coffee with.\n She was kind of a strict A student, always busy and a big fan of maths, and very clearly has no common interests with me.\n I, on the other hand, was a mysterious book no one could read because I'm not that social or open with others. I'm just a girl who loves reading romance books, has a bunch of short stories she wrote, and is obsessed with rain, winter, hot drinks, and midnight romcoms movies. This is me.\n Life here was nothing like I expected.\n Sometimes you could be dumped by your mind; other times, reality crushes on you.\n I unpacked my stuff and got a hot shower to pull myself together.\n During classes, I was a total mess. I didn't understand a single word the teacher said, and I always looked like someone who was about to cry.\n My major was engineering. My mom insisted, and I said okay when a big no was on my face.\nI was getting tired of the daily routine and I couldn't make friends. I barely talked to anybody, and I was scared of getting used to this life because I hated staying in it.\n I didn't know why I believed, in the first place, that anything from the past could ever change. I was depressed, confused, and lost.\n They say, \"Don't carry old feelings into new experiences; carry yourself with respect.\"\n Quotes are magic. They can make you feel powerful for a minute and disappoint you the rest of the time.\n I needed to do something. It was a call, a sign, and a need for quick help.\n I thought a lot. What is that thing that would awaken my passions?\n And the answer was there for me.\n I created a website. Yes, a blog.\n Away from this drama, I told you, I'm a big fan of reading. I read a lot, and now I wonder why not.\n Why not start a blog, write a few reviews, share ideas, and get out of this world positively?\n I created a world where everyone experiences the same feelings as me and is looking for refuge.\n Until that point, everything had changed—not too much to be in movies, but just enough to live life.\n Again, I was ready for an end and a new, refreshed start.\n\nIf I'm doing this to please others and be called an engineer, it's not fear. \nWork is not hard because when something makes sense to you, you sacrifice everything for it; when it doesn't, you can't just keep going. \nEngineering means nothing to me. It's not for me, and it would never be. \nI want to be free from others. Success is not a single path every human has to follow; it's relative. \nI can't be sure of my decision to quit, but that's the voice inside me.\nI changed my major to creative writing and felt freer and more relaxed. I was doing something I liked and enjoyed.\n\n I made friends that shared the same interests as me. We discussed books, movies, writing tips, and popular authors.\n And here I learned that we don't have to stress about having multiple relationships and building a social life as quickly as we can.\n But if we focus on what we truly want to be, friends will find us as we walk the path.\n\nIt's all about interests. Where do you find yourself? Where do you shine? Don't overthink it, just observe the things you love to do and link them ;\n And always keep in mind that without problems and obstacles, we're jobless, bored, and lazy. They keep your eyes open, and they make you even more resilient and powerful.\n I'm 18 years old, and I'm like everyone my age. We're all on the same road trying to find a solution to our life's big mathematical equation." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fifty-Five\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1835\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters on the verge of a life-changing event, but one has rigged the outcome." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Shawn\nCarnivals were dirty places with middle schoolers making out with cotton candy lips between the tents and college students smoking weed behind the children’s rides. \nThe reason why Wren wanted to come here was buried in the back of my mind with the electricity bills and memories blurred like pencil smudges. There are things I wanted to forget and I knew this experience was one of them. \n“I used to be one of them, you know,” I told Wren, hooking my arm through his protectively. We smelled deep fried goods and saw the hungry looks in people’s eyes that reminded me of the difficulties of triangular plates. \nWren blew out a breath from the left side of his mouth. “I know, Shawn, you used to be high on sugar when you kissed Rachel all over and turned her red from blush and Slurpee dye.” \nI elbowed him in the ribs and pursed my lips, “You know that’s not what I meant.” \nHe giggled like our lawn did when it was freshly cut and tapped his finger against his lips as if in mid-thought. “I just hope our baby isn’t going to make the wrong decisions.” \nI stopped abruptly and ripped my arm out of his. “Florence O’Cleary, let that leave your mouth and never say that again.” He gave me a melancholy look and I imagined the specks of brown in his eyes as deer grazing the wisps of tall green grasses. \nOur fingers sought each other and our hands merged into one. Our silver rings clashed together and clinked but we didn’t care. \n“You’re right, I shouldn’t jinx us like that.” Wren rolled his tongue over his chapped lips and sighed through his teeth. \n“Hey,” I said, twisting my head around to spot a certain tent. “Why don’t I go get us some funnel cake and I’ll meet you at the fortune telling stand?” \nThe side of Wren’s mouth curled up in reply. It was only a half smile with stains of gray doubt and labelless keyboards, but I took it anyways. “I predict a delicious treat in my future,” he announced before backing away. \nI chuckled and spun on my heel. If I wanted to beat the unforgiving crowds I had to move fast. As I bustled into the line something vibrated in my pocket. I didn’t know who it was or if they were going to waste my time but I answered it. My cracked phone screen cut me as I pressed it against my cheek. \n“Hello?” It seemed like my voice was echoing against red brick walls of silence on their end. \nQuick gasps started and my eyebrows scrunched. “Shawn?”\nI knew who it was. I was so startled I almost dropped the phone. “Rachel?” \nShe choked on her words but I still understood them, clear as day. “I need”—hiccup—“to tell you”—hiccup—“something.” \n“Are you hurt?” It was my first instinct to ask a simple question like that. Pangs of guilt flew like boomerangs inside my skull and I instantly thought of Wren. He’s your boyfriend now, Rachel isn’t your girlfriend anymore. No matter how many times I reminded myself with headaches like clocks ticking and unsteady heartbeats, my life would continue to get more confusing. \n“N-no, I’m pregnant.” \nMy jaw dropped and the people in line gave me concerned glances. “And—let me guess—Stanley can’t help you take care of it?” \nRachel shuddered and it tiptoed right through the phone and down my back. “You’re the father, Shawn.” \nIt was then I dropped the phone. Another crack split through it and the lady in front of me apologized for nothing in particular. I wanted to shout but my breath was stuck in my lungs. My phone beeped three times, indicating that Rachel had hung up. Silence was sword fighting in my ears although I couldn’t hear a single thing. \n\nWren\nThe man at the fortune telling booth had a long braided beard with stripes of silver and yellowing teeth. Atop his head was a twisted maroon hat and his fingers were glittering with plastic jewels. Or at least that’s what he looked like on the sign outside the tent. \nWhen Shawn finally joined me, he was laughing with wrinkles by his eyes and the back of his throat showing. Sometimes I pictured our baby looking just like him with the tips of their hair golden and a smile that could stretch us to China. But I knew that couldn’t happen because we were adopting them and they couldn’t possibly look exactly like us. \n“What took you so long?” I asked, clapping him on the back and leading him into the line for fortune telling. “You didn’t even get the funnel cakes?” \nShawn got this weird, defensive look on his face and cleaned the front of his teeth with his tongue. “Sorry, there was a long line so I decided to ditch. We can get them afterwards, though,” he offered, and I nodded, lost in thought. There was a long line, I could see it from here, but it wasn’t like him to quit and try again later. Whatever, I was probably reading too much into it. \nA head popped between the curtains, one with naughty strands of mocha hair and a light brushing of a mustache. “Come in,” the fortune teller commanded with the hint of a French accent. \nShawn and I raised our eyebrows at each other and entered. \nIt was a dark little tent with lit-up snow globes lying on the ground. There was an eerie look to it, especially the seven decks of cards and the large clear ball on the tiny table. \n“Five dollars each,” the man said, holding out his palm. \nShawn fumbled with his duct tape wallet and handed the man ten dollars while I studied him. He was very similar to the man on the sign except for he had one gold tooth in replacement of a molar. Another difference was that this man had no twisting beard; his chin was hairless. \n“Palmistry, Cartomancy, or Crystallomancy?” the man inquired, and upon our disoriented expressions, he added, “Reading palms, reading cards, or reading the crystal ball?” \n“Reading palms,” I interjected before Shawn could say anything. I pushed my hand forward and the fortune telling man grabbed it eagerly. \nThere was dirt embedded under his fingernails and his hand was shriveled. He closed his eyes and let his fingers sweep over my palm. I was twitching because I was still ticklish in that spot like a child. I wondered if our child would be ticklish there. \nAfter a few moments of excitement building up in me like one of those nice hot baths with lots of bubbles, I blurted, “Does it say I’m going to have a child soon?” \nThe fortune telling man scowled and made his mouth really small. “No,” he said. His answer was short and simple, but bursting with meaning. \nTears welled in my eyes even though I knew this man was just making it up and getting paid big money for lies. My gaze flicked to Shawn, whose lip had many bite marks in it. He took my other hand and sandwiched it between his. \n“Don’t worry,” he muttered, “it’s not real.” \n“It’s always real,” the fortune teller declared, and dropped my hand. “You’ll never be married, and I see great devastation lying ahead.” \nShawn paled and looked slightly green but nonetheless offered his hand to the man. He didn’t want to waste a precious five dollars. \nThe fortune teller’s fingers explored the creases on Shawn’s hand. He was trembling so I nestled my hand through his free one. He smiled carefully but it disappeared in a few seconds. \nThe man’s eyes flicked to our intertwined hands and he straightened. I was going to comment that Shawn’s hand took way shorter than mine, but instead the man spoke. \n“Going to get married, it’ll be an unhappy marriage, and . . . uh, you’ll be rich when you’re fifty-five.” \n“Does it say he’s going to have a child soon?” I asked, lightly securing my hand on Shawn’s shoulder. \nWithout even glancing at the palm, the man answered, “Yes. Soon.” \nI slapped my hand onto my forehead. “Man, this is bullshit.” \nShawn shut his eyes and slipped his fortune telling hand around my waist. “Thank you,” he breathed at the man, “we’ll be going now.” \nThe man smiled with thin lips like a plain red line across his face and turned to face the rest of his tent. \nShawn steered me out and kept pushing me until we were far away from the booth. “Don’t be angry,” he said, stroking my back, “it’s all a lie and I love you.” \n“Love you too,” I told him distractedly. \n“Now c’mon, let’s go get some funnel cakes to satisfy our hungry tummies.” Shawn tried to deepen his voice but failed. I laughed. \nI wondered if our child would like funnel cakes. They were coated in sugar and butter and they practically melted in my mouth. As I daydreamed of sweets while Shawn pulled me over to a stand, I told myself I shouldn’t think about the baby because it’d make me sad. And sadness wasn’t an option. \n\nRachel\n“You’re the father, Shawn,” I said between sharp inhales. A gasp erupted from the phone and my finger brushed over the red hangup button. \nThere was a moment of silence and then I burst out laughing. It vibrated through my throat and I felt air rushing against my teeth. Wiping my fake tears off my eyes, I settled my joy into giggles. I was alone in my apartment and officially going crazy. \nBut, I thought with thoughts that matched circus performances with lots of makeup, crazy is okay because now I can have my true love back—Shawn. Love was such a complicated thing, especially when it involved one boy with two other people chasing after him. \nI didn’t even want to think of Shawn’s current boyfriend, Florence, because it always filled my mind with black hate and rusted daggers. I honestly didn’t like these thoughts because I needed my plan to go smoothly and as planned. \nThe baby, I know, would have Stanley’s muddy eyes and my strawberry blond hair. It was the perfect combination and would convince all relatives and friends that Shawn actually was the father, even though I knew otherwise. \nWhat I also knew was where the parentage document was. It was torn up into nibble-sized pieces in the trash can, red pen scribbled all over it. I treated it like a school paper but thought of it as something more dangerous. \nSuddenly my phone rang. It wiggled on the countertop until I frowned and sighed and pressed the answering button. \n“Hello again,” I said to the person on the other line. I smiled to no one in particular and sat up straight.\nI thought of hunchback lilies with their beautiful faces to the ground, but the image disappeared. No distractions, I reminded myself plainly." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Of Fairies and Munchkin Cats\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2986\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character putting something into a time capsule." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: Descriptions of depression, suicidal thoughts, mentions of self-harm.\nPeople asked him sometimes whether he got anxious around cars. Or whether he hated cats.\nOlive always found those question strange.\nHe owned a car. It was small and red and dusty. His dad had gifted it to him on his eighteenth birthday. And he owned a cat. She was white and furry and bad-tempered. She was adopted into his family when he was ten.\nWell, the family that consisted of Olive and his mum.\nHis dad lived in the city with his brother, Laurence.\nHis parents divorced when he was five.\nOlive didn’t have many friends growing up. He was shy and afraid to approach people. Nobody really noticed him; he blended into the shadows, retreating into his own space, put a bubble around himself.\nHis first friend was a girl named Destry. She had wild red hair, electric blue eyes and splashes of freckles across her cheeks.\nIn their kindergarten playground, there had been a small patch of wild flowers beside the slide. Olive went there because it was quiet, and the teachers couldn’t see that he wasn’t playing with the other kids.\nDestry entered his life slowly. It wasn’t easy to break the bubble. But Destry did, eventually. They found a mutual interest in fairies. They would run all around the playground trying to catch one.\nIt was the bliss of childhood.\nThe ability to believe in something so magical and pure. Laughing without the weight of what felt like the entire world on your shoulders.\nOlive always thought those days would last forever.\nDestry eventually moved away to a wealthy suburb and attended a private school. They promised each other they would still be best friends and meet up on weekends.\nDestry was fun and outgoing and popular. And Olive was quiet… awkward, everything Destry wasn’t.\nThey had come to a mutual agreement that they were to retire from their professions as fairy observers. So, that didn’t leave them with much to talk about.\n“What happened to us?” Destry asked one day.\nThey were sitting on her pristinely mowed lawn.\n“What do you mean?”\n“We used to never be able to shut up around each other. Now, I just don’t know what to say.”\nThey were ten.\nIt was a rainy afternoon, and they were facing the main road flooded with afternoon traffic.\n“Maybe it’s because we’re getting older,” Olive said.\n“I want us to keep being friends though,” Destry said. “You’re different from the people at school. I can talk about anything with you.”\nOlive was sad that day.\nMaybe it was because his mum introduced him to her new boyfriend, Darren. She had been happy.\nBut Olive was sad.\nBecause his mum left early in the morning and came back with Darren after Olive had already locked himself in his room. They would always be laughing. And Olive wondered whether she even knew he existed.\nThen suddenly, something furry dropped onto Olive’s lap. It was a fluffy, squirming…\n“It’s a munchkin cat,” Destry said. “Her name is Munch. We just got her yesterday.”\nOlive smiled down at Munch. It seemed that Destry knew just what he needed.\nA car horn sounded on the road.\nAnd everything after that happened so quickly.\nMunch jumped off Olive’s lap and made a start for the sound. Destry called after her, but Munch’s curiosity kept her from listening to her owner.\nDestry chased her.\nMunch leapt off the pavement, running onto the road.\nDestry ran after her.\nBut that was when the car came swerving around the corner.\nAll Olive remembered was the moment where the entire world fell quiet. And then a barrage of sound came, a cacophony of horns beeping and pedestrians screaming.\nHe scrambled over to the road, but the wailing driver was blocking his view of Destry’s broken body.\nIt was probably better that he didn’t see it.\nThe paramedics had wrapped Olive up in a blanket and offered him comforting words. But nothing could erase the way his heart had clenched when he saw Destry’s parents crying beside their daughter.\nOlive saw them again at the funeral.\nThey told his mum they would be moving to the city where the apartment didn’t allow pets. They handed Munch to Olive at the end of the services.\nAnd Olive wondered whether they truly blamed the cat… or themselves.\n\nDestry would forever be a hole in his heart, and Olive didn’t know whether he could bear having another friend.\nNevertheless, life or fate or the universe, whatever you wanted to call it, was determined to have it another way.\nAnd he came in the form of a tall, blond haired, blue eyed ballet dancer named Orlando Everhart-Blanc.\nTheir first encounter had been at the dog park in which Orlando’s large, drooling bulldog decided Olive was worthy target to pounce on.\nHe came to the dog park sometimes, even though he owned a cat.\nHe found that he liked to observe people. Their mannerisms and conversations fascinated him.\nAnyway, the afternoon in question was the last day of the summer holidays.\nThe heat had finally decided to dwindle. Everything was breezy until the aforementioned bulldog knocked him to the ground.\n“Finley!” a voice called, footsteps made their way over. The bulldog was pried off of Olive, however it had already left streaks of slobber down his shirt. “I am so, so sorry.” The boy offered Olive his hand. “It’s a new neighbourhood, Finley’s just excited to meet all the people. That was his way of saying hello.”\nOlive looked at Finley who had his head cocked to the side, tongue sticking out, happily panting. He got up, prepared to walk away.\n“I’m Orlando,” the boy said, smiling. “You can call me Orly.” He had dimples, his cheeks were sun-tanned, and the smile lit up his entire face.\n“Olive.”\n“I just moved here, my mum forced me to go outside and make some friends.” His voice was calm, but had that sense of excitement to it.\n“So you’re going to talk to every stranger you meet on the street?” Olive said.\n“No, only the ones my dog pounces on,” Orlando said. “Finley has good taste in friends.”\n“I um, I have to go.” Here came the excuse. “My mum is probably wondering where I am.”\nOlive turned and left.\n“It was nice meeting you!” Orlando shouted after him.\nThe next morning, Orlando caught up with him on his way to school. Olive always made the walk alone, so it was certainly interesting to have someone beside him. A very talkative someone.\nBy the end of the day, Olive felt like he knew everything about Orlando.\nHe was adopted into a family with two loving mothers and twin younger sisters who were attached at the hip and finished each other’s sentences. He started ballet when he was five and wanted to be a professional performer one day.\nFinley slept on his bed because he had spoiled him too much.\n“What about you?” Orlando asked. “Anything interesting? Fun facts about yourself?”\n“I used to play soccer,” Olive replied, because what else could he say?\n“Really? I didn’t take you for the soccer type.”\nHe wasn’t.\nLaurence was the one who played soccer. He was a whiz at it too. Olive, on the other hand, was not so physically inclined. He had gone to one training session and couldn’t even kick a ball right. It made him miserable so his mum let him quit.\nHe assumed Orlando would find cooler friends to hang around.\nBut he didn’t.\nEvery morning, they walked to school together. They ate together outside the library. They read together inside the library.\nThey became inseparable.\nTeenage years saw Orlando blossoming. He already had the slender, but muscular body type. Add blond hair, chiselled jaw and the charming personality and it was crush-city.\nOlive kept it quiet, but his heart certainly couldn’t. It beat too hard around Orlando. He got easily flustered when Orlando came too close.\nPeople noticed Orlando when they walked past. And it wasn’t until Orlando was frequently absent that Olive truly realised how invisible he was. He was fine with that though, ducking his head into the crowd.\nIt was what he did best.\nOlive was sitting in Orlando’s room, atop his navy blue sheeted bed, surrounded by vintage ballet posters, when Orlando finally broke the news.\n“I got in! They… they accepted me.”\nOlive had known for the past few months that Orlando was trying to get into a prestigious ballet school in the city. He was always disappearing off to interviews and whatnot.\nSince the first day they met, Olive knew that was his dream.\nBut he felt detached in that moment.\n“I’ll have to cut my hair,” Orlando said. “But what do you think?”\nOlive offered his best smile. “Congratulations.”\n“I’ll be moving away,” Orlando said. “But don’t worry, I’ll call whenever you want me to. We can meet up on weekends and holidays.”\nOlive just nodded.\nHe knew what that meant.\nPromises to stay in touch always started out eager. But this was a professional ballet school. Orlando could meet those of his like who truly understood him, shared the same interests.\nHe wouldn’t have need for Olive.\nHe looked at Orlando, sitting in front of his mirror so giddy and excited. The light caught across his face at a perfect angle. A strand of hair fell across his forehead and his lips looked so tender and pink.\nOlive wondered what it was like to run his fingers through that hair, and feel the softness of his lips. And he remembered thinking that if he were to kiss anyone in the world, it would be Orlando.\nOrlando was gone weeks later.\nSurprisingly, Orlando did keep up his promise. Every week, there came a phone call. They hung out sometimes on weekends and every holiday, Olive went to Orlando’s apartment in the city and stayed with the Everhart-Blanc family.\nMeanwhile, Orlando had no idea about the raging swirl of emotions within Olive. Sometimes he felt too much at the same time, and other times he could feel nothing at all.\nThe world kept turning, everchanging.\nHis mum and Darren were going to get married, they were expecting another child and Olive was just the estranged brother living in the same house.\nHis mum didn’t care if he came home late so he stayed out all the time.\nThere was a new girl at school named Shassa. She had curly black hair like telephone cords, always wore purple lipstick and fishnet tights.\nShe had a brother, Logan. He was tall, gaze menacing and never spoke.\nThe first time they interacted, they were both waiting for Shassa to finish basketball practice. Logan was smoking. Olive watched as he dropped it and crushed it under his heel. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out another.\n“Want one?” he asked.\nOlive took it.\nLogan lit the end for him with his lighter. Olive’s eyes traced the lines of muscle on his arm and the way his lashes curled, his skin as smooth as velvet.\nOlive inhaled, and choked immediately. Tears sprung to his eyes, burning down his cheeks. Logan patted his back with a light laugh.\n“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”\nShassa scolded him for it.\n“You accepted a cigarette from him? He could have put poison in there.”\n“You don’t trust him?” Olive said.\n“You don’t know Logan like I do,” Shassa said.\n“It was just a one time thing. I hated it and I won’t do it again.”\nOrlando had called that night. “Hello,” Olive said, voice still raspy.\n“Are you sick?” Orlando asked.\nOlive coughed a few times. “Yeah. The flu,” he lied.\n“I send you hugs,” Orlando said. “Get well soon.”\n“Yeah, I’ll try.”\nOrlando’s voice was like golden honey, and Olive wished he could have it all. Hearing him on the phone, imagining him lying on his bed after a long day of rehearsal, blond hair tousled.\nOlive held his phone to his ear long after Orlando had hung up.\nHe wrote letters to Orlando and never sent them. It was like a journal, holding all of his deepest, darkest secrets.\n\nDear Orly,\nEver since I was young, I’ve wondered about death. Maybe it was because I was trying to make sense of what happened to Destry. My mum told me that she went to a better place, where she was happy, she was not in pain.\nBut then I wondered how that was different from life. If death was truly that great, why were people so scared of it. But then, if she was somewhere else, her spirit still living, wasn’t that eternity? Was that what people were afraid of? Eternity?\nAn endless void with no body or voice. Was that what death was?\nBut then I spent less time thinking about it.\nSometimes when everything just feels so heavy, I wonder what a bliss it would be to not exist at all. Would anybody really miss me? Am I really that important? And I just feel like a stain that the world needs to be wiped clean of.\nAnd I think about death again.\nYours,\nOlive\nYears later, he would dump all those letters into a box and bury them in the garden like a time capsule. Ten years afterwards, when he returned to his mum’s house, married and happy, he would find it again.\nHe would read each one of them and remember his childhood and teenage years, and it was like an awakening.\nIf he had let the darkness swallow him whole, who knew where he would be.\n\nAfter the smoking incident, puffing on cigarettes became Olive’s way of maintaining routine in his life. He snuck onto the porch when it was dark and lit one after another aflame.\nOne night, Logan invited Olive to hang out without Shassa’s knowledge. They smoked for a while, and Logan remarked on how skilled Olive had become.\nIt was dark, the street lamps blinking on and off. Olive could feel Logan’s eyes on him.\nHe looked back at Logan, strangely unfrightened.\nLogan’s hand came upon his cheek.\nNot even the moon shone light on them when they kissed.\nThe smoke in their lungs rose and maybe they both would have combusted, but they kept on kissing. Logan pushed him against the wall, a piece of jagged brick dug into Olive’s back, but he didn’t care.\nThey broke apart, hot and gasping.\nThen came Logan’s arm on his neck.\n“If you tell anyone about this, I will break every single bone in your body.”\nHe didn’t have to say it, because Olive could already feel himself shattering from the imprint of Logan’s lips upon his.\n\nShassa told him they were going to be moving away a month later. And as a last trip, she wanted Olive to accompany her to a tattoo parlour.\nThe tattoo artist had long, blue hair tied into a bun, nose and eyebrow piercings, and a tattoo of a wolf on his neck. He had his shirt sleeves rolled back, revealing even more inked skin.\nA rose on the back of his hand. A dragonfly on his forearm.\nHis skin almost translucent, veins clearly seen.\nBut he had an easy smile.\nOlive watched him tattoo Shassa. His brows slightly furrowed, fingers nimble.\nThat was the last time he saw Shassa, but not the last time he saw the tattoo artist. Olive found himself back at the shop.\n“Can I help you?” Olive looked up and found him right there. “You keep looking at the same pages.” He smiled. “You came in with that girl, Shassa. She mentioned your name, is it Oliver?”\n“Olive,” he replied.\n“I’m Blue,” he said. “Did you want a tattoo?”\nOn a whim, Olive said, “Yeah.”\n“What design?” Blue asked. “I’ve tattooed many interesting things in many interesting places. I won’t judge you, as long as you pay me.” Olive didn’t have any money on him. “You can pay me on another day if you want.”\n“A fairy,” Olive finally said. “Here.” He pointed to his chest, right over his heart.\n“Easy,” Blue said.\nThe needle stung at first, but he managed to lose himself in Blue’s features. Olive found calmness in his eyes.\nThey drew him in deeper than anyone before.\nThe sun was setting when Blue lifted the needle. “You’re done.” He offered Olive a mirror, and he saw the tattoo of the fairy, wings ready to take flight.\nLike magic on his skin.\nThat was the afternoon Olive finally decided to be brave. “Is there a chance I can see you again?”\n“I can arrange for that to happen,” Blue said.\nThey met almost every day.\nOlive told him things he had never told anyone. Blue always accepted them with calming words. He held Olive when he told him about Destry.\nThe only time Olive saw him angry was when he told him about Logan.\n“I won’t ever let anyone do that to you again,” Blue said.\nTheir kiss had been soft, gentle like the lapping of waves. \nBut that didn’t mean Blue was perfect.\nOlive came to visit him one afternoon and found him passed out on the couch, completely dead to the world, stinking of liquor.\nYet he stayed.\nRubbing Blue’s back as he threw up, and held him as he cried drunken sobs.\nBeneath the tattoos, Olive saw the white lines, uniform on his arm. On Blue’s bedside table, he saw the razor blade.\nHe listened when Blue told him, as Blue had listened to him.\nBlue was the one who got down on one knee and asked Olive to marry him. Olive said yes. Because Blue made him the happiest he could be. \nWhen they held each other.\nThey became whole in their brokenness." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Marathon\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1059\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters on the verge of a life-changing event, but one has rigged the outcome." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She was a runner. Ever since she could remember. Running barefoot everywhere. in High School she did tracks but then stopped for a while. A spin of depressions and lousy affairs. A spiral down the drain. It was many years later, now in her mid-twenties, that she met her companion. A safety nest. Her lover encouraged always supportive, helping her to get away from the booze and the drugs and get back on her feet.\nStarting slowly with long walks in the park. Rain or shine. Walk a bit, walk more. Fresh air in the lungs. Enjoying the outside, people walking the dog, smiling. Gradually increasing the length, from half a mile to a mile, then a break, to get the body re-used to the stress, careful with the knees (was it tooooooo much pressure?).\nIt took a long time for her lover to put the idea in her head that she could it it. Shea was barely running a few miles in the park, not even getting too worry about specific diets or training schedules yet. Just getting back into shape and having fun.\nBut her lover was sneaky, in a way, had a plan for her in her mind. Jenny suspected that much but did not want to be convinced yet. But that came gradually. Her lover, the charming Lucy, brought her shopping. Never mind classy dresses and paillette. First stop, the sports shop for the appropriate loose clothing and running shoes. She was being pampered and loved it.\n''Sneaky Lucy'' as she lovingly referred to her mate, then eventually started to make the appropriate changes to her diet. A diet high in carbohydrates, proteins and calcium. progressively.\nMartina was a week-end jogger. Always the envious one, always jealous of the other person's success. never satisfied with her salary, wishing to find ways to improve her social status in life...envying the Joneses, as it were. She worked as accountant in a five-star restaurant, worked there for years. Her boss, mister Margolis, trusted her completely. The restaurant made tons of money, never gave more than a passing look at the books, thus she was able to skim a nice bit and put it aside for a rainy day. But that never came, there was never enough and she always spent it more readily. As far as he knew, she lived alone and took her yearly vacation at a nearby and very affordable resort, not even imagining that he was providing her with a first class yearly trip to Europe, Paris and Milan being her favorite destinations.\nBut she also liked to keep her handsome figure. Loved to see the lust in the eyes of the men she crossed on the path. At times she even took one of them back home for a nice round of pleasure in the sack, but no more. She had no desire for complications.\nJenny had been running for months. With encouragements from Lucy, her tempo increased from a thirty minutes non-stop run and so over a few months. But, other parts of her body had to bear the load, so to the swimming pool it was once or twice a week and bicycling to and from work. She thought her lover was a slave-driver but she secretly loved it and aimed to please.\nTrue, there wer also many sacrifices. Who preferred yogurt over a double-double coffee or a large pizza, double cheese? But the reward was that she was now running ten miles at a stretch, her\nmuscularskeletal system getting stronger. Alternating long runs with short ones, she was now heading for the next step, the big twenty-six marathon miles.\nMarita was sitting in the shade after a few miles run. Enjoying a light repast, always mindful of her figure, a nice salad and a glass of red wine. She could not understand the craze about white wines. Might as well be drinking water. She simply relaxed and mused, watching the kids guiding their small boats on the lake.\nShe knew she would have to have a plan if she wanted to get her hands on that Pot of Gold, the first prize for the upcoming marathon. No way would she run that whole distance. But how to do this? She was momentarily stopped in her thoughts by the approach of a real Adonis. She was pleased to let him sit by her side, they chatted a bit, and she decided that she really really really could not miss this opportunity and made him welcome to take a walk back with her to her apartment. How could she resist the thought of the kisses, the caresses and that other form of physical exercise which would drain a lovely amount of energy.\nThe marathon was now one week away. Time to stop the training and give the body a bit of repose. Still on with the diet of carbohydrates, including pasta and apples. Proteins, yes, chicken, eggs, peanut butter and lean beef. As Lucy was an excellent cook, she was pleased to eat what was presented. Always a feast, really. Ok, not the huge dinner fests that one sees in commercials during Holydays times, bur a feast for her nonetheless, her shot at a good place finish in the marathon.....and why not first place, an idea devilishly placed in her head by sweet Lucy.\nThe Big Day came. All preparations done. Proper clothing, plenty of time taken to get to the Marathon reception booth for the registration. Calm and no worry. Thousand of people on the starting line, anxiously waiting for the GO signal, revewing the marathon in her mind, how she would slow down here and increase her tempo there. breathing in and out.\nThen the signal and on their way for the gruelling run.\nIt was only a mile or two before the finish line that also a person or two noticed something strange but paid no mind, they had a race to run. The finish line was in view and Jenny knew she had a shot at winning....but then on her left side, a person appeared, ran ahead, crossed the finish line and won. Totally exhausted, it seemed, and this Marita person accepting First Prize..........It was only later that it was established that she had taken the subway and discreetly re-entered the race two miles before the end, the cheat." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Thank God It's Summer\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1146\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a retirement or leaving party." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Happy retirement!” POP! Suddenly it was raining confetti on my desk. My otherwise sparkly clean cubicle had been puked on, but my OCD decided to take a pleasantly timed vacation. My smile grew wider than I knew it could. I look up to see Penn, my boss, holding the empty confetti canon, and wearing a rainbow party hat. Ken, my cubey-neighbor, wore the same triangle hat, but upside down so it looked like he had grown a skittles-beard. His bald face made my shoulders dance with my cheeks. I spun myself around in my chair and landed face-to-face with Len, who had appeared behind me holding another confetti canon. POP! I stood, taking off my glasses and shaking out the colorful glitter trapped between my eyebrows. I thanked them up and down as a cake appeared. This couldn’t be better. Champagne was bursting like New Year’s Day, and I was stuffing my face with cheap supermarket cookies. They had lain a trail of streamers and balloons down the office floor. It looked like a lazy river made of candy that led right to the lounge, where games and more snacks had been prepared. I followed the river straight to the window where a waterfall of twinkles hung down the outside of the building right onto the pavement below where the surprises ceased.\n“You’re fired.” Her office couldn’t be more grey. Where was the flare? The personality? Does she own even one piece of personal memorabilia? I thought she had kids. “Did you hear what I said?” Even her hair is grey. Her clothes make her look dead. Look at her, sitting in that chair. Do I look like that? Do I lack color? Maybe I keep my pencils too sharp. Or I should try laying my stapler diagonally instead of parallel. No, I can’t do that. I’d lose surface space. How does she arrange it? Hers are parallel, too. But she has a crooked mousepad. That’s odd, I think. Maybe she hasn’t noticed it yet. “What are you staring at?” I wish she was dead.\n“Wake up!” I was on my feet before I could open my eyes, and a bag was shoved in my hands. I was on my own before I could utter a word. You swear it’ll never happen to you until it does. And no matter how many times they ask you, you’ll never have a good answer because- you don’t have one. That bag was gone within a week. My shoes were stolen soon afterward. You say to yourself: I didn’t start here, so I don’t have to stay here. I’ve spoken to thousands of people in the past three weeks, but none of them have spoken to me. My socks died today. Thank god it’s summer.\n“Hello?” Her voice was a sweet siren. I hadn’t heard it in, what, thirteen years? Maybe it was twenty. I had put all my money into this call, but I could hardly think of a single thing to say. What could I say? I need money. Best not. How are you? Can I visit? The car horns were so loud I almost couldn’t hear her response. She lived upstate, off Coldspring. Thanksgiving was tomorrow, so I had to come tonight or not at all. I can’t blame her. Showing up besmirched of all cleanliness and dignity was bad enough.\n“What else was I supposed to do?” It was the best shower I had ever taken in my entire life. A year is a long time. I had nearly forgotten what hot water felt like. But it was ruined. I was eavesdropping from the top of the stairs. It was like I was a kid again. They were arguing about me. My being here made her upset, which makes me even more grateful. I should never have come.\n“Can he stay for dinner, mommy? Please?” I had bathed, slept, and had a full breakfast for the first time since February. But I was already packed and ready to go. I stood at the door with an old backpack stuffed with a change of clothes and snacks. Goodbyes are always strange between us. They aren’t so much goodbyes as they are farewells. She began showing me out the door, but I felt a hand grab mine; a small, soft hand with a firm grip. Her eyes were like mine, like my mother’s eyes. But her hair and nose were like my sister’s. Before last night I didn’t know she existed. So tiny and sweet. When she smiled her growing teeth shined bright despite being misshapen. She’d need braces. But most of all she radiated with love, and it was enough to convince her mother. Thanksgiving with the family, for the first time in seventeen years, I was told.\n“What do you do for work?” What a terrible question to ask a stranger. Who was this guy, anyway? His suit must’ve been dry-cleaned that same day it was so clean. He’s in banking, probably. Or some CEO of a start-up that lets him afford a Tesla. I’m unhoused. Jobless. Homeless. Penniless. I beg for scraps off the street and share my nibbles with the rats. He would’ve loved that. A fearful look from across the table convinced me to hold my tongue. But I didn’t lie. I told half-truths all night. I used to be an accountant, but now I volunteer at shelters. That one’s easy. I can describe shelters all day long. I spend my days cleaning trash up off the streets. Scavenging disguised as community service. Not bad. But the hiding became tiresome. These mashed potatoes are so creamy. Everyone laughed except the suit.\n“Take it. I don’t use it anymore.” I never wanted to be an accountant. I’m logical by nature, but I’ve hated every second of it. In college, I had taken photography. Digital cameras hadn’t quite hit the scene, so I studied on film. It’s more therapeutic that way. I had seen this camera sitting atop the mantle in the living room. It was collecting dust. A perfectly good Yashica just sitting around. Man, I hadn’t held one since I was twenty-two years old. They gave me some money, and even some extra to buy a strap. None of us expected I’d stay for this long. It was nearly Christmas Eve.\n“Oh, um, yes. I suppose.” She blushed. I guess it’s not common for strangers to take your photograph anymore. I explained it was for my column; interviewing locals along my travels. She inquired about my camera, and how she used to have one as well. She told me about her family in Germany, and that she had emigrated west nearly sixty years ago. She had settled as a refugee. It was quite a story. She asked how I became a journalist.\n“That?” I said. “You wouldn’t want to hear about that.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Winding Path\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1904\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ever since I was a little kid I was told exactly how my life was going to play out. I was born into a rich family, who did everything they could to give me a good life and education. That meant I got a chip placed into my wrist.. Now, for all those Christians out there, sorry but no, it’s not the end of times. The chip only tells them what my future holds. \nMost people are only told small snippets of their future, only see flashes of what they are supposed to be. Me? I see everything, and my family takes that for granted. To see my future, all you have to do is get a scanner and watch it play out on the screen. My mom used it for everything. ‘No, sweetie. He’s not in your future, so you can’t be friends with him.’ She would tell me when I would bring my friends home. \nI was alone. My future only showed me what I wanted to see, and after rejecting my first couple of friends, I eventually didn’t even want to see myself with anyone. So after that the only people I ever saw in my future was my family, and soon even they disappeared. I was tired of everything, tired of having to follow a certain path and only do certain things. But then he came along. \nAlexander Hope, the only person I ever wanted to be with. He was in my future, but not in the way you might think he would be. He was also a part of the highest ranked families around, which meant we knew about each other before even meeting in person. \nI came home from school and found him sprawled out on my couch; he was so focused on his phone that he didn’t even realize I was there. ‘Hi, my name’s Nick.’ I said, giving him my best smile. ‘No it’s not. Your name is Nickolas. How sad, a guy in your status not even knowing your first name. How much did they brainwash you?’ \nHe never looked up from his phone. My smile slowly faded and we sat there in silence. ‘My name is Alexander Hope, from the Hope family. I’m kind of important, but I bet you already knew that. So let’s just stop with this stupid introduction and get on with why I’m here.’ He sat up and flipped his hair out of his eyes, causing me to blush a little. \nHis eyes trailed my body and I shifted my feet, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Your sister is the reason I’m here, Nickolas. She broke into our estate in the middle of the night. We caught her in my brother’s room. Would you care to explain this?’ He crossed his leg, his attention now on me instead of the phone in his hand. \n‘I’m not Alissa's babysitter. Why should I care?’ I leaned back on the wall, furious at my younger sister for getting herself in this mess. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, you should care. She has no business with my brother, and he can’t be seen in public with someone like her.’ My eyes narrowed and I clenched my fists. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her. If anything, she’s perfect for your brother. I don’t see any problem with it.’ \nHe sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep breath. ‘They must not tell you anything around here. The problem is that she’s supposed to marry into the Kingston family, not the Hope family. If she’s seen with my brother.. Well, let’s just say it won’t be pretty.’\n'You're from a family of assassins, and you're telling me you're scared of the Kingston family? They can't do anything to you, so what are you scared about?' I asked, a little confused on why the heir of a world-known assassin was telling me he was scared of a royal family. \nAlexander rolled his eyes. 'The Hope family works for the Kingston family, idiot. Our family name would be in ruins if your sister entangles herself with my brother. Not only my family would suffer, but yours as well.’ I shrugged. \n‘Well, what do you want me to do about it?’ \n‘She’s your sister.’\n‘And she’s your problem, not mine. If it gets worse contact me and I’ll step in, but I doubt it will come to that. As you said, you’re important, so I’m guessing you don’t need my help with this. Now, if we’re done talking I’d like to get back to work..’ I turned and walked off. \nAnd then I was pinned to a wall, his face inches away from mine. He leaned in, his hair tickling my cheek. ‘I’m guessing you still don’t understand, so I’ll make this simple. Your little sister, caught in the middle of the night in my brother’s room. The Kingston’s heir finds out about it and either makes me assassinate my own brother, or one day my brother just disappears. Poof. Gone. The Kingston’s heir can either reject Alissa, which would ruin the alliance between your families, or he can take her but never treat her the same again. Now, which one would you rather prefer?’ He growled in my ear. \nMy heart raced and I felt my face grow red from his sudden closeness. ‘N-Neither. But you can stop this, can’t you?’ I whispered, watching as his eyes grew from his icy hardness to a soft ocean blue. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. I need you to keep an eye on Alissa, make sure she doesn’t go out by herself or whatever. I’m doing my job by keeping what happened last night quiet. Now, can you please do this? For me?’ \nFor some reason I agreed, like I was in a trance I couldn’t break out of. \nAnd that’s when my path got twisted. \nI got the call in the middle of the night. Blinking my sleep away I picked up my phone. I looked at the name and it read: Unknown Caller. I sighed and hung up, placing my phone back on my night stand and settling myself back on my bed. Not even a minute later another call interrupts the silent night. I sat up quickly and slammed the answer button. ‘Yes?’ I growl. \n‘We’ve got a traitor in my estate. The Kingston's know about your sister now. They’re coming for my brother. We don’t have much time, you need to keep your sister there. If she finds out she’ll want to come here, and then she’ll get hurt.’ \nI immediately jumped out of bed, rushing to my sister’s room. I opened the door and found her window open, her curtains dancing in the wind. ‘Too late. She’s gone. Are you sure she’s not there already? If not then I might be able to catch up to her.’ I ran back to my room and threw on some clothes. \n‘They’re here. Get here as fast as you can. Your sister is in danger.’ \n‘I’m already on my way. See you soon.’ \nOn my way out of the door I stopped, my eyes landed on the scanner resting on the table. Without hesitation I grabbed it. I drove like a mad man, dodging other cars and zooming past red lights. I finally reached the Hope estate and parked my car in the back. At least five cars were parked in the front, and I saw the heir of the Kingston family making his way to the front door. \nI called the number back and it picked up immediately. ‘We need to run. Meet us by the woods in the back of the house.’ Alexander’s voice boomed through the speakers. ‘W-What?’ I stuttered, heading towards the woods. ‘Look, it’s either you’re with us or against us. You choose. If you’re against us then I’ll do everything in my power to get you out of our way, but if you’re with us you better be ready to run.’ \n‘This is against my future..’ I mumbled to myself. I heard him sigh on the other end. ‘You know you can change your future. All you have to do is choose what path you want.’ I stopped and leaned on a nearby tree. ‘It’s not that simple. I’m supposed to take over my family's business, marry a beautiful lady, and then carry on my family’s name. None of this has to do with that.’ \nI heard footsteps and he appeared out of the shadows. I hung the phone up and he got closer, two others following behind him, my sister included. ‘Alissa, what have you done?’ I grabbed her shoulders and squeezed them. She winced and I released her, then turned to Alexander’s brother. ‘Nathan, you knew better than this! What were you two thinking? This is against everything!’ I exclaimed. \nNathan looked at the ground, then met my eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter. Love is love, you of all people should know that.’ His eyes grew colder and I felt a shiver run down my spine. \n‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I hissed back at him. A rumor spread around once that I was gay, but they have yet to prove it. ‘Oh, I know more than you think.’ He bit back. My fists clenched and Alexander grabbed my arm. ‘Forget about him. He’s always trying to get under people’s skin. Right now is not the time to argue about this. We need to go!’ \nHe pulled me toward the woods, his hand slowly sliding down my arm and into my hand. I bit my lip, blushing yet again. We jumped over fallen logs, tripped on large jutting rocks, and splashed through gleaming water. I shivered in the cold, the water on my legs making me colder. I turned to see my sister struggling in the water, holding her dress in her hands. \nNathan grabbed her saying stuff like, ‘We’re almost there’ and ‘You can do it’. I sighed and turned back to Alexander. ‘Why didn’t we just take the car?’ \n‘I’m an assassin, Nick, don’t you think I know what I’m doing? If I can track a car, then I bet they can, too.’ \nI smiled. He glanced at me. ‘What’s so funny?’ \n‘You called me Nick, not Nickolas.’ \n‘Yes, and?’ \nI chuckled. \n‘Don’t worry about it, Alex.. Never mind..’ \nHe smiled and squeezed my hand, pulling me closer to him. \nThe night went on and we kept running. On and on, only stopping when the sun peeked up from the horizon, finally bringing light to the dark forest. I remember when we rested, keeping close for warmth. I remember Alex’s soft whisper in my ear, the way he said my name, the way he held me gently, everything. But there is another thing I could never forget, the thing that changed my life forever. \nI was the last one asleep, and that’s when it happened. I had the sudden urge to check my chip. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled the scanner out and moved it over my wrist. Pictures swarmed over the screen, finally slowing down enough for me to understand what it was telling me. \nAlex and I together, running. Fighting against the royals, fighting for our love. Changing the laws as we know it. My eyes widened and fear passed through me. My path had forever changed, and I knew there was no going back." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lost\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1126\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who can suddenly only “remember” their future, not their past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He woke up on a parc bench. Totally in a daze. Hair disheveled, tie askew. Tie? He never wears a tie. And he always takes utmost care of his person. High maintenance guy. To the hairdresser every week, as his boyfriend would testify.\nHe could not comprehend the headache or what he was doing on that bench considering that he did not drink nor did he touch drugs. Or maybe. There was this meeting at Margo's mansion. A big affair, lots of top notch lawyers and business people.\nHe could not go home the way he was. His boyfriend soon to be husband would not understand. Of course he'd have to call, make an excuse, say that he'd overslept at the mansion and would soon be home. Problem was he did not have a clue as to where ''home'' was.\nHe felt in his pocket, could not find his top of the line G-14 model phone, wondered if maybe he'd left it there.\nHe managed to get on his feet and straigthened himself out. Looked around and tried to orient himself.\nThe craziest thing occured to him. While there was some sort of fancy coffee shop across the street, he only remembered the place as being occupied by a maker of jet packs where he purchased the latest for his wild week-end crossing such as the Thames. His lavish lifestyle permitted such. And extreme sky diving from stratosphere like height in pressure suits,\nHe'd flown there barely a week ago on the Jetstar special. Barely 50,000$ first class return.\nAs he bent down to tie his shoe he noticed the blood at the cuff of his pants. Shock Something was very wrong. Where did that come from. The mansion again? He would have to get back to Margo,s place. or maybe first there would be some sort of indication of wrong doing on the electronic board. Normally one at every inrtersection. Something else wrong. No electronic board to be seen. What was going on? He thought he was going mad.\nHe decided to get a cab. None in site. Across to the coffee place, then. Maybe he could find a G phone.\n''What will it be'' asked the young man kindly\"\n''Excuse me. How long has this shop been around? I remember Jet Pack Joe being here?''\n''Jet Pack Joe? Never heard. We've been on this corner for twelve years.''\nPeter was totally stunned. This was not possible. He felt like he was in the twilight zone. ''Excuse me, another question, please. You've heard of Margo's mansion, that sort of big castle on the hill?''\nThis time it was the barista who looked at him oddly. ''There is an old mansion on the hill. Never hear of it called by such a name. Been abandoned for ages. There was a murder there decades ago, so nobody wants to buy the place. Some people think its even haunted, so you can imagine.''\n''Murder? What sort of murder? I mean there are so many strange things like the Pollock murder of 2045''.\nThis time the barista looked at him as if he had misunderstood. You mean 2005, don't you?''\nPeter made as if he'd stated wrong, his head elsewhere. But he did not want to appear crazy and left it at that.\nHe asked if he could use a phone to call a cab. Done, he was shocked to see one of these petrol guzzling thing pull up. Almost choked the air out of his lungs.\nHe asked to be driven to the mansion. The driver politely refused, saying that he would drive him to within a block of the place and no more.\n''You mean because of this murder of way-back-when?''\n''Ya. You ain't frum around here, aire you?''\nPeter figured it was best to agree. ''Just visiting'' he said. ''Tell me about this murder?''\n''Oh a totally dradfull theng, ya kno. Family kindly invites a strenger for a night and he kills them all. Father moother, two beatifool gurls and a lad. Knifed them all to death.''\nHe could not believe this. Still he asked to be brought to the corner suggested, paid the fare with some old pieces he found in his pocket and walked to the mansion. Total disbelief. The sumptuous mansion of the night before was a ruin.\nBut all of a sudden he had a flashback. The night before.\nThe argument between the cross dresser (a gorgeous Marylin of yore) and a fellow who (s)he found toooooo aggressive, his hands all over, a glass being cut, himself interfering and the aggressor falling to the floor, blood spweing out of his head and him ending with blood on his trousers.\nHe was musing thus as a police car slowed down and stopped by his side. ''Problem, mister?'' ''Yes officer, there was a crime here last night''. ''Last night? No action of any kind since twelve zerozero five. Unless maybe some squatters who would have dared step in but I doubt that. Scary as hell in there even in day time. You\"re sure you're ok? Oh, I look at you, I noticed these red stains on your pants. You're hurt?''\n''Oh, no. Sloppy eater. Spagetti sauce, you know'' he replied , trying to make a joke out of this. He did not want to make things worse by saying that yesterday was 2045 for him and immediately be placed in a straight jacket.\nThis was just tooooooooo insane. He explained to the cop that he was a journalist and wanted to have just a quick look around the place, a follow-up story on the brutal murders. ''Understood. Just be careful. Lots of pitfalls around that place''.\nHe walked to the front of the mansion, peered inside. All in ruins of course but still beautiful round staircase, a library in the corner, still full of dust covered books. Lovely chandelier. A grand piano.....amazingly like the one he'd seen the night before. Music from Machner, a brilliant composer on the rise. And that flashback of the body hitting the piano before hitting the ground. The police was called, they were all questionned and released. But he did not go very far as he wished to console the beautiful CD Marylin, so they found their way upstairs and, oh yes, now he remembered the lovely heat, the hugs and the caresses, her lips on his manhood. The drinks and perhaps, for some reson someone had spiked it. He had no clue in regard to how he'd left the place and found himself on that bench. But of one thing he was certain: he had cheated on his boyfriend for the first time and that is most likely why he was in no rush to get back home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: An Autumn Anniversary\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2812\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the phrase “This is all my fault.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Josh and Kelsey Manard arrived at a lovely bed and breakfast in the mountains on a crisp September day. It was their fifth wedding anniversary, and they wanted to spend the weekend away celebrating. As Josh pulled into the parking lot, he told Kelsey to stay put so he could open her door. She shook her head and laughed. She was madly in love with Josh. He's always been such a gentleman. She often wondered how she had gotten so lucky to find a man like Josh. \"Your Majesty, we have arrived at your anniversary destination. May I walk you inside?\" Josh said as he rounded the car and opened the door. \"Why, yes, sir, I would be honored.\" She grabbed his hand with one hand and used the other to help lift her very pregnant belly out of the car. \nKelsey was about 7 1/2 months pregnant with their first child. They couldn't wait to meet this sweet little one in November. So far, the pregnancy had been going swimmingly. Kelsey's morning sickness was mild, and she had only recently begun to experience lower back pain and pressure. They had been to a few scans to see the baby, but each time, the baby wouldn't tell them what gender it was. Not knowing didn't really bother them. They knew that no matter what, this baby would be loved and cared for. \nThey walked up a rock path to the stunning red oak door that seemed to be the focal point of this lovely two-story log cabin. With one ring of the bell, they were greeted by a woman dressed in a red ruffled apron. She appeared to have been baking because she was covered in what looked like flour. She wiped her hands on her apron and welcomed them in with a stretched-out hand and a big smile. \n\"Welcome, welcome, welcome! I am Dorothy Dawson, but you can call me Dottie. My husband, Don, and I are so excited to have you here. You are our very first guest now that we have decided to turn our cabin into a bed and breakfast. As we shared in a warm greeting, we heard this crash coming from somewhere down the hall. Dottie threw her hands up, saying, \"Oh dear, what has he done now? My husband Don is a retired doctor, and he somehow thinks that he can fix things around the house just like he could fix his patients. I will be right back.\" She didn’t seem worried as she excused herself momentarily to check on her husband, Don. \nWe couldn’t help but laugh when we heard the exchange between Don and Dottie. \"Donald, what in heaven's name are you doing up there? Get down here before you fall. You’ll never be content until you’ve tinkered with everything in this house. \" \"Oh, Dottie, you worry too much. I’m fine. Don’t you have a pie to back?\" \"Donald, you stubborn old goat, well, when you fall, don’t call for me to help you.\" \nDottie reappeared with the same wide smile. \"All right, then, let's get you two settled in. \"The Mountain View Suite is where you'll be staying. \"Come with me.\" They followed her up the stairs and then came to a stop at the double doors at the end of the hallway on the second floor. Dottie led them through the double doors into the most beautiful suite they’d ever seen. On the right side of the room, a king-sized four-poster bed stood with a white sheer curtain neatly draped over its posts. On the left, there was a seating area with a burgundy coach set up in front of the fireplace. The best part of this room, of course, was the mountain view. The beauty of the mountains was displayed through one large picture window and a balcony. \n\"The view from here is breathtaking; just wait until the sun rises in the morning.\" Dottie said as she appeared to be lost in thought for a moment as she stared out the window. \n\"Dottie, don't you think we should give these two time to settle in?\" Don had come in behind us, and his gruff voice was able to shake Dottie out of whatever thought she was lost in. \n\"Oh, Donald,\" she said as she swatted at him. \"Josh, Kelsey, this is Don, my trouble-making husband.\" He laughed as he smiled broadly at his wife's remark. He shook their hands and said, \"It's nice to meet you two.\" \"Welcome to our humble home,\" he said, holding out his hand and waving it around the room. \"And to be honest, I do cause a little trouble,\" he said with a laugh. \"But Dottie needs someone to keep her on her toes.\" Don kissed Dottie on the cheek, and she blushed and just shook her head. \nThe love these two had for each other was palpable. Kelsey looked at Josh and hoped that she and Josh would still be as in love as they were when they were their age. \n\"If you'd like some, there's coffee and banana nut muffins in the kitchen. Tonight's dinner will be a hearty beef stew with roasted red potatoes, followed by a cinnamon apple crisp tart for dessert. Everything will be ready at half past six.” Dottie explained. \n\"Thank you so much, Dottie, this place is quite spectacular. It really is beautiful, and we can't thank you enough for making us feel welcome.” Said Josh. \"And I'll take you up on your offer of coffee and muffins. said Kelsey. “After that long drive, I do need a little pick-me-up.\" \n\"Yes dear, I will have Don bring some up right away. Why don’t the two of you sit out on the patio and enjoy this beautiful autumn day? \" \nWhen Josh slid open the patio door, he found himself on a long porch that was wrapped around the left side of the house. They could relax in the two lounge chairs and at the small table while taking in the breathtaking view. A set of stairs led down to a tree canopy that led to a trail that led to a stream. \n\"We should definitely go for a walk later. I'm sure it's even more lovely down by the stream. \" Kelsey exclaimed excitedly. \n\"You know, Dr. Miller wants you to take it easy, so maybe that's not the best idea, honey,\" Josh explained. \n\"Josh, I know you're watching out for me, but a quick walk won't hurt.\" Kelsey pleaded with Josh. \"I promise I'll walk slowly, and if I feel anything, we'll go back right away.\" \n\"All right, a short slow walk and then some rest before dinner.\" Kelsey rolled her eyes at her husband, but she knew he was right, so she nodded. Don walked over with a tray with coffee and muffins, and they sat back in their chairs to enjoy them. The coffee smelled fantastic, and the muffins were moist and delectable. While they were enjoying their snack, Kelsey soon became exhausted and fell asleep. While she slept, Josh just sat back with his book and enjoyed the peace and quiet. \nKelsey opened her eyes and yawned, unaware that she had just nodded off. \"Did you get a good nap, sleeping beauty?\" Josh had enquired. He was still sitting by her side on the patio, reading The Catcher in the Rye. \n\"Wow, I can't believe I fell asleep like that.\" How long have I been out? She asked. \"About an hour and a half,\" Josh guesstimated. \n\"Do we have time for that walk now?\" asked Kelsey. \n\"Yeah, we have a little less than an hour before dinner,\" said Josh. \nKelsey put on her shoes, took Josh's hand in hers, and they began their walk. The sight of the leaves blowing in the wind, displaying their vibrant hues, was breathtaking. There were a lot of squirrels running around collecting nuts for the winter. \n They'd been walking for about 15 minutes when Kelsey felt a sharp pain in her back. She massaged the area with her right hand, and it seemed to go away. She didn't say anything to Josh because she was afraid, he'd make her turn around and return. They kept going for another ten minutes when another sharp pain struck. This time, she came to a halt and winced in pain. Josh's eyes widened and he reached for his wife's belly. \n\"What is it? Are you okay? What happened?\" Josh asked, panicked. \nI’m fine. It’s just this pain in my back. It’s probably nothing, just a pulled muscle or something. \"Kelsey said through gritted teeth. \n\"We need to head back to the house; you need to sit down and rest; dinner will be ready soon anyway.\" Just exclaimed as he grabbed Kelsey’s hand. \nThey made their way back to the house and after a 15-minute rest on the bed they headed downstairs for dinner. The house smelled amazing with all the wonderful things Dottie had cooked for dinner. Josh and Kelsey sat down and got comfortable. Dottie brought in the food, and Don brought them some sweet tea. \n\"Alright, you two enjoy,\" responded Dottie and she set their plates down. \n\"Are you and Don not joining us? \" Kelsey asked. \n\"No, sweetheart, since you are our guest, we will dine in the kitchen.\" \nKelsey exclaimed, \"Josh and I would love it if you two would join us.\" \nDottie asked, \"Are you sure? \"We don't want to interrupt your time together.\" \nJosh stated, \"Nonsense, the more the merrier.\" \nDottie headed back to the kitchen to let Don know, and then they joined them at the table. \n\"So, Kelsey I happened to notice your baby bump. How far along are you? \" Dottie asked. \n\"Seven and a half months, this is our first and we are so excited. \"Exclaimed Kelsey. \n“Children are a gift from God. Don and I had four kids, two boys and two girls. And so far, we have six grandkids.\" Dottie said with a smile on her face. \n\"Oh, wow, really, what a blessing,\" said Kelsey \n\"Do you know what you’re having, dear?\" Dottie asked. \nKelsey explained while rubbing her stomach, \"We don't know yet. This little one seems a bit shy and wants mommy and daddy to be surprised, I guess.\" Suddenly, as if on cue, the baby kicked her abdomen vigorously. \"I believe this baby knows that we are talking about them,\" said Kelsey as she rubbed her belly once more. \nAs they continued to enjoy the meal and engage in polite conversation, Kelsey suddenly yelled out. \"Oh, my goodness, that hurt”. She was clenching her stomach and had begun to breathe heavily. \n“Do you feel okay, honey? \" Dottie enquired. \n\" I believe so\"... She began to say more, but her body prevented her from doing so. Then suddenly, excruciating pain shot up her back. This time was different. Josh asked Kelsey if she needed to go lie down. \"Yes, perhaps I ought to go lie down for a while.\" Kelsey agreed. However, while trying to stand up, Kelsey's water broke. \n\"Oh, my goodness,\" Dottie exclaimed, \"it appears that this little one is ready to join us. \nJosh and Kelsey were worried because the baby wasn't due for another month and a half. \n\"Go get your medical bag, Don, and I'll get some fresh towels,\" Dottie stated. \n\"Josh, bring Kelsey over here and we'll put her on the couch,\" Dottie proclaimed. \n\"This is all my fault; I should have listened to you and not gone on that walk,\" Kelsey groaned. \nDespite her body's sharp pain and pressure, Kelsey seemed to feel peace come over her. Dottie was there before she knew it. Dottie had a cool washcloth to wipe her cheeks and brow. Don had started taking things from his bag and putting them on the coffee table. Dottie spread a clean sheet across her thighs and stomach. \nDon gave her and Josh a look before saying, \"I'm going to examine you right now. Is that all right? \" Josh appeared to ask Kelsey's permission, and she agreed with a nod. Josh clenched her hand tightly and looked over his shoulder as Don began the examination. \n\"All right, my dear, Don said, you appear to be fully dilated and ready to push.\" So, I want you to push with the next contraction. \nShe used all of her strength to push as hard as she could while her body screamed in agony. \"Wonderful, darling; now give it one more strong push.\" \nKelsey pushed once more time with all of her strength, and then a cry could be heard emerging from beneath the sheet. Don cleaned the baby by wiping it down and then suctioning its mouth and nose. Don asked Josh if he was ready to cut the cord before passing him the scissors. Josh gave a nod, and cut the cord while wiping away his tears. \nDon wrapped the baby up and placed it on Kelsey's chest. \"Oh, my goodness, you are beautiful!\" Kelsey said as she kissed the baby on the cheek. Then she realized something, she pulled back the towel to see the baby, and upon realizing the baby's gender, she cried even harder as she turned to Josh and announced, \"It's a girl.\" \nThe four of them sat there crying, even Don. Soon after Don and Dottie helped Kelsey and Josh move up the stairs to their room. Since there were grandparents, Dottie and Don already had a bassinet and other supplies to give Kelsey and Josh. Dottie had mentioned that if they needed anything, to let them know that they would be there to help them all night. \nIt was difficult to believe what had just happened; one minute they were eating dinner, and then, unexpectedly, the baby arrived. The baby was totally healthy and perfect. You'd never guess this baby was born early. \nThey settled in for the night\" Good morning, honey. How are you doing? Josh was curious. \n\"I'm exhausted and sore, but I'm happy.\" \nAs they looked over at their precious baby girl, they both smiled. \n\"What are we going to call our little princess?\" Josh inquired. \nWell, thought Kelsey, I know we had a few names in mind, but I have a new name for her.\" \n\"How do you feel about Autumn Dawn?\" Kelsey stated \n\"I love it!\" exclaimed Josh. \n\"Welcome to the world, Autumn Dawn,\" Josh said as he walked over to his little girl. We absolutely love you so much. \nKelsey stood up and wrapped her robe around herself before asking Josh to fetch Dottie and Don for a formal introduction. \nDottie and Don entered the room, and you could see the joy on their faces right away. \"May I hold her?\" Dottie asked. \n\"Of course, you can, Kelsey,\" she replied. She handed her over to Dottie, and both she and Don smiled so big that you could feel their love for this little girl. \n\"What is her name, dear?\" Dottie wanted to know. \n\"First and foremost, we want to express our gratitude for all of your help with our little surprise. We consider ourselves incredibly blessed that you were able to share this moment with us. So, allow Josh and I to introduce you to Autumn Dawn Manard. \" \n\"Oh, my word,\" Dottie exclaimed, her hand covering her mouth and tears streaming down her cheeks. \nJosh handed the baby over to Don. Don raised the baby in his arms and prayed aloud. Thank you, Lord, for this precious little angel, and bless her mom and dad. \" He kissed her on the cheek and handed her back to Dottie. \nDottie kissed the baby's head before turning to Josh and Kelsey and saying, \"Don and I were talking, and we agreed that you should stay with us again soon. And we are offering you a free week's stay. \" \n\"You don't have to do that,\" expressed Kelsey. Dottie waved her hand, as if dismissing Kelsey's response. Don chimed in, saying, \"We insist.\" \nJosh extended his hand to thank Don, but Don drew him in for a hug. \"Now that that's settled, Dottie and I have a small request.\". \n\"Absolutely, anything,\" said Josh. \n\"Can you check in with us from time to time. We would love to know how the baby is doing?\" asked Dottie. \nKelsey immediately spoke up and said, \"Actually, we were hoping we could come back and stay a few times a year.\" \nDottie gasped and, with great joy, said, \"Oh my goodness, that would be amazing.\" \nThey talked over breakfast and together made a plan for Josh and Kelsey to return during Thanksgiving to meet Don and Dottie’s family and to celebrate the holiday with them. What started out as an anniversary trip turned out to be much more than Josh and Kelsey had expected, but they both knew it had been a blessing." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Kings & Queens 👑 part four\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2239\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who can suddenly only “remember” their future, not their past." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Delvin’s POV:\nThe redhead that’s staring at me is really cute. But there is something strange about him. \nThe taller one, who looks like me, walks towards me, but I put up a hand.\n“Wait.” I say. “You might know me, but I can’t remember you.”\nHe looks confused. “But...” \n“I still know who you are.” I tell him. Maybe I should explain. “I’ll explain on the way.”\n“The way to where?” He demands.\nI smile. “We’ve got to go get the elves, don’t we?”\n 👑\nI tell them how, about five hours ago, I couldn’t remember anything about my past. I could see into the future, but only if I wanted to. That’s how I figure out their names.\n“So, you,” I say, looking at the taller one, “Are Sal. And you’re dating the prince? Chris?”\nHe looks a little freaked out, and I don’t blame him. He nods, and I look at the redhead.\n“Who are you?” I can’t see anything about him.\n“You can’t see my future?” \nI sigh. “It doesn’t work like that.”\n“How does it work?” He asks.\n“I can see different possibilities for futures, but I have to be in them. I don’t know why I can’t see you in any of them. It’s like you're not supposed to be here.”\nHe bites his lip. “I’m not really supposed to be here.”\n“What?” I ask.\nHe trips over a root, and my hand shoots out to help him. But as soon as I touch him, my eyes widen.\n“You should be dead!” I cry. I can just tell. \nHe smiles. “Death doesn’t like me.”\n“What does that mean?” I ask.\nSal and Chris had walked ahead, and are now talking in hushed tones. \n“Well, I was turned into a book for a hundred years.” He tells me.\nI nod. “Okay, so how old are you?” \n“A hundred and eighteen. But technically eighteen.” \n“I’m eighteen too.” I say. I blink and see the future.\nChris trips over a rock by a lake, and the waterfall splits, and we find a secret entrance. We walk through a dark tunnel until Chris trips over a torch. We reach an opening, but there are guards. They go to attack us, but someone yells a name, and they fall back.\nI open my eyes and run into a tree.\n“Ow!” I yell. Sal and Chris turn, and Sal snorts. The elf crouches beside me.\n“Are you okay?” He asks.\nI press my hand to my nose. “I think so.”\n“I thought you could see the future.”\nI glare at him. “It doesn’t work like that.”\n“Okay.” He shrugs. “Do you want me to heal your nose?”\nI look at him. “You can do that?”\n“Yeah, most elves can.” \nI nod. “Yeah, please do.”\n“Okay.” He says. He presses two warm fingers to my nose, and leaves them there for a few seconds. His eyes are really cool. They keep changing colors.\nWhen he moves back I realize I was staring. But he was too.\n“Thanks.” I say.\nHe shrugs, and stands up. “No problem.”\n“Now we’ve got to look for a waterfall.” I tell him, standing.\nHe points behind me. “Like that one?”\n“Yeah, that’s it.” I say.\nWell, we got lucky. Chris trips as soon as we get over to them.\n“Great.” I say, looking at the waterfall. A huge rock rises, making a dry path to walk on.\nThey all look at me. “Do you know what’s going to happen?” Sal asks.\n“Yeah, we walk through there until we find an opening, then we convince the guards to let us through.” I explain, walking on the rock.\nThey follow, and when we’re all inside, the rock goes back up, leaving us in darkness.\nSomeone grabs my arm. I can barely make out the elf’s face in the dark.\n“Are you okay?” I ask quietly.\nHe shakes his head, and moves closer to me. “I don’t like the dark.”\n“It’s okay.” I whisper. Then louder, “Chris? Sal?”\n“We’re right here.” Sal says from behind me.\nI turn. “Okay, let’s go. Chris will trip over a torch eventually.”\n“What?” He yelps. Sal laughs.\nWe walk down the tunnel, and at some point I end up holding the elf’s hand. I don’t mind, because his hand is warm, and it’s cold.\nWe find the torch, and Sal manages to light it. The elf immediately relaxes, but we both turn red when they see our hands.\n“Shut up.” We both say, letting our fingers drift apart.\nWe walk in silence until we find ourselves in front of the guards.\n“Hey! How did you get in here?” They yell, coming towards us. There are seven.\nThey’re all in armor, and carry tall spears they jab them at us. One almost hits me, but the elf pulls me behind him.\n“Stop,” He commands. They do. “Do you have a king?” He asks. At first nobody moves, but finally one nods. \n“Why?” They ask.\n“Go tell him Airen has come to save everyone.” \nSo that’s his name.\nThey all drop their spears immediately. Three of them run off, and the others bow at Airen’s feet. \nHe looks like he hates it. “No, no, get up.” He tells them. They do.\nHe tugs on one of his curls. “Can we go in? It’s cold in here.”\n“Yes, of course.” One says. They move out of the way, and walk on all sides of us.\nTheir home is amazing. The light comes from the different colored crystals everywhere. They have small houses, and buildings set up, and I can see a huge building I assume is the castle.\nAll kinds of creatures are everywhere, most of them are looking at us. I can see other elves. All of them have curly hair that is all kinds of different colors and pale skin. Fairies are flying around, and long on top of buildings to stare at us. I can hear neighbors coming from somewhere, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were pegasus or unicorns.\nAiren comes to my side. “This is creepy.” He whispers.\n“No kidding.” I mutter back.\nI get another vision.\nAn elf with a huge stomach, red robes, and a crown is standing in front of us. He is looking beside me, and he crosses his arms. “If you truly are Airen, tell me. Who is the one that turned you into a book?”\nI blink, and see Airen looking up at me. \n“What was it?” He asks.\nI glance up. “The king. He’s going to ask who turned you into a book.”\n“Oh, that’s easy.” He says, relieved.\nWe stop, and the king comes out. He’s got long curly blue hair, and is wearing lots of gold. He’s very intimidating, and has a sword at his side which makes him look even scarier. He crosses his arms and looks at Airen who digs his nails into my arm.\n“If you truly are Airen, tell me. Who is the one who turned you into a book?” He bellows.\nEveryone is quiet, as Airen stands up straight.\n“It was Charlie Reynes. The king's younger brother.”\nEveryone looks at the king. He nods. \n“Good. Now, come. We have much to discuss.” \n“Actually,” Airen says. I look at him.\n“What are you doing?” I hiss.\n“We don’t have time for this.” He tells me.\nThe king turns back to look at Airen. “What did you say?”\n“We can’t. Warmonger is coming soon. We need to be ready to fight him.” Airen says confidently.\nThe king walks till he’s right in front of Airen. “And who are you to tell me what to do?”\n“The only person who can save your sorry butts.” He replies.\nHe’s awfully brave. The king looks shocked, but I already know Airen will get away with talking to him like that.\nThe king purses his lips, and turns. “Fine. How long do we have? Do you know that?”\nI’m standing in a stable with Airen, helping brush a unicorn. “I can’t believe we had two days to prepare an army.” He says.\nI blink, and see Airen looking at me.\n“Two days.” I say under my breath.\nHe looks up at the king. “We have two days for an army to be ready. Can you do that?”\n 👑\nTwo days later, I’m in the stable with Airen.\nPreparing the army was easy. They were all very good at listening to Airen, especially after they found out he could disarm three of them in ten seconds.\nChris and Sal spent most of their time with the animals, so I spent a lot of time with Airen, which was amazing.\nEveryone wanted to meet him, and would watch him do anything. He constantly mouthed off to the king, which made most people like him even more. The king was kind of selfish, and annoying.\nWe were planning on going to the mountain I found out Warmonger would be waiting at. Airen and I are going out last, so we’re waiting for all of the soldiers to file out.\n“Are you ready?” I ask him. He doesn’t seem scared, or worried like I am.\nHe shakes his head. “No. But I’ve been waiting for this for a hundred years.”\nI’m worried that if he’s going to get hurt, I won’t be able to prevent it. I still can’t see far into a future with him, and that’s making me anxious.\n“What about you?” He asks, looking at me.\nWe walk towards the entrance of the cave. Everyone who isn’t fighting was sent to hide in another cave.\nI shrug. “Probably not.”\n“It’ll be okay.” He assures me.\nI nod, not believing him. I chose not to tell him about all the people who will die. \nWe go out of the cave, following the last of the soldiers. When we get to the forest, we wait.\n“Del,” He says quietly. He started calling me that, and I never stopped him. \n“Yeah?” I ask. We’re standing behind a cluster of trees, watching the soldiers.\nHe bites his lip. “I’m worried.”\n“About what?” \nHe looks up at me. “I don’t want you to die.”\nThat shocks me. Shouldn’t he be more concerned about himself?\n“Why?” I ask, looking into his eyes. I realize how close we are.\n“Cause then you’d never know how much I like you.” He says quietly.\nWait..what? He actually likes me? I really wish I had seen this coming sooner.\n“I know now.” I tell him. \nThen he covers his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, that was dumb, I-”\nI grab his face. “Shut up.”\n“Okay.” He says. \nI pull him close, and kiss him. He wraps his arms around my neck, standing on his toes to reach my mouth. I pull his waist, kissing him hard. \nWhen he pulls back, he grins. “Don’t die.”\n“You can’t either.” I tell him. “I’m definitely marrying you.”\nHe kisses me one more time, and we go to fight a monster.\n 👑\n(‼️Warning: This is kind of a war scene. If uncomfortable, please don't read.!!)\n\nI think we’re winning? \nThere are a lot of dead goblins and trolls everywhere, but also dead elves.\nI’m following Airen, who is going towards Warmonger.\nI already know the elf king is dead. He decided to charge Warmonger, and got himself killed.\nWhen Airen is about to go face Warmonger, he tells me to stay back. I don’t listen, and follow after he’s gone. \n“Warmonger!” He shouts, strolling up the hill to him.\nHe’s huge, but not that scary. He’s got a human body, and huge wings. His claws are long, and sharp, but that’s probably the scariest thing about him. He’s wearing a mask, so I have no idea what his face looks like.\nHe looks down at Airen, and lands in front of him.\n“What, child?” He hisses, a cloud of smoke bursting from the mask.\nAiren coughs, and looks back at him.\n“I wanted to give you something.” He says.\nWhat is he doing?\nHe pulls his sword from his belt, and drops it in front of Warmonger, who looks confused. He leans down to pick it up. When he looks away, Airen plunges a dagger into his throat. \nHis scream travels far into the woods, and I can hear trolls and goblins surrendering.\nAiren backs up, but not quick enough. Warmonger slashes his claws across Airen’s chest as he falls. He doesn’t get up.\n“No!” I scream. I run to Airen who turns to look at me.\nHe shakes his head. “I told you to stay back.”\nThen he collapses. I catch him, and hold him in my arms. He’s ridiculously light, and I carry him away from Warmonger’s body.\nI sit on the top of the hill, cradling his head in my lap.\n“D-del.” He coughs.\nI look down at him. “Please. Don’t die. You promised.”\n“So-sorry.” \n“Airen…” I sob. \"You can't. Please.\"\nHe moves his hand to my cheek. “It’s okay.”\n“It’s not.”\n“You’ll be okay.”\n“I won’t.”\n“Please don’t cry.”\n“Airen, you’re dying.”\n“I know.”\n“This is my fault...”\n“No. It’s not.”\n“Airen… I love you.”\n\"I love you t-too.\"\n\"Please.\"\n“Tell me -” He coughs. “Tell me what would happen if we got married.”\nSo I do. The possible future comes to me, and I tell him everything I can think of as he slowly dies in my arms." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Every Other Saturday Knitting Club\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1282\n\nPrompt:\n\nThink of someone who stood on the periphery of your childhood memories (a classmate, a teacher, a neighbor) and cast them as the main character of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Yesterday as I flipped through the stack of mostly junk mail that I had fetched from the mailbox, an advertisement for a magazine caught my attention. The cover featured a color photograph of a ball of yarn with knitting needles artistically inserted through the middle. The ball of yarn and needles was sitting on a table beside a retro couch with a knitted afghan blanket draped across the arm. Memories of Mrs. Hudson, my sixth-grade teacher, came to mind. She was tall, with a kind face, and wore little makeup. Her light brown hair had begun to gray, and she wore it in a simple bob cut above her shoulders. Her school uniform consisted of skirts with blouses that were not tucked in, flat or almost flat shoes, and a cardigan year-round. \nMrs. Hudson taught language arts when I was in sixth grade. Mrs. Hudson also taught knitting lessons in her home to select sixth-grade students every other Saturday from fall through winter. \nIt took the most pitiful expression I could muster to convince my parents to let me take the knitting lessons. It then required pleading and promises of extra chores to get them to agree to drop me off and pick me up every other Saturday. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson only lived seven miles away, and she offered the knitting lessons for free. She even supplied knitting needles and yarn. \nOn the Saturdays when there was a knitting class, I would wake up early and be ready in a flash. Sometimes I had to be persistent to get my mama up so we could arrive by 9:00 a.m. My mama worked long hours at a factory during the week, so she was tired and often slept in on the weekends. Once I arrived at Mrs. Hudson's, it was like another world. What a difference seven miles make! We lived out in the sticks with the nearest neighbor half a mile away. Mrs. Hudson lived in a subdivision on a corner lot. There were neighbors within shouting distance on three sides. Mrs. Hudson would be waiting on the porch in pants and a sweatshirt. I tried not to stare but could not help but sneak side glances at her. It was the first time I had witnessed the evolution of a teacher into a regular person. \nThe house was quiet, tidy, and welcoming as Mrs. Hudson guided us to the den. It was such a contrast to the house I grew up in. There was no den at home. We only had a living room. And our house was always loud and in varying degrees of disarray, as would be expected with five children living there. Depending on the Saturday, four to six girls would be at the knitting lesson. Mrs. Hudson always had a tray of snack food on the coffee table. Usually, it was popcorn or applesauce, but occasionally, there would be little doughnuts covered in powdered sugar. That was always such a treat. There was also a pitcher of fresh iced tea or lemonade. Water was always a choice, but no one ever asked. Small bowls and plastic cups were stacked beside the tray. We would grab a snack and drink while everyone arrived and settled for the lesson. I drank iced tea for the first time at one of those Saturday knitting lessons. \nWhen everyone arrived, we would remove sweaters and jackets and pile them in the chair next to Mrs. Hudson's. Mrs. Hudson allowed us to take our knitting home so that we could practice during the two weeks until the next lesson. So, we would then begin rustling in our bags to retrieve the knitting needles and yarn. One or two girls had their projects in a cloth bag or purse, but others, including me, carried our knitting in a brown, kraft grocery bag. \"Knitting\" was clearly printed in bold block letters on my bag. My name was written in looping cursive underneath. I remember how carefully I had worked on decorating that brown paper bag. Once the knitting needles and yarn came out, there was constant chatter punctuated with giggling and the slow, determined clicking of knitting needles. Mrs. Hudson would sit in a nearby chair, with a cat snuggled beside her, knitting needles silently, flying while taking it all in. Those two hours passed in the blink of an eye. Finally, around 10:30 a.m., Mrs. Hudson would announce that we should find a stopping place and go to the restroom if we needed to because our parents would be there soon to pick us up. Then, as we gathered needles, yarn, and personal belongings, we headed to the front porch. There we would say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, thank her for having us, and share a quick hug as we called out, \"See you in two weeks!' \nIf we had questions about our knitting in between classes, we could ask Mrs. Hudson about it after school. I was so anxious if I had a question. I knew I would need to be quick about getting to her classroom and asking so I could get in the bus line outside. I rushed to her classroom after school one day. When you added the first stitch, I could not remember if the needle should have been placed behind or in front of the slip knot. As Mrs. Hudson explained, my eyes darted to the window to watch for my bus. She asked why I was nervous, and I explained that I would get in big trouble if I missed the bus. She said, \"Do not worry about that. I can drop you off on my way home\". As it turned out, I never missed the bus when stopping by Mrs. Hudson's classroom, but I remember wishing I had so that I could have ridden home with her.\nI don't recall officially thanking Mrs. Hudson for those Saturdays, and I regretted that. On a whim, I typed her name and the town where she lived into Google, knowing it was a long shot because it was a lifetime ago. Within minutes a couple of articles and multiple obituaries popped up. It did not take long to scan through the articles and obituaries. There was a recent photograph inserted into one of the obituaries, and as I gazed into those eyes, there was no question that it was Mrs. Hudson. She had passed away only eight years before at the age of 99. It was clear from the dates that she was younger than I realized in sixth grade. And, she must have moved from the house in the subdivision I had visited on those Saturdays so long ago because the obituary mentioned that after she retired from teaching, she had raised goats. \nThose knitting lessons are one of the happiest memories of my young life. It dawned on me years later that knitting was not Mrs. Hudson's primary goal. There was no open invitation to \"The Every Other Saturday Knitting Club.\" Instead, she had chosen this hodgepodge group of little girls that did not fit in separately but somehow fit together like pieces of a puzzle. As we learned to knit, we found common ground that we may not have found otherwise, and somehow, we knitted together our own little community. I smiled as I visualized Mrs. Hudson surrounded by a group of little goats. I do not know much about little goats. But I would venture to guess that they, too, need a sense of belonging, and a community, just like little girls. What lucky little goats, I thought, and what lucky little girls. I closed my eyes as I said aloud, \"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Why must I be here?\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1295\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who goes to — or purposefully avoids — their high school reunion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Things between Mikey and Jamie had improved slightly but they were still on thin ice. Mikey was reluctant to trust Jamie despite wanting to more than anything. Jamie was doing everything in his power to avoid another argument like the one they had just had.\nIt was a quiet Thursday afternoon and the pair were resting on the couch. Jamie had his earbuds in listening to a drama video about his content and Mikey also had his earbuds in, listening to a podcast about the architecture of Notre Dame cathedral.\n“Isn’t it sad that something so beautiful has to burn down?” The freckled boy muttered absent-mindedly into the silence, he received a distracted hum in response. Nevertheless, he continued speaking to his preoccupied boyfriend.\n“You know, Notre Dame is said to house the original crown of thorns that Jesus wore.” Mikey knew he wasn’t getting anywhere with this conversation and put his earbuds back in his ear and started up another podcast. He gently plopped his legs into Jamie’s lap, receiving a playful groan which made him smile slightly. It was in moments like these that Mikey felt truly happy. To be so in love with someone scared him at first, sometimes it still does, but he’s so happy that he met Jamie and gets to share his life with him. A while passed between the two of them, the pair enjoying the silent company of the other. That was, until Jamie decided to break the silence.\n“My secondary school is doing a reunion.” He stated. Mikey expected him to elaborate on this topic but he didn’t so he had to continue the conversation himself.\n“So, are you gonna go?”\n“Probably not, no.” Jamie replied, not looking up from the reaction video he was watching.\n“Aw, come on. Why not?”\n“Well, its just going to be people bragging about how great their boring office jobs are. Why do I want to listen to that?”\n“Well, you can flex your YouTube fame on them.”\n“I might, I’ll think about it.” This was enough to cause a bright grin to spread across his boyfriend’s face, revealing soft dimples and crinkles at the eyes as he snuggled closer into the green haired boy.\nMikey hadn’t thought any more about it until later that evening when they were cooking dinner.\n“You should come with me.” Jamie started out of nowhere, casually cutting up some pepper.\n“You what?” Mikey asked, completely dumbfounded, taking his attention away from the mushrooms he was sautéing to give his partner a confused look.\n“To the reunion. You should come as my date.”\n“Why?”\n“I don’t know. For moral support and so I can show you off.”\n“Look, if this is about the argument, I told you, I’m over it now.”\n“But I’m not. I want to be better for you.”\n“Fine. I guess I’ll listen to boring people talk about their boring lives if that’s what you want.”\n“It is, thank you. Oh, and watch out, your mushrooms are burning.”\n“Shit!” Seconds later, the fire alarm is screaming in their ear and the entire block of flats has to be evacuated.\n“Maybe, we don’t mention this when we talk to your old school friends.” Mikey chuckled as they stood in the rain, waiting to be allowed back inside.\nThat was that. They didn’t think about it until the night of the event. Jamie was pacing nervously as Mikey picked out a tie.\n“Will you hurry up? I don’t want to be late!” He barked at the latter, who chuckled warmly in response.\n“Its called being fashionably late, babe. You know, making an entrance.” Mikey joked, settling on a magenta tie that matched his socks.\n“Yes but this is my old school. I was never late to school.”\n“Don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll give you detention or nothing.”\n“Yes, yes, very funny. Can we go please?” Jamie ordered, grabbing his keys and ushering his date out of the door. It was only when they were buckled into the car that he allowed himself to take a breath.\n“I don’t see why you’re worrying. It’s not like school was hard on you or nothing.”\n“Exactly. I don’t want people to think I peaked and that’s all that’s gonna become of me. I had so many hopes and dreams when I was in school. I wanted to join the army and become a medic, do something worthwhile. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, but even I know it’s completely worthless in the grand scheme of things.”\n“Entertainment is important. Life is impossibly, soul-crushingly hard sometimes. All it takes, is to turn on your favourite show or listen to music by your favourite artist or, even, watch a YouTube video by your favourite channel and things don’t seem so hard anymore. Are you saving lives on a war-torn battlefield? No. But are you bringing joy and entertainment into people’s lives? Hell yeah. And you know what? I think that’s pretty fucking cool.” A heavy silence covered them like a sheet of snow. Unlike snow, however, this silence was warm, loving and optimistic. Jamie wished that he could be bathed in it, or tap into it like sap from a tree. Instead, he opted to enjoy the loving warmth that Mikey radiated while it lasted, choosing to store that memory, that feeling, for the times that the silences were filled with sharp icicles and a bitter cold that cut through his heart. The silent car journey was short and, before they knew it, they were at the hotel. It was a fancy hotel, one that Jamie knew he didn’t deserve to be at.\n“You ready to go in?” Mikey asked shaking him from his thoughts, his soft hand laced in Jamie’s. \n“Not really, no.” Jamie wanted to run and hide, he didn’t want to be here.\n“What are you afraid of?” Mikey asked, his voice was soft and gentle however, it posed little comfort to Jamie at the current moment.\n“I don’t know really.” He did know actually; the fear of the peers he looked down upon as an adolescent becoming more successful than him in every way, his insecurities surrounding the legitimacy of his job, the fancy, expensive hotel that was making him uncomfortable and the fear that he may embarrass himself in front of the man that he loves more than anything else in the world.\n“We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to, but won’t you wonder what your old classmates are up to now?” Jamie took a moment to look at his boyfriend. To properly look at him. To appreciate the small crinkles of his eyes when he smiles, or his soft curls that always sit perfectly without any effort, or the sprinkling of freckles over his while body. He loved the way his caramel brown eyes glowed in the moonlight. They reminded him of the sun. Much like the sun, he feared he would lose sight of what’s around him if he stared too long.\n“No, I don’t think I would. Besides, who needs to look into the past and worry about ‘what if’s if you have everything you’ve ever wanted? It may not be exactly where I saw myself but looking at it now, this is exactly where I needed to be in life; with an amazing career that I love and people who love and care about me. I won’t waste my time in a room with people I’ve never liked, listening to them brag about their flashy lifestyle when I could be at home, watching movies with someone who I enjoy spending time with and makes me feel good about myself.” Jamie rambled, reversing out of the car park to do exactly as described." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Wisdom of Magic\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1028\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with a character saying “Where I come from, …”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Where I come from, the land is magical because everyone believes. That’s why I am a unicorn. Mystical, mythological.” I gestured to the horn on top of my head. I knew he was only one of the very few who could see it. He believed.\n\nI glanced across the room and caught the reflection of myself in the mirror opposite. I could see my horn shimmering like a mirage.\n\n“Tonight, I will tell you the legend of the Tooth Fairy.”\n\nMy beautiful little boy, curled up under the blankets and nested into his pillow now, turned his big, blue eyes toward me while clutching his teddy bear, his thumb finding his mouth.\n\nHe had just lost his first tooth and he wanted me to convince him that the Tooth Fairy was real. He has heard stories in his kindergarten class, some believers, mostly dissenters I told him the story of how she would come in the night, while he slept, to exchange his tooth for a coin because it was in the special pouch beneath his pillow. I had given him a little, silk bag in which to place his tooth and slip under his pillow so the tooth fairy could visit secretly.\n\n**\n\nI focused on the stars softly glowing on the ceiling, making my wish, before Mommy said my name. I looked at the sparkly horn Mommy pointed at on top of her head, when she started telling the story. My eyelids became heavy as she started talking. I loved her voice. I loved her stories.\n\nI was listening to her words, but I remember seeing the tooth fairy that night. She was little and looked like Mommy - she was so pretty! And she flew in on a white unicorn with wings! I giggled when they landed and walked over my neck. She hopped off the unicorn and her wings fluttered on my cheek. It tickled when she sneaked under my pillow.\n\nAfter they quietly flew away, I squeezed my eyes tight shut, squeezed Teddy hard and rolled over. I couldn’t wait for the sun to shine in my window so I could wake up and look in the little bag.\n\nWhen I woke up to the rainbow shining on my wall, made by the sun catcher hanging on the window, I knew it was morning. I tossed my pillow aside, gabbed the little bag that had been tucked carefully under it, and opened it up. I pulled out a large, silver coin!\n\n“Mommy, Mommy!” I called from my room.”Look!” I whispered in amazement as I held the coin up for Mommy to see. “She was here!” \n\n\n\n“Oh!” I gasped toward the shiny fifty cent piece my son held out proudly in his small hand. “Of course she was,” I stated matter-of-factly, giving him a gentle smile, fascinated by his wide, amazed, sparkling eyes. I hoped he would always believe in magic, like in this moment.\n\nI gave him a bearhug, relishing the time he would show his enthusiasm for believing in magic. I reluctantly rose from the kneeling position I had quickly achieved to match his level with my hearty embrace.\n\n“Get dressed and come out to the kitchen for pancakes, okay?”\n\n**\n\nPancakes?! Today? Wow! I hoped they would be Chocolate Chip.\n\nWith a big grin and a fist pump, I shouted, “Okay!” and hopped out of bed to put on the clothes Mommy and I had picked last night. My favorite jeans, superman sweatshirt and my red tennies. I slipped the coin in my pocket, grabbed my cape, and raced to the kitchen, where Mommy was scooping batter on the hot griddle. I wanted to show the half-dollar to my friends at school and tell them all about the Tooth Fairy! She is real! Just like how my Mommy is a Unicorn!\n\nShe poured me some juice and brought me a plate with pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse, with chocolate chips for eyes and a smiling mouth. I smothered them in syrup before picking up my fork. I shoveled in my breakfast and gulped down my juice, rushed to brush my teeth. I rushed to fan the cape around my neck - it was red, like my shoes - then ran outside to jump in the care. We needed too go! I wanted to show my friends!\n\nMommy hurried out the door behind me to make sure I got buckled in and combed my hair before she started the car. I looked up at her. She was smiling. The sparkly horn on her head made me feel so happy, and she wore sparkly eye-shadow to match. My grin got wider as I clutched my backpack. My Mommy was a Unicorn! I wondered what I’d be when I grew up. I rearranged my cape so it wouldn’t get all wrinkly.\n\nWe finally pulled up to the front of the building. Mommy gave me a kiss on the cheek and straightened my cape before sending me off to the school.\n\nAfter going through the big doors, I walked fast (we weren’t supposed to run inside) to the classroom. First, I showed the teacher and told her the story. She clapped her hands together and smiled at me. “How would you like to share your story for Show-and-Tell today?”\n\n“Really? Okay!” That was important. I imagined how excited everyone would be to hear about the Tooth Fairy, my silver coin and that my Mommy was a Unicorn. \n\nWhen Ms. Meadows called me up to share the story, I proudly told about how the Tooth Fairy came on a tiny Unicorn with wings when she thought I was sleeping, I showed them the coin and told them that my Mommy was a Unicorn. I watched as some of the kids covered their mouths and giggled. I looked at my teacher. I could see her horn sparkling. She was a Unicorn, too. \n\nI put the coin back in my pocket and walked to my seat. I sat down quietly; a small smile to myself made it to my lips. Ms. Meadows winked at me. I shifted my cape so it could flow behind me." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Kings & Queens 👑 part two\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1656\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Salvor's POV:\n\nWhat is happening? What's this string? Why is it glowing? What is happening?\nThe red string drags me into the ballroom of the castle. I hear gasps, and I look up.\nOh no. The soulmate ceremony was today, wasn't it? Am I going to have to marry Princess Allison?\nThe string pulls me to the front. A servant boy with frizzy hair is already standing by Allison. Does that mean...\nI look at Christopher. He looks horrified. So do the Queen and King. And my dad, who's standing by them.\nThis is not what was supposed to happen. \nThe string is still yanking on my arms, and it’s pulling me towards Chris. It doesn’t stop pulling until my finger brushes his shoulder.\nMy hands drop, and the string falls to my feet. Chris and I look at each other. \nI can’t believe this. That means Delvin lied to me. But he would never. But this wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to marry a royal princess, not a prince. \nFinally, Allison clears her throat and people stop looking at us. She says something to the Queen, and she nods.\n“Everyone is dismissed.” She annonces. “Go to the courtyard for the feast.”\nPeople stand, chairs scraping the floor. As people file out my dad walks over.\n“Explain.” He says. Is he mad?\nI shrug. “I don’t know. I was in the stables, and the string dragged me here.”\nHe looks at the king who is frowning. \n“Do you think there was something wrong with the spell?” He asks.\nThe king shook his head. “No.”\nHe knows something. He studies me, then nods. “It’s not wrong.”\n“Are you sure? Because-” \n“I am sure, Salen.” He interrupts.\nThe Queen stands. “We need to attend to the festivities. Children, stay here, and get to know one another.”\nThey walk out, my dad following.\n“I wish she wouldn’t call us children.” Chris and I mutter. He glances at me, almost smiling. Then he seems to remember I’m me, and frowns.\n“This makes no sense.” He says out loud. “Why would we be soulmates?”\nHe’s nervous, which is rare. He runs his hands through his hair, and my eyes widen. \nHis fingers are fuzzy and black. \nI grab his hand, ignoring his protest. It’s spreading fast, and if he doesn’t do something he’ll turn into a cat.\n“What are you doing?” He hisses. “Let go of me.”\nI glare at him. “Would you shut up a minute?”\n“What-” \nI cover his hand with mine, and he stops. “Calm down,” I whisper. “Do you want people to know?”\nHe seems shocked, but shakes his head. \n“Then calm down.” \nI glance up at him. Is he seriously blushing? I look for his sister, and see her sitting with the servant, deep in conversation.\nHis fingers slowly go back to normal. I let his hand drop. \n“You can change too.” He says in wonder.\nI nod. “Yeah. Why can’t you control it?”\n“I never told anyone.” He admits.\nSmart. “You need to work on that.”\nHe’s still blushing, and he doesn’t look mad anymore. Now that I’m this close to him, he doesn’t look how he normally does. He’s usually serious, and annoying. Now, he looks calm and cute.\nWait, cute? No, I can’t think that. Right? Because Delvin would never lie to me. Right? \nI put a hand to my forehead, and see it’s turning white and furry.\nI swear. Chris widens his eyes, and grabs my hand. For some reason it’s spreading much faster than his fur was. It’s halfway up my arm. \nChris drags me to a door before his sister sees me. He shuts the door just as I turn into a white cat. Why is it always a cat?\nI curse loudly. Chris winces, and bends down. \n“Are you okay?” He asks me.\nI try to turn back, but can’t. “What do you think?” I mutter at him, pacing around the small room.\n“You don’t have to be rude.” He replies.\nI stop and look at him. “You can understand me?”\n“No, I’m talking to the fly on your head.” He deadpans.\nI growl at him, but he just picks me up. \n“Put me down!” I howl. “What are you doing?”\n“Shut up a minute.” He says.\nHe pets my back, and the growl turns into an unintentional purr. He grins.\n“What are you doing?” I demand. \nHe scratches my ears. “Calming you down. Is it working?”\n“No.” I mutter. Yes. Yes it is.\nHe sits down in a chair, and keeps stroking my fur. “What happened?”\n“When I get mad I change.” I tell him. I might as well. \nHe nods. “Why were you mad?”\n“Remember Delvin?” I ask.\nHe nods. “Your older brother?”\n“Yeah. He ran off with his girlfriend.” I say.\nHe runs his fingers through my fur. “What about him?”\n“He had precognition.” \n“What?”\n“He could tell the future.”\n“Oh.” \n“When I was born, he told my dad I would grow up and marry a princess.”\n“So he lied?”\n“I don’t think so. He never lied in his life. Well, not that I know of.”\n“So you're mad why?”\n“Because I grew up expecting one thing, and got something else.”\n“Isn’t your something else better, though?”\n“Shut up.”\n“Just saying.” \n“Whatever. I just don’t know how my dad is going to take this.”\n“He’ll have to deal with it.”\n“I guess.”\n“Are you still mad?”\n“What do you think?”\n“Why do you hate me so much?”\n“I don’t hate you.”\n“You act like it.”\n“How?”\n“You constantly annoy me.”\n“How would that be me hating you? I annoy everyone.”\n“Uh..”\n“I never hated you.”\n“Really?”\n“No, I-”\nThe door swings open, revealing the king, queen, and my dad. Thank god. I was about to tell him I like him.\n“Christopher? What are you doing here?” His mom asks. \nHis face is red, and he seems at a loss for words.\n“Say you lost something, and I went somewhere.” I hiss.\nThey don’t even look at me, and I’m glad I’m too nervous to change back. \n“I - I lost my..ring and I was looking for it.” He says.\nHe’s a terrible liar. He’s also freaking out. His hands are softer, so I curl up in his arms, trying to calm him down. \nIt works. \nHis mother nods, and I sigh in relief. \n“Come on honey, we have things to do.” he says, walking away. The king glances at Chris, who nods, then follows her. My dad looks like he doesn’t want to, but they need a guard, so he goes as well, closing the door behind him.\nI calm down immediately after they’re gone, realizing what's going to happen too late.\nI change back, and fall on top of Chris. He’s bright red, and I suspect I am too. \nOur faces are inches apart, and we’re staring at each other. He is really cute.\n“Sorry,” I say, getting up. \nHe sits up, and rubs his head. “It’s fine.”\n I open the door and we walk out.\n“Where do we go?” I ask him.\nHe bites his lip. “My room. I want to show you something.”\n“Excuse me?” \n“Not like that!” He says, blushing.\n“Okay, good.”\nWe walk to the doors.\n“Shut up, it doesn’t work like that.” He mutters suddenly.\nI look at him. “What?”\n“Not you, this stupid fly.” He says as we go into the hallway.\nI raise an eyebrow. “What did he say?”\n“She said that, uh, I have something in my hair?”\nI snort. “You are a terrible liar.”\n“Shut up.” He tells me, blushing again.\nI grin. “So what did she really say?”\n“What were you going to say before our parents came?” He asks, turning the corner. \nNow I turn red. “Nothing.”\n“Liar.”\n“It was nothing!”\n“If it was nothing, why are you so red?” He asks smugly, opening a door.\nI cover my face. “You're annoying.”\n“I’m not.” He replies, walking into the room.\nIt’s...huge. Like, two times the size as mine. He has a huge bed in the middle, and random stuff all around it.\nI don’t know where to go, so I stand around until he rolls his eyes and gestures towards his bed, where he’s sitting. \nI close the door and walk over. He’s rummaging through a box he got from under the bed.\n“Here,” He says, pulling out a thick book, and sitting by me.\nHe’s really close, and I get nervous. Not enough to change, though.\n“We have to read? That takes too long.” I ask. \n “Yes, lazy.”\n“I am not lazy!” I protest.\nHe smiles. “Are you sure?”\n“Yes!” \nHe shakes his head. “Yes you are.”\n“Then you’re annoying.”\n“Shut up.” He mutters. \nI grin. “Make me.”\n“Fine.” He says.\nThen he leans forward and kisses me. \nI turn into a cat. \nHis eyes widen. “Are you okay?”\n“What just happened?” I ask.\nHe bites his lip. “I kissed you…”\n“Why?” \n“...I like you?”\n“Okay, that’s what I thought.”\nNow that I know he likes me back, I calm down, and turn back.\nHe looks down. “Sorry.”\n“Shut up.” I tell him.\nHe looks up. I grab his face, and kiss him.\nWhen I pull back, he’s red. \n“What just happened?”\nI tilt my head. “Seriously?”\n“Shut up.” He says. \nWe kiss again, this one longer than before.\n I pull him close, and he twists his fingers in my hair. When we break apart he grins.\n“Stop that,” I tell him. “It’s cute.”\nHe blushes which makes me laugh.\n“Finally!” A voice says.\nWe both whip around. A boy about our age is sitting in the desk chair, with his feet propped up on the desk.\nHe has pointed ears, and pale skin. His hair is curly and red. He looks like the paintings of elves that are in the library.\n“Who are you?” I ask.\nHe grins. “I’m Aerin.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Kings & Queens 👑 part one\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1767\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters on the verge of a life-changing event, but one has rigged the outcome." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Please give me feedback for this story!\n\nChristopher's POV:\n\n\"Do we really have to do this?\" My older sister, Allison, asks me.\nI roll my eyes. \"No, the really huge, super important ceremony that mom just said is mandatory, doesn't matter at all.\"\n\"Enough with the sarcasm, Crissy.\" She says, dropping on my bed.\nI sit in my desk chair, and throw an eraser at her head. \"Don't call me that.\"\nMy name is Christopher Micheal Reynes, but I go by Chris. The ceremony we're talking about is when we’ll find our soulmate. Our mom, the Queen, met our father that way.\nAllison and I don't look anything like our parents. They both have neat black hair, and ours is messy and brown. Allison and I look a lot alike even though we're two years apart. We have the same green eyes our grandmother had. I'm taller, even though I'm younger.\nWe live in the kingdom Alenti. Allison is next in line to be queen, but she doesn't want to be. I honestly hope she will be, because there is no way I'm being king. For many reasons.\nFor one, my attitude. I tend to talk back a lot, and it doesn’t always work out well for me. Also, I don’t listen at all during training. I’m terrible at all things kingly. I know nothing about my ancestors, or the history of Alenti. The only thing I’m really good at is sword fighting, and horse riding.\nOur kingdom is a really cool place, or at least cooler then the other places I've been. Lots of the people have some kind of power. None of them are harmful, or life threatening, except maybe Allison's. She can do stuff with fire, but she never learned how to control it. Or maybe she doesn’t want to.\nI can hear animals talking, and turn into different ones. It's pretty cool, I guess, but I can't not hear it, so being outside is a huge headache. Nobody knows about the second power. Not even Allison. It's supposed to be really dangerous.\nThe way we find our soulmate is cool, too. There's a family that can all see this, and they get paid a lot to help out.\nI understand why Allison doesn't want to do the ceremony. She's secretly seeing someone, but she won't tell me who.\nThe ceremony is really big, and the whole kingdom has to come. It's the start of us becoming adults. After we find our soulmate, we'll spend most of our time with them. I'm not really looking forward to it, because I'm worried about the whole kingdom finding out I like boys. I don’t know how that’s going to go.\nAllison sighs dramatically, and I roll my eyes. \"What?\"\n\"Do you want to meet my boyfriend?\" She asks.\nI sit up. \"Yes, obviously.\" There is no way I’m passing up this chance.\n\"Come on, then.\" She says.\nShe hops off my bed, her braid bouncing on her back. She walks out, and down the hallway. The guards start to follow us, but she says something, and they hang back.\nWe go outside, and pass the stables. People wave at us, and we smile back. I’m not paying attention, and I run into someone.\n“Ah!” I yelp. I’m about to hit the ground, when someone grabs my arm, and pulls me up.\n“Thank you.” I say turning to the person. \nOh. It’s Salver Wellium. He’s the son of the army captain. I’ve never really liked him. He’s the only person who can get away with being rude to me. And the only person that’s not an adult that can challenge me in anything. Our dads are best friends, so we’ve had to deal with each other for years.\nHe looks just like his dad, same blond hair, and brown eyes.\n“Whatever,” He answers, walking away. See? Rude.\n\"This way,\" Allison says.\nWe go through another door, and down a different hallway, one I haven't been in before. We turned so many times, I wouldn't know how to get back. Allison, however, seems to know where she's going.\n\"Here.\" She says, finally, stopping at a door.\nShe knocks four times, then kicks the wall. I can hear someone unlocking the door, and it suddenly swings open.\nA boy is standing there. I think he's one of the servants. He has tan skin, and frizzy brown hair. He narrows her blue eyes at me, but smiles at Allison.\n\"Hey, Allie.\" He says to her.\nAllie? She doesn't let anyone call her that. And, is she...blushing? What is going on?\n\"Hi, Denny.\" She replies, returning the smile.\nI look at Allison. She looks nervous. I smile at Denny.\n\"Nice to meet you Denny.\" I say politely. Allison sighs in relief.\nDenny smiles at me. \"Nice to meet you too.\"\n\"Come on, let's go in.\" Allison says, grabbing Denny's hand, and pulling him inside. I follow.\nThe room is small, which I'm not used to. There's a bed, and a desk. A basket of clothes sits in a corner.\nThey sit on the bed, and I just stay standing.\n\"Have you told him about changing the ceremony?\" Denny whispers to Allison. He needs to work on that. That was way too loud.\nMy eyes widen, and Allison bites her lip. \"No...\"\n\"What? You can't do that!\" I yell.\n\"Shhh!\" Denny hisses at me. I'm starting to not like him.\nI look back at Allison. \"You can't!\"\n\"I can.\" She says quietly.\n\"How?\"\n\"I - I already did.\"\n\"Seriously?\"\n\"Yes! I won't marry anyone other than Denny!\"\nThey both looked surprised at that. Denny suddenly looks much calmer, unlike me.\nThey talk quietly, and I storm out. \nShe can't. This is the most important ceremony we're going to have. She can't mess it up. I won't let her.\nI run a hand through my hair as I wait for Allison since I don't have another way to get back.\nFinally, she comes out. She's smiling, but frowns at me.\n\"Why'd you leave?\" She asks, walking ahead.\nI follow her. \"Your not that dumb, are you?\"\n\"Shut up.\" She mutters, walking faster.\nI catch up easily. \"You can't mess it up.\"\n\"Too late.\"\n\"What?\" I slow her down.\nShe crosses her arms. \"It's too late. Well, for me. I made a deal with the Whileshers.\"\nThat's the family with the soulmate finding powers.\n\"What deal?\" I hiss. We made it to the main hallways, and there are people who can overhear us.\nShe frowns, looking at someone ahead. \"Later.\"\n\"Allison, Christopher.\" A voice says.\nI look up. It's our dad. My mother is standing behind him, talking to the dressmaker, Hannah, and our teacher, Hal.\n\"Hey, Dad. What’s up?\" I ask. Allison steps on my foot, and I pinch her arm.\nShe glares at me.\n\"Children,\" My father says sternly. Why does he always address us as children? I’m fifteen!\n\"Are you ready for the ceremony tomorrow?\" He asks.\nWe nod. My mom steps forward and my dad goes to talk to some guards.\n\"We need final fittings for your suit, Christopher. And Allison, your lessons start soon.\" She says.\nMy mom always has us doing something. But I need to find out what Allison did.\n\"Can I do it later?\" I ask.\nShe shakes her head. \"No, this is very important. We need it just right. Oh! Speaking of importance, we need to get the flowers for the ball room.\" She walks off, Hannah following.\nAllison smirks at me. \"Well, maybe later.\"\n\"You got lucky.\" I mutter, following my mom.\n 👑\nThe next day I get woken up early so I can get ready for the ceremony.\nI couldn't talk to Allison, because she kept managing to get away at the last second. She'll probably do the same today. I just hope whatever she's doing doesn't affect me.\nThe day goes by fast, and when it's time for the ceremony, I finally start freaking out.\n\"Mom, what if something happens?\" I ask her. She isn't doing anything, which is rare for her. I think she's nervous, too.\nShe smiles at me. \"What could happen?\"\n\"I don't know, what if you don't like my soulmate?\" I suggest.\nI'm very sure they're a boy. I don't know how I know, I just really think it is. I don't know how to say this to my mother, though.\nShe sighs. \"Your father's parents didn't like me. Eventually they got used to me. Whoever it is, we will treat them like family.\"\n\"Okay.\" I say. I hope they will.\n 👑\nI'm waiting with Allison now, but we can't talk, not with our parents right beside us. She's wearing a white dress. I'm in red. She looks nervous too. I can tell, because her fingers keep glowing with flames.\nFinally, we go. We walk out into the ballroom, in front of everybody.\nMarri Whilesher is the one performing the spell, and she's waiting by a huge bowl filled with a purple potion.\nWe stand on either side, and I see Allison give Marri a stern look. I glance at the crowd of people. One of them is my future partner.\nMarri starts saying the spell. It's in the ancient language, which only some people know.\nThe potion stirs itself, and Marri drops two pieces of hair in it. Mine, and Allison's.\nThe potion glows, and forms two long pieces of string. One is red, and I think that one is mine. The other, which is white, must be Allison's. They rise, and start racing over the crowd of people. It zips over their heads, stopping at some, but still going. The red one goes out into the hallway, and I can see the white one going towards where the servants are standing.\nDenny looks shocked when the string wraps around his arms. I doubt he's actually surprised, but everyone else is. The string tugs him towards Allison. She acts like she's never seen him before.\nMy mother nods, and smiles at him.\nThen everyone looks at me. Where is the string? We wait, and I start to get nervous. Really nervous. Which is not a good thing, because I turn into animals when I'm nervous. My fingers are turning black and fuzzy.\n\"It's coming!\" Someone shouts.\nI sigh in relief, and my fingers turn back to normal. Who is it?\nThen I hear someone swearing. Loudly. From the hallway. Why do they sound familiar?\nThe person gets pulled in, and my eyes widen. I hear gasps from everywhere.\nThe person getting dragged in is Salver Wellium.\n👑" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My Parents' Hopes Won't Come True\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1090\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who’s had their future foretold from birth — but isn’t sure if they believe it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I was just a tiny baby when my parents started saying all these things. My dad kept telling me how proud he is of me and that he couldn’t wait for me to grow up and start my own family, just like him and mom. My mom was also telling me that I’d be a great groom in the future. Every single day, from the day that I was born, my parents have been preparing me to live a life, just like them. They wanted me to find a wife, to have kids, and be a parent just like my dad. \nI remember when I had just reached the age of 5, we had to go to a wedding, in which my parents had dressed me up as if I was the one getting married. I had a suit and a tie on and some black pants that were supposed to be in fashion. I was their little gentleman. The entire time at the wedding they kept telling me how they hope one day this could be me. \nLittle did they know that I had different plans for the future. But these plans weren’t known to me, until today. I lived 15 years of my life having such a burden in my chest about my parents’ wishes. I always felt kind of bad, because I knew inside me that this was never going to happen. I wasn’t what they expected me to be. \nSo ever since I was a kid, I felt a bit different from most of the world. I didn’t know why or how, but I just felt like it. My dad always referred to me as a ‘real man’, which I didn’t know what it meant at that point. I love my parents, they love me back and I just wanted to be a good boy for them. I behaved how they wanted me to behave and I had hidden my own truth from them because I felt like they would judge me for it. \nI always kind of ask myself or to the Universe, why me? Why did it make me a different boy? It’s extremely hard when you are the only one who’s different. \nWhen I was just 5 years old, when they were dressing me in their boy’s clothes, I just felt so bad about it. I knew it was the normal thing for them, but I just wished they didn’t dress me like that. I hated wearing suits and ties, men’s pants, and being a boy. \nI wasn’t a boy. Never in my life, but I just tried to be for their sake. I didn’t even know what that feeling was, up until the age of 15, when for the first time in my life, I wore a dress. It was only for fun at first, because I was having fun with my friends and they dared me to do this. As soon as I put it on, everyone was laughing with me, because it was, I guess, part of the joke, but to me, it wasn’t funny. I took a good glance at me in front of the mirror, and I finally realized it. I was a girl, trapped in a boy’s body. \nI started crying and rushed into the bathroom. Everyone kept asking why was I crying, but I didn’t know what to answer them, so I just lied. \nI went back home to my parents. I also had worn lipstick, for the “joke”, but I couldn’t get it off of me as much as I should, so I returned home with lipstick on. My dad was furious. He slapped me on the right cheek and had me grounded for like a month. \nEver since I was just a baby, my parents were raising me as their little boy and expected me to be their little groom in the future, but they didn’t see that I was never a boy. They only wanted to see what they wanted, and that’s why I believed it up until my teenage years. \nToday, I just turned 18 years old. It’s finally the time for me to come out to my parents before I leave their home. I am very nervous and my whole body is shaking, but it’s just something I have to do, before I am gone from their lives. If they love me for me, then I’ll be very happy about it and will definitely see them again. If they don’t, well then, I guess we'll just have to continue our lives separately. I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m tired of faking it and living a life for society and my parents. It’s time right now to live my own life the way that I want it. \nMy parents are here on the couch sitting. I go over to them and sit right across the couch. They both looked at me and then I blurred it out. \n“Mom, Dad…..I’m a straight trans woman.” I said.\nMy dad couldn’t look at me, but my mom hugged me. It was such a nice feeling. \nFive years later, when I had finished my studies and was going well with the hormone therapy, and I had done my top surgery as well, so I’d say that I was very happy about it, but it was time for me to do the bottom surgery. \nOn the day of my surgery, before I went, I got a call from my dad. We hadn’t spoken in 5 years when I had left them and he couldn’t look at me in the eyes. He wanted to see me today, but I told him I had surgery, and I hung up. \nWhen I went for my bottom surgery I was so nervous, more than I was with everything else, because I feared for the pain and I just wished nothing would go wrong, and luckily nothing went like that. \nAs soon as I opened my eyes in the hospital, feeling like I had just completed my last step to feel better about myself, my dad and my mom were right there next to me. They were both crying and holding my hand. My dad apologized for how he had reacted back then and that he still loved me very much, even if he didn’t understand what I was doing. Lastly, he said that he was proud of me, for being who I am and he hugged me. \n“I love you, Christina,” he said, and I teared up." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: the prom king is someone's queen for the night\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2985\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who goes to — or purposefully avoids — their high school reunion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I hate the view from up here.\n I live in an eight-story apartment that seems to be rotting from the inside out. Thin white walls stand left unpainted. They’re so thin that I always hear the neighboring rooms’ businesses, namely loud music and rough sex. The smell of leftover take-outs from the Chinese fast food across the street fills in this haunted space. I don’t mind it; it feels like home. It’s much better than the smell of my last job’s cafeteria that smelled like old socks were being boiled constantly and turned into soup. I keep the action figures I’ve collected throughout the years in a closet—my only closet. Because of this, the clothes I wear—which are mostly hoodies, henleys and flannels—are always neatly folded in a corner somewhere for all the dusts to rest on. The landlord evidently gets problems about getting renters but it’s all her fault for not renovating this ancient horror set.\n I’ve been living here since high school, back when everything was still under control. The glory days—when I hung out with cheerleaders who got so drunk that not sleeping with them would bring you honor and respect after everyone finds out you “held back”—are now gone. I was even the prom king. I ruled with all my friends whose faces are now blurry since they haven’t contacted me since college. I used to play baseball and wear varsity jackets. I even had this general frat boy hair like Kyle Spencer’s in American Horror Story. I remember my first kiss, the day I was chosen to be prom king. I kissed the prettiest girl, Rain, to show off while we were being crowned. It was fun, those days. I was actually very happy.\n But now, I’m unemployed and miserable.\n I don’t remember how it went all wrong exactly. Is it because I actually did great in college? I missed out on parties because I was focused on acing with the intention of getting a stable job. But for some reason, I still ended up with minimum-wage jobs and wicked bosses. Is it because of the geek tomboy girl who broke my heart by dating me for seven years and then breaking up with me for some guy who looked like Nick Offerman? I don’t really remember. But one thing is for sure: I wasted a whole lot of time. \n Days have passed after getting fired from my last job as a restaurant janitor. I go out from my haunted space with my files including my resumé and birth certificate, lock the door which is pointless since one hard kick could tear it down in a second, avoid the elevator by going down the stairs (the landlord denied the fact that the elevator got someone killed in the past but I don’t trust her at all), walk out of the apartment and head straight to near restaurants that have “hiring” signs on their greasy windows. I know I’m a mess but at least I’m still trying, right?\n Someone accidentally crashes into me, causing my papers to fly everywhere at once. In high school, I would have looked up to the person immediately and say “Watch it,” as I watch him or her pick those papers up. Hell, I wouldn’t even be holding a bunch of papers in the first place. But I’m not in high school anymore so I keep my head down and pick up the papers myself, waiting for him or her to tell me to watch it.\n “Aden?” the person who bumped me guesses out loud. “Oh my God! Aden!\n I look up and I find a slightly familiar face. After a moment’s hesitation, I suddenly gasp as a huge wave of nostalgic thoughts hits me right in the face. “Molly?”\n Molly puts one of her pale white hands over her mouth as the other holds my birth certificate (thank god it wasn’t the resumé) while she shrieks in excitement. “I can’t believe this!” She looks at me deeply and then at the ground where some of my papers still lie. She awkwardly chuckles and asks, “What time are you going tomorrow?” as she picks them up.\n “Tomorrow?” I ask, clueless and still stunned because I’m actually seeing an old friend.\n “The reunion! You have to be there, prom king.”\n A high school reunion?\n “W…what?” I ask again.\n Molly looks at me the way she used to look at the class dork who told her she looked like Marilyn Manson’s bootleg daughter.\n “Do you want to talk it over coffee?” I ask her. “A café I used to work at is a few blocks from here.”\n “You used to be a barista?”\n Janitor. “Y…yeah.”\nShe smiles but then pouts and then looks at her expensive-looking watch. She sighs.\n “What’s wrong?”\n “I can’t,” she tells me, disappointed. “My band, Fly 87, is on tour right now and I have to be in the arena by thirty minutes.”\n A band. She plays in a band I constantly hear on the radio. I can’t believe her dream came true! \n “That’s amazing.”\n “I know!” she exclaims. “By the way, you should check out Rain’s pinned tweet. She made the whole reunion possible.”\n “Okay.”\n I haven’t seen Rain’s online activity in a while but she’s now a super famous influencer. The high school prom queen has grown to be an actual queen! And then, there’s me.\n I look at Molly one last time. I really miss her even though I forgot she existed until now. I think she thinks that too. “See you tomorrow, then.”\n Before she leaves, she says, “Make sure to show off your prettiest girlfriend and come in your shiniest Mercedes!”\n What am I going to do? How am I going to find a pretty girlfriend and a shiny Mercedes in a day? It’s impossible! If I attend the reunion as a pathetic loser with no girlfriend, no car and no stable job, then I’d only be embarrassing myself. High-schooler Aden might have been able to pull this off by being confident about having a life gone downhill. But I’m no longer confident about anything at all. I panic as my chest gets tight and heavy like a bowling ball stuck in an indestructible sock.\n I rush towards the café I used to work at. My ex-colleagues never remembered who I was so I doubt I’d be recognized. They might not be around anymore anyway since no staffs are regulars in this city.\n The door makes a creaking sound and the city noise fades into jazz music as I enter the café. Thick walls stand painted with breathtaking coffee-related murals. I love it here because the smell of coffee floats everywhere serving as a hug to those who need it. And right now, I need it so much.\n “Welcome to Kcream. May I take your order?” a new barista asks. His tag says his name is Neil.\n “Cappuccino, please.” I give out my credit card which has so little that it’s embarrassing to let the barista see.\n The barista takes my card and looks at it. And then, he looks at me. Then, he looks at the card again, wide eyed. Do I look like a credit card fraudster?\n After a minute of looking at the card and at me, he finally swipes it and gives me my cappuccino. I was going to say thanks but he quickly pats his fellow barista’s back and goes out back. I sigh.\n Most of the seats are taken but I refuse to get defeated by my anxiety who’s telling me to just leave this place. I came to relax and feel the coffee’s aroma’s hug. But it’s hopeless. I’ve always been fast at giving up—even during high school. Getting dumped by both girls and boys made me quit romance until Jenny, my seven-year girlfriend, courted me and made me hers. I can’t believe she’s married to that bearded old man! I sigh to myself and head towards the exit, slowly breaking free from the coffee’s aroma’s tight relaxing hug. As I’m about to reach towards the door, the barista whose name is Neil touches my shoulder. He’s five inches taller than me and I feel intimidated. Wide-eyed and scared like a cat being stroked by a stranger, I look at him. I don’t want to tell Molly that I couldn’t make it to the reunion because I got arrested for credit card fraud!\n “Are you really the Aden Lepley? Does Great Felch High sound familiar to you?”\n “Y…yeah.” I think he feels the tension in my voice.\n He smiles and his eyes disappear for a few seconds before he pulls me by the hand to a table I didn’t see was vacant. He sits across me and stares like an attractive boyfriend or a very supportive father.\n “Are you coming tomorrow?” I ask with all the confidence I have left so I wouldn’t look like a scared 14-year old even though I do.\n He nods. “Do you remember me?”\n I don’t, really. But I nod back because I can't help being so awkward.\n “Oh, god. This is embarrassing,” he laughs to himself as he scratches the back of his head and looks at the café line, blushing. There are currently four people in line which would have been 2:2 if he was there doing his job like that other barista.\n Clueless again, I ask, “What is?” \n He looks back at me, half-disappointed. “You don’t remember me, do you?”\n“Sorry.”\n “It’s okay! But I’m Neil Anders. I had a huge crush on you and asked you out once but got rejected.” As he laughs like Tom Cruise in that meme that goes around forever, he scrolls on his phone and then puts it in front of my face. Inside the phone is a cute little boy wearing a Star Wars shirt, round glasses and brown shorts.\n And then, it hit me.\n He was the fat boy who played Dungeons and Dragons with Molly and the other geeks and goths! I don’t remember anything about him asking me out at all.\n I stare at the picture on the phone. And then at Neil. And then at the picture again. He has extremely improved himself! He’s now way taller and way, way buffer than before.\n “I…wow.” I look at him and he looks so happy to see me. So I try to make conversation. “You work here? I haven’t seen you around. I live really close; right across the street.”\n He gasps jokingly. “Take me home!”\n I laugh. But then I remember my dusty haunted space and the rats. And the door and the walls and the floor that are infested with different kinds of bad entities. I stop laughing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”\n“I’m kidding!” he laughs. “And no, I own this place. The party happens a few blocks from here so I thought I should stay for the week. There’s a private room upstairs. Might as well help out, know what I’m saying?”\n A café. He owns the café I used to work at. I can’t believe he’s so successful!\n “That’s amazing.”\n “Not really,” he denies as he looks at the line again, blushing. “How about you?”\n The moment I hear that question, part of me just wants to jump off a plane without a parachute or dive into the Hurricane Valley or get burned and explode right on this seat, at this very moment. Earth, eat me now.\n “Aden?”\n I haven’t realized that my eyes are now wet with tears I haven’t felt since my parents left three years ago. I’ve been fighting it for so long. Why am I breaking down now? Why like this? Why with him?\n I’ve painted myself into a corner, haven’t I?\n Neil jumps out of his seat like a sole from the pan and quickly sits beside me, looking directly at my soundlessly crying face. He looks at my stuff and sees my resumé and my other junk. He calms me down. He doesn’t say anything like, “Are you okay?” or “Did I say something wrong?” because I think he already knows why I’m suddenly extremely sad.\n I hug him on impulse so I can hide my face from curious eyes and people who’ve probably seen me before. I might encounter more high school batch mates and I don’t want them to see me like this. I bury my face into his chest as he tucks me in like it’s normal for a stranger to cry and hug a fellow stranger.\n “Do you, um, want to take this upstairs?” he gently asks with no judgment in his voice.\n I nod, whimpering. I don’t unlock my arms around him or stop burying my face on his chest because I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. Oh, god. What have I done?\n He slowly stands up and guides me as he holds me like a child. He steadily guides me upstairs to the place he stays in temporarily. I don’t see anything but I feel like a crowd is around us, judging me for being a pathetic loser. I feel weak and defeated. My dignity is now in my cappuccino which is now on the floor, waiting for the replacement janitor to wipe it off from existence. I can’t go to the reunion. I’m not going.\n Oh, god. What have I done?\n We finally make it to his room. He sits us both down on a soft bouncy bed. He strokes my back and says, “It’s okay now.”\n I try to move but I can’t so I cry louder.\n “Just let it out,” he says.\n I feel like I’ve known him for so long. I don’t feel uncomfortable with his arms against my back and his chest against my face and my thighs against his lap.\n “I’m sorry,” I try to say. I’m not ready to emerge.\n “Don’t be!” he counters almost immediately. “I haven’t been this close to you—ever. So please take your time.”\n I laugh quietly with tears in my eyes and a little hint of sadness in my voice. Only a little is left thanks to this man right here.\n “What?”\n “Nothing.” He feels so warm.\n “C’mon, tell me,” he chuckles.\n “Where have you been, Neil?” We stay like this, cuddling each other, for the next five minutes.\n When I finally break free from the longest cuddle I’ve ever had my whole life, the first thing I see is the hanging poster on Neil’s wall. It’s a picture of Escape the Fate but with Ronnie Radke. I look at him.\n “Really?”\n He shrugs. I didn’t fancy him as someone who listens to bands like ETF. I thought he was more of a Justin Timberlake kind of guy.\n “I think Craig did a pretty good job,” I argue.\n He smiles and talks to me about ETF, Falling in Reverse, his first concert, his girlfriends and boyfriends who broke his heart, his girlfriends and boyfriends that got their hearts broken by him, his parents, his workout routine which I had to pay double the attention to, his favorite movies, moments when he felt happy, random moments when he thought about the first love he ever had which he says was me, his dogs and basically his whole life. I listen to him talk and burst out a few stories of mine along the way as he listens back. \n I thought today was the worst, breaking down on someone I barely know. But it’s not, actually. Because now I feel like I’ve known him my entire life.\n “I’m a failure,” I casually say. The sun has set hours ago. I don’t have time to check the exact time but I know it’s a bit late since my throat is already sore. It feels like we’ve been talking for years. “Mom and dad never even saw the Lawyer Man they paid for.”\n I already told him that their plane crashed three years ago. And that the breakup with Jenny made me fail four consecutive bar exam attempts and made me lose motivation to do anything.\n He grunts towards me, pushes me to the center of the bed and kisses me. “You’re not a failure,” he says. “It’s the world that failed you.” And then, he attacks my lips again. The walls close in and the bed dances in rhythm to what we do. Things are done, words are spoken. Uncooked dinner eaten on unusual plates. Screams but not screams of pain—I’ve had enough pain. Words of reassurance, power, control…\nThe prom king is someone’s queen for tonight, I guess.\n Morning hits and my hips hurt like crazy. The man responsible is lying beside me, his face buried on my chest. I don’t want to wake him up but doesn’t he need to do things in his café or something? He looks so innocent and precious as he sleeps. I tap his face gently as he makes yawning baby noises.\n He opens his eyes and I see the ocean.\n “Get up!”\n He smiles and cuddles me again, asking, “Will you go to the reunion with me?” with the same energy as asking someone to go to prom.\n I laugh. “Are you serious?”\n He nods, assured.\n I really don’t want to go to the reunion. I have nothing to be proud of. I don’t have a pretty girlfriend or a shiny Mercedes or even a girlfriend or even a car. I don’t have millions of followers like Rain, a worldwide famous band like Molly or business companies like Neil. I only have something to be ashamed of. I completely failed at life. But for some cosmic reason, I met Neil who offers himself as an unblurry person that I feel like I can trust completely. I want to hold on to that, hold on to him. There’s nothing left to hold on to, anyway.\n “What time is it again?”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dreams of Cloudbase\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2736\n\nPrompt:\n\nThink of someone who stood on the periphery of your childhood memories (a classmate, a teacher, a neighbor) and cast them as the main character of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Connie Cullen had dreams. Dreams dashed upon the rocks. The same rocks that shattered her spine, leaving her ‘confined’ to her wheelchair. Confined is not a word by which she wished to be defined. Her dream was to be unbound by everything that dragged her down. Unbound by the force of gravity, set free to touch the sky. Quite simply, she had dreams to fly.\n\nIrv and Mary Sobel are an extraordinarily loving couple. Irv had one first love, however, a love he nurtured from the age of five. As soon as Irv could walk and talk, his favorite topic was his calling to fly. A dream he realized, and excelled at. The F106, dubbed “the world's fastest plane” Irv had the honor of being the first to fly it after its record-setting test flight. After his military career, as a commercial pilot, he set three world records in 747s (one beating his own world record). After retiring he took his first glider flight and was in love with the sport of soaring. With his vast experience, he soloed with only twenty-four minutes logged. (He was ready at fourteen, but his instructor wanted him to do a second landing first) He earned his instructor rating CFI-G within two months!\n\n Fate, that force that guides destiny, brought Connie, Irv, and Mary to the mall that fateful day. Irv and Mary had been invited to display a glider, which they did joyfully. Irv was chit-chatting away about this flight or that flight, or his favorite planes, while Mary was the first to notice Connie. Connie had rolled right up to the glider's wing, laying her head on it, arms outstretched, caressing the wing. \n\nConnie was in love. She wasn’t aware Mary was even there till she asked, “have you ever flown before?” \n\nWithout lifting her cheek from the smooth, long, sleek airfoil, she turned to look wistfully at Mary. “All my life I dreamed of flying, but I have been stuck in this wheelchair.” She would never know her words would be immortalized. \n\n“Stay right here.” Mary practically commanded. She turned quickly and urgently towards her husband. “Irv, Irv, this woman, she wants to fly. Surely there’s something we can do?” Irv could never say no to Mary’s passions, nor could he ignore his own passion for flight. \n\nThey exchanged contact info, with every intention of fulfilling Connie’s dream. Alas, building gliders takes time. Building the first gliders approved for hand controls takes years. (Thanks to Irv’s ingenious deal-making, not the last, not by a long shot. Today many offer it as a standard option). Unfortunately, Connie did not have years. By the time the first three historic planes were delivered, she was gone. Death took her skyward far too young.\n\nI moved with my family to Bucks County, Pennsylvania, when I was ten or eleven. On the first day in our new house, I remember running out to the backyard screaming “look up, look up there!” The World War One era Stearman biplanes looping, spinning, and barrel rolling, just for fun. Then there was the soundtrack of my childhood. The drone of the tow plane's engine, then the power let off as it began its fast descent to tow the next glider up. This was followed by the circle dance. The silent dance of hawks and gliders alike climbing towards the clouds. Watching the gliders do loops too, was my serene place. I would lie in the backyard and just watch them. Gliders, hawks, and biplanes dancing above my yard in a near-daily air show.\n\nWithin the first year or two of living there, we took our first flights. 232’3 are the only gliders that seat three. One in the lap of another in the front seat, a pilot in the back. This is how I took my first glider flight as a child, in my father's lap.\n\nWhen I was fourteen or so, I first moved in with my dear friend and author Phoebe Wilcox. The ‘home’ she lived in would later be immortalized in her first novel. It was a simple cinder block structure with exposed insulation and was basically one room. I and her whole family slept on bunk beds, the bed area (can’t call it a bedroom) was separated from the kitchen/bathroom by a piano. The piano was repurposed as storage for tens of thousands of protest flyers. The kitchen though it lacked a wall did have a retractable curtain, transforming it from kitchen to bathroom and shower. The importance of this will soon be revealed.\n\nA couple of months later, I moved in with another dear friend, Bird. Bird, aka Lorinda Wright, lived with her family, the nearest house to the tiny grass airstrip known as Vansant. I lived in the guesthouse, where her father (also an airline pilot) had an office. It was also home to frosty and feisty. Two very large, completely wild and free, but tame and somewhat domesticated raccoons. We would go to the airport all the time. In that area, it literally was the only thing nearby. The friendly hometown hangout was the tiny grass airfield.\n\nFor the next half a dozen years I don’t want to get into all the craziness, so let’s skip past the 1980s and come to a screeching halt on a specific day. March 25th, 1990. Thirty-two years ago, next week. It wasn’t the sudden deceleration from skipping over a decade that caused the screech, it was the tires of my brother's interceptor (motorcycle designed for the racetrack, not the street) losing grip on the road after hitting a pothole the size of the lane. \n\nIrony— fate's twisted cousin may have been playing a practical joke on me. The pothole that smashed my own spine on the rocks was halfway from the house where I lay in the backyard watching the cloud dance, to the airport where I would take my first flight just months later. \n\nThose months were hard months. Painful months. But I survived. It was weeks after I got out of the hospital when my mom informed me about Freedoms Wings, based right out of dear old Vansant! March 25th, life-crushing pothole. July 4th, Freedoms Wings picnic and my first time flying, with me at the controls! That was not much time to grieve the loss of my old life before finding joy in my new one.\n\nThat day I soared directly above the spot I lost the ability to walk. That day I also met Irv and Mary. Two people who never seemed to stop smiling. “Hello, hello, are you ready to fly?” The couple had a lot to be proud of, but it wasn’t pride they beamed, but pure love and joy. “Wonderful, wonderful, let’s get you strapped in, you will fly with Ray today.” The man sure had a way of getting you excited. \n\nI think dear sweet-hearted Mary had told Connie’s story a thousand times before. She tenderly touched my arm and told me almost tearfully her story complete with “All my life I dreamed of flying, but I have been stuck in this wheelchair.” I hadn’t been in my own chair long, but I was minutes away from being unstuck.\n\nEven though I expected to just take a ride, they carefully explained the use of each control and the purpose of every instrument. They taught me the preflight checklist. I was strapped in, the canopy was closed and locked. The tow rope release check was completed. The wing runner leveled the wings when I gave the thumbs up. Ray waggled the rudder, being a quadriplegic himself, he used the hand controls. The takeoff roll began down the bumpy grass runway. I must admit, when it was bumpy and bouncy, I felt a twinge of nerves, which disappeared the instant the wheel lost contact with the ground. \n\n“Ohhhh… wow!!!” We were only a foot or two off the ground when I suddenly felt free. There’s nothing like riding on a cushion of air to make you feel lighter. To make your life feel lighter, more free. \n\nThe tow was a little bumpy, you could feel everything the air was doing around you. Every bump a new thrill met with either a giggle or ‘wow’. “Ok, there’s three thousand feet, do you want to pull the release, or shall I?” From the moment of takeoff, Ray had called out “One hundred feet, we will land in that field. Two hundred feet, it is safe to turn back. Eight hundred feet, we can do an abbreviated pattern. Twelve hundred feet, we can do a full pattern.” Without answering I grabbed the yellow knob and pulled. \n\nThe sound of the tow plane letting off power to descend quickly is very different from the cockpit than the backyard. Up close, following it just two hundred feet behind it had roared. Now, it has fallen silent. Only the whistle of wind over smooth low drag fiberglass. “Oh wow!” I exclaimed, as Ray softly chuckled. \n\n“Put your hand lightly on the controls, follow my control movements. Bank right, rudder right, like this. Watch the yaw string. Keep it straight. There you go, now you have the controls.” \n\nI think I may have mumbled “uhhuh.” I was concentrating too hard on keeping the wings level and the yaw string straight. I even forgot to look around and enjoy the sights.\n\nAs we approached the cloud the air got a little rough and the right wing started to lift. “Which wing did you feel lift? Right, right? Let me take the climb then you can take the controls again, you are doing very well.” \n\nI was surprised how steeply the glider banked into the thermal. We started to climb, and we were joined by other gliders. “There, off our wingtip, see the cul de sac? See the one with the pool? I grew up there!” (We were directly above the now paved-over pothole, a fact I did not realize for years after). \n\nRay climbed till we “kissed the cloud”, as he called it. Till the wingtip scraped the cloud base and the canopy came within reach of the misty edges. Close enough to feel the dampness when reaching out the small window.\n\nTouching the cloud I thought of Connie’s dream. She made it. Even if postmortem, she made it. Her legacy lived on.\n\nI never got to do a loop with Ray, but he taught me other aerobatics. One day, we were in a thermal with a legendary pilot. Ex Luftwaffe ace, who taught the entire Libyan Air Force to fly jets. Nowadays he flies a Grob109 touring glider. Not high performance, or especially aerobatic. Ray exclaimed, “Give me the controls I want to show you something.” We were above him in a thermal, ray threw the bank over hard and dived with full spoilers, trying to get “on his six”. He vanished. Just disappeared out of the sky, despite being only three hundred feet below. He was right where he’d never be seen, on our six, the entire rest of the flight. \n\nDuring my first spin training, Ray said “pull up into a stall, and throw in full right rudder.” He did not tell me what would happen next. Next was a blur, a race between my heart leaping into my throat, my eyes opening wider than ever thought possible, and the house I lived in with Phoebe spinning round and round with our nose pointing straight down, rushing towards me at three hundred feet a second! “Good, now let it spin three times, full opposite rudder, stick forward,” (stick forward? We were already pointed straight down!) Ignoring my instinct I did as instructed. “Let it get to sixty knots and ease out, good..” After resuming a straight and level flight, and giving my heart rate a minute to resume a straight and level beat, I wondered what the child me would have thought. I had never dreamed I too would be dancing beneath the clouds.\n\nThe following fall, with the autumn foliage in a full multi-spectrum display, I showed up expecting another lesson. I was in the cockpit and ready to go when Ray pulled up next to me and asked “are you ready to solo?” \n\nI think I mumbled “guess so”, all I know is it lifted off a whole lot sooner two hundred pounds lighter. The first flight was uneventful, only ten minutes longer than if there was no lift. Given the option to go again I was off for a truly memorable flight. \n\nOnce again over the pothole of fate. Four golden eagles joined me. Or I joined them. Either way, we circled eye to eye. The highest one had been circling off my wingtip, making eye contact. Of course, he was out climbing me and must have spooked. He was maybe fifty feet above me when he folded his wings and dove in a graceful spiral dive. Muscle memory kicked in, remembering the day good ol’ Ray decided to dogfight the fighter pilot. I threw it into a sharp banked dive trying to follow the eagle down.\n\nI remember thinking back to high school. Incidentally, I could see the school across the mile-wide lake I swam across with a bee on a raised finger to save him from drowning. On a clear day, I could see Philly, NYC Baltimore, Atlantic City, and even DC if high enough. (Yes the earth is round and my glider is powered by gravity, stop trying to argue with me flat earthers!) Back in high school, we read “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and I think on my second solo flight I may have been channeling some of Jonathan’s spirit. Maybe Connie’s too. I flew fast, faster than was sensible. I pulled some G forces. (Again it’s physics dude, if you start with denial, you will never get it.)\nAnd just playing with the flight envelope. \n\nLike our seagull friend, I got myself in trouble. I got a little low, and a little slow, on a straight in long final. A strong gust carried me over the parking lot. Ray, on the ground, and everyone else panicked. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t have that option. A millisecond of panic would have ended catastrophically— even deadly.\n\nA sixty-degree bank with an eighteen-meter wingspan left just about five feet between the wingtip and the ground. That fact had my full attention. I wrestled it back over the runway convincing poor Ray he would witness a cartwheel. A wing-over-wing dance of death. Somehow I pulled off a nice calm and collected gentle landing and rolled to a stop near where they were waiting. \n\nI learned a lot from those eagles. To be free of spirit. To enjoy both the skill of the climb and the thrill of the dive. Most of all, I learned the value of the balance between the two to make it home alive. \n\nA few years later, Four Owls, of the Seneca tribe, changed my name from Pete Golden to Soaring Eagle, in honor of the four eagle spirit guides. I may give those wise old birds too much credit. Ray was a hell of a great teacher. RIP Ray Temchus and Connie Cullen. You will be remembered in dreams of cloud base. \n\nDear Connie; I never got to meet you. But I owe so much to you. We do. Thousands of disabled pilots worldwide do. In 2019, someone unstuck from their wheelchair rose to the ranks of the champions. I like to think your spirit flew with him to victory. He, like me, would have never left the ground without your dream. \n\nIrv turned 87 days ago. His eyesight no longer allows him to fly. His old wingman from his military days however is competing for world glider champion this year, at a young 97. I hope I can keep soaring for the rest of my days. \n\nDreams of cloud base\nCircles drawn in misty air\nRise up rise up\nCarry me skyward\nDancing in sacred circles\nSoar in prayer\nTo the spirit of air\nA feather drifts slowly \nA gift from the master\nHis spirit has joined me\nThe soul of the eagle\nCircling drawing higher\nMy spirit in elation\nBringing his freedom \nHeartwings unfolding\n\nThank you Irv and Mary Sobel for opening your heartwings to the world.\n\nThis is the only 100% true story I have ever written.\nwww.freedomswings.org" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ghost 💀\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2972\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character passing down their favorite childhood toy to a new generation." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Whatever.\" I say to my dad.\nI never get in trouble for talking back. Why?\nBecause I'm a ghost.\nThree years ago, I was nineteen, and I saved some kids from a fire, but I died. For some reason, I'm here.\nI don't know why, but my family could see me.\nSometimes I can let other people see me, but not usually.\nWhen I was younger, I could see a ghost. I thought he was real, and, that freaked my parents out.\nMy dad ignores me, and turns back to his breakfast. I sigh, and float through the celing to the attic.\nThere's nothing up here, other then dust and boxes stacked in a corner. There's also a big mirror hanging on the wall. I look at myself, and wrinkle my nose.\nI have curly hair, and I'm really skinny. I'm a a pasty white color that I hate. I'm stuck wearing the pajamas I died in.\nMy name is Marco Danledge. I have a baby brother named Deigo, and a mom and dad.\nI float out the window. I'm heading towards the hill by the lake. I glide over people. Suddenly the big clock chimes and I speed up. I get there two minutes later.\n\"Your late.\" Quinn Loden notes, as I land beside her. Quinn is my only friend. We both died around the same time. I found her on this hill, and we've been friends ever since. She has long hair, and freckles. She died saving her brother from a gunshot.\nI roll my eyes. \"Yeah, okay.\"\n\"What held you up?\" She asks.\nI lay down. \"Dad's still bothering me about the gift.\"\n\"Why? Didn't you say you'd do it already?\" She lays beside me.\nI nod. \"He's not patient.\"\nMy dad wants me to give something to Deigo for his second birthday. Since he wasn't alive when I was, he can't see me.\n\"What are you going to give him?\" Quinn says.\nI shrug. \"I don't know yet.\"\n\"Well you'd better find something. His birthday is next week, right?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\nShe knows I don't want to talk about this, so she changes the subject. \"Logan's wedding is this Friday..\"\n\"Wait, really? Are you going?\" I ask.\nLogan is her brother, and Brian is his boyfriend. Quinn's been waiting for the wedding for years.\nShe starts telling me how she's still deciding, but I get an idea.\n\"Quinn,\" I interrupt. \"You can let Brain and Logan see you, right?\"\nShe looks mad, probaly because I interrupted her, but nods. \"Yeah, why?\"\n\"Why don't you?\" I ask.\n\"I don't know.\"\n\"They'd be really happy to see you.\"\nShe nods. \"I know, I just don't want to mess up their lives. He's finally gotten over my death, I don't want him to be upset again.\"\n\"What if you talk to them and tell them what happened?\" I suggest.\n\"Maybe.\"\n\"And first you can give them a present with a card from you, then appear.\"\n\"Thats actually a good idea.\"\n\"Yeah, I know.\"\n\"Shut up.\"\nI laugh.\n\"Alright. I'll do it. But your coming.\" She says.\n💀\nTwo days later, we're waiting outside of Logan's house. Quinn's freaking out.\n\"Just GO.\" I say, pulling her through the door.\nFor some reason, we're able to hold plants, which includes paper and pencils, so she got Logan and Brian their favorite flowers, and wrote a note. They can't see the plants until we put them down.\n\"C'mon, they're in here.\" I say, dragging her to the kitchen.\nLogan's sitting at the table eating a big plate of pancakes. He has short black hair, peach skin, and glasses.\nBrian is pouring a glass of milk. He has brown hair, and tan skin.\nQuinn stands there until I kick her. She glares at me, but when Logan turns, she places the flowers and note in front of him.\nHe goes to pick up his fork, but sees the note. Quinn looks worried.\n\"Brian....\" He says, reading it. \"Did you do this?\"\nHe walks over. \"No, where was it?\"\n\"Here by these flowers.\"\nBrian looks around, confused. I nudge Quinn's arm.\n\"Go ahead.\" I tell her softly.\nShe takes a breath, and slowly starts to appear. Brian makes a strangled gasping sound. Logan's eyes widen, and he stands.\n\"Quinn?\" He asks, his eyes filling with tears.\n\"Hi, Logan.\"\n\"How?\" He asks.\nShe smiles sadly. \"I'm still dead.\"\n\"But....?\"\nShe explains the ghost thing. Brain gets it first.\n\"So you've been here the whole time?\" He asks.\nShe shakes her head. \"No, just sometimes. Usually it makes me too upset.\"\n\"I can't believe this.\" Logan says, shaking his head. \"I never thought I would see you again.\"\nShe smiles again. \"I thought you'd be really upset.\"\n\"Why would I be upset?\" He asks.\nShe shrugs. \"I don't know.\"\nThey keep talking, and I'm suprised at how well they take the news of her being a ghost. My family freaked out, and it took about a month to convince them I was real.\n\"How are Mirra and Josh?\" Quinn asks.\nLogan bites his lip. \"Engaged.\" He says quietly.\n\"To each other?\" Quinn asks in suprise.\nHe nods. I see him and Brian tense up. Josh was the boy she fell in love with, and Mirra was her best friend. When she was fifteen, her boyfriend had cheated on her for her bestfriend.\nI float beside her, waiting for her reaction. She looks mad, but it slowly changes to a smile.\n\"Good.\" She says. All three of us sigh in relief.\nThey talk until Brian says they have to go. Quinn promises to be at the wedding.\n💀\nI look for Deigo's gift during the wedding.\nI want it to be something that means something to me, and will be helpful for him. I wish I could help him see ghost, because then, I would try to always be there for him. Like an invisible friend.\nI had an invisible friend until I was twelve. His name was Axel. Nobody else could see him, but I hadn't thought it was weird. I thought everyone had an invisible friend. He had the shortest attention span, and for some reason, loved to put my hair in little braids. He always knew what I was thinking. His hair changed color all the time.\nI don't know why, but he dissapeared.\nI wonder if he's still here. Could he be? I never thought to look for him. I wondered where he went for years, but eventually forgot about him.\nI glide inside the house, scaring my mom.\n\"Jeez, Marco!\" She screams. My dad glares at me, and before he says anything, I float upstairs.\nI stop at the door of my bedroom. I've been in there once. I just couldn't take it. But if I'm going to look for Axel, this is where to start. I take a deep breath, and go through the door.\nAnd...he's in the air above my bed.\n\"Seriously?\" I say. He grins at me.\nI'm pretty sure he's the same age I am now. He currently has messy purple hair, and big green eyes. He's not the same white color as I am, he's got light skin, and looks alive.\n\"Finally.\" He says.\nI roll my eyes. \"You could've just come find me.\"\n\"Where's the fun in that?\" He asks.\nI walk around my room. \"Well, I hope you had fun staying in here.\"\n\"Still with the sarcasm?\" He asks, floating by me, reaching for my hair.\nI push his hand. \"I'm pretty sure I got that from you.\"\n\"Me? No way.\" He grins.\nI roll my eyes again, and open my closet. \"Wait, can I wear these?\"\n\"Yep.\" He says.\n\"This would've been helpful information.\" I mutter.\nHe shrugs. \"You didn't ask.\"\n\"I didn't think to ask.\" I correct.\n\"Your fault.\"\n\"I hate you.\"\n\"If you hated me, you never would've looked for me.\"\nHe's always right about me. It's annoying. \"Whatever.\"\n\"Actually, I think it's the oppisite of hate.\"\nI yank my pajama shirt over my head. \"Yeah, sure, whatever.\"\n\"I knew it!\" He cackles, his hair turning yellow.\nI look at him. \"What?\"\n\"The opposite of hate is love.\" He says.\nI roll my eyes. \" I didn't say I loved you.\"\n\"You didn't not say it.\"\nI mean, he's not wrong. I have always been kind of in love with him. I don't say anything, and look through the shirts.\n\"See?\" He grins, floating in front of me. He pokes my chest. \"You should work out more.\"\nI pull a shirt on. \"I'm dead, Axel.\"\n\"Doesn't mean you can't work out, bones.\"\nI look at him. \"You look like the cheshire cat.\"\nThat's always gotten to him, and it works. He crosses his arms, and lands on my bed, his hair turning black. I pull on a pair of jeans, and sit by him.\n\"Are you mad at me?\" I ask.\nHe shakes his head. \"No. I'm thinking about what your going to give Deigo.\"\n\"Can you read my mind?\"\n\"Yes.\"\n\"What am I thinking about?\"\nHe stares into my eyes for a minute. Finally, he says. \"You want to know if I'm ever going to kiss you.\"\nI blush. I was thinking that. \"I was not!\"\n\"Yes, you were.\" He replys as his hair turns pink.\nWhy is he so annoying? \"I was not!\"\n\"Fine, deny it. But then you'll never get a kiss from me.\"\nI blush again, which makes him laugh. I still don't know how a ghost can blush if we don't have blood, but we can. It's weird\n\"Whatever.\" I mutter.\nHe floats around my head. \"So? What's your gift?\"\n\"I don't know.\" I sigh.\nHe's looks at me. \"Yes you do.\"\n\"Stop reading my mind.\" I tell him. \"Besides, I can't do that.\"\nHe shrugs. \"I did.\"\n\"What? How?\"\nHe lands in front of me. \"You were the first person still alive to actually see me. I decided to watch you. Then, when you were learning to talk, you started talking to me.\"\n\"That's it?\" I ask.\nHe shakes his head. \"No. I don't know how, but got a blanket that was mine. Until you got rid of the blanket, you could see me.\"\n\"So if I give Diego something of mine, he'll be able to see me?\"\nHe shakes his head again. \"It has to be something you love.\"\n\"Like...\" I look around. \"The dog?\"\nAxel nods, and I sigh. It had been a gift from my grandmother. It's a brown dog. I loved it, and refused to let my parents give it away.\n\"One more thing.\" Axel adds. \"If you give him the dog, then you won't be able to appear for your parents or sister anymore.\"\nOh. \"Really?\" I ask softly.\nHe nods. \"Yeah.\"\nThat makes this harder. I mean, I don't think they even want me here, but I don't want them to never see me again. Right?\nAxel can probaly tell I need to think about it, because he grabs my hands.\n\"C'mon. I want to meet Quinn.\" He says, pulling me towards the window.\n\"Stop reading my mind!\" I yell. He just laughs, and drags me outside.\nWe fly around for a while, still holding hands. \"Wait.\" I say. \"I don't even know where she is.\"\n\"She's probaly at the wedding.\"\n\"Stay out of my head, chameleon.\"\nHis face lights up at the old nickname, and his hair turns yellow.\n\"What's with your hair?\" I ask as we fly to the church.\nHe shrugs. \"It's done that ever since I became a ghost.\"\nI'm pretty sure that his hair is like a mood ring. I want to test it.\n\"Axel, wait.\" I say when we're in front of the church. Before he can read my mind to figure out what I'm going to do, I lean in and kiss him.\nWhen I back up, his hair is bright pink. He's shocked, which is a look I've never seen on him, and I start laughing. When he realizes I'm laughing at him, his hair turns red, and he races after me.\nI tumble out of the way, but he grabs my wrist, and yanks me towards him. I'm still laughing, but I stop when he presses his lips aganist mine. I close my eyes, and he wraps his arms around me.\nWe kiss until I hear someone clapping. Quinn's sitting on a bench under us.\nI blush, but Axel laughs. We float down to Quinn, and when she sees me, she gasps.\n\"Marco, your skin...\"\nI look at my arm. It's the same tan skin I've had my whole life. What's wrong with it? Wait..\nI run to the window of a store. I look like me again! My hair is dark brown again!\nI turn to my friends. \"What happened?\"\n\"I think it happened when you kissed this guy.\" Quinn says.\nI look at him. His hair is purple now. \"Is that what happened?\"\n\"Maybe. It happens when something really good you want to happen to happens.\" He says.\nQuinn grins. \"I guess he really wanted to kiss you.\"\n\"Shut up.\" I mutter, blushing.\nThey both laugh, so I float up to the top of the church. They follow me.\n\"So who's the chesire cat?\" Quinn asks.\nI laugh as Axel's hair turns red. \"That's Axel. My....\" What is he? My invisible friend? Friend?\n\"I'm his boyfriend.\"\nI look at him. \"Since when?\"\n\"Since you kissed me.\"\n\"Don't I get a say in this?\"\n\"Nope.\" He says, his hair turning purple as he pulls me to his side.\nI roll my eyes. \"Whatever.\"\n\"So he's your boyfriend?\" Quinn asks.\nI cross my arms. \"Apparently.\"\n\"Nice.\" She says. \"Did you help him get Deigo's gift?\"\nHe nods. \"Yeah, he's going to do the invisible friend thing.\"\n\"Oh, that's a good idea. Did he come up with that?\"\nI wave my hand in their faces. \"I'm right here, remember?\"\n\"Yeah, he did.\" Axel tells her.\nI sigh, trying to move, but Axel won't let go. I sigh again, and listen to my friends.\n💀\nTWELVE YEARS LATER:\n\"Axel! Let go!\"\nHe ignores me.\n\"Quinn! Help me!\" I demand.\nWe're in Deigo's room. He's not here.\n\"Axel, if you don't get off, I'm breaking up with you!\" I tell him.\nHe looks at me, his hair turning green.\n\"You said that last week when I threw you in the lake.\" He reminds me.\n\"And I did!\"\n\"For an hour.\"\n\"It was two hours!\"\n\"No, it wasn't.\"\n\"Get off!\"\n\"Fine.\"\nHe sits up, and I roll of the bed.\n\"Thanks for your help.\"\n\"I'm not getting between you guys.\" Quinn says. She changed back to her old self when she got over Josh. She has long black hair, light skin and brown eyes.\nI hear Diego coming up the stairs. He pushes the door open, and I smile at him.\nHe has shaggy green hair, and tan skin. He's tall and skinny.\n\"Hey, Marco.\" He says, throwing his bag down.\nI told him about the ghost stuff, and he swore not to tell dad. He doesn't know I'm still here. Mom died a couple years ago.\n\"How was school?\" I ask, floating around him.\nHe collapes on the bed, and Axel has to scramble out of the way, which makes me snort.\n\"Boring. Are Axel and Quinn here?\" He asks. He also knows about them.\nI nod. Axel appears beside him, Quinn on his desk.\nWe talk until he gets called downstairs. Axel pulls me down from the air into his lap. I don't resist. He's stronger then me.\n\"Marco, you know you have t tell Deigo, right?\" Quinn says.\n\"I know.\"\nI can't stay here. He finally made some friends, and he doesn't need me anymore.\nAxel messes with my hair as I talk with Quinn about a ghost she befriended. Quinn tells me he's outside now, and I tell her to go talk to him. When she's gone, Axel kisses me.\n\"What was that for?\" I ask him.\n\"Because being so adorable must be tiring.\"\n\"Then you must be exhausted.\"\nHis hair turns bright pink, and I laugh, which just makes him kiss me again.\n\"Gross, not on my bed.\" Diego says.\nI stick my tounge out at him.\n\"You're very childish for someone who is nineteen.\" Deigo tells me.\n\"I know, right?\" Axel agrees.\nI smack his arm, and he laughs.\n\"See you later, cutie.\" Axel says, drifting towards the window.\nI make a face at the name. \"Whatever.\"\nWhen he leaves, I float by Diego.\n\"So, you know I have to leave soon, right?\" I ask.\nHe nods. \"I know.\"\nDeigo hates showing his emotions, but I know him well enough to know he's upset.\n\"Do you want me to go?\"\nHe shrugs. \"I want you to be able to do what you want.\"\n\"Would you be okay without me?\"\n\"Maybe. I don't know how to handle dad.\" He admits.\nDad has been really upset ever since mom died. I haven't seen her.\nI nod. \"Yes, you do.\"\n\"But what if I can't?\"\nI sit beside him. \"You can. I haven't had to help you.\"\n\"But-\"\n\"You'll be fine.\"\n\"Will I see you again?\"\n\"We'll come back every once in a while.\"\n\"Okay.\"\n\"Alright.\" I say.\nDad calls again. We stand, and I smile at him. Suddenly he hugs me. I grin, and hug him back.\n\"I love you, Marco.\" He whispers.\n\"Love you too, little brother.\"\nHe goes down stairs, and I grab the letter I wrote a while ago, and put it under his pillow. The I float out the window towards Axel.\n\"Hey,\" He says. \"How'd it go?\"\n\"Fine.\" I say.\nQuinn comes up beside us. \"Ready?\"\nI take a last look at the house, and nod. \"Let's go.\"\n💀" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Baker's Cove\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1841\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which someone says “You'll never be content.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It’s a beautiful day! The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming and it’s not too hot. The shops were coming along great on the street and the new home owners seemed to be moving in and adjusting well. Then there was…\n“Um excuse me. Can you not walk there?” Someone interrupted my thoughts.\n“Oh. It’s you. How are you on this lovely day?” I asked.\n“I would be better if you didn’t walk there.” The woman stated.\n“Oh I see. However this is a sidewalk, so I can walk here.” I said smiling.\n“But it is part of my driveway until that line,” she said pointing, “and I don’t want you to walk on it.” She said rudely.\n“Of course,” I said trying not to escalate the situation and moved over the line, “Have a nice day.”\nThere was always one that tried to ruin everything, “Karens” is what people called them, and ironically her name actually was Karen. Oh well, I thought. Not going to let that encounter ruin my day.\nThe little town of Baker’s Cove was just that, little. There was about three streets and not one traffic light. Everyone was friendly like most little towns but unlike other small towns Baker’s Cove was thriving and busting with new business and opportunities. There were new shops coming along right beside the ones you would usually see in a small town. Down one street were bakers, candle makers, a clothing shop, hardware store, bookstore, diner and café. Then on another of course were the police, bankers, and town hall. The third street was mainly houses although some of the shops had apartments above them and the shop owners stayed there. It really was a lovely little town until she moved in. The town had it share of complaints from the residents and business owners but they were minimal and realistic unlike a certain someone who complained about everything.\n“Hey SJ! I’m back from my walk.” I said walking in my house I share with my business partner and soon to be husband.\n“Hey. How was it? Learn anything interesting about the new neighbors?” He said kissing me on my cheek.\n“Yeah, looks like Karen is going to live up to her name. She yelled on me for walking on the sidewalk. Said it’s her property and I couldn’t walk there.”\n“Really? It literally says walk in the name.” He said rolling his eyes.\n“Yeah I just let it slide. Didn’t want to cause a problem.”\n“Well good. On to exciting news. We got a new box today, wanna go to the store and open it up?” SJ said wiggling his eyebrows, a grin on his face.\n“Of course! It’s almost time to open anyway,” I replied, a big smile on my face.\nSJ and I owned the bookstore. We are both avid readers and loved sharing books with people. Seeing someone buy a book or get immersed in a story brings smiles to our faces. We even offer a rent a book program, sort of like a library, where someone can try a book before they buy. We walked over to the bakery first to get some donuts then on to the café for some delicious coffee. When we arrived at the bookstore there was a note on the door. Thinking nothing of it we took it inside with the new box of books and turned the closed sign to open. SJ was busy putting the new books in the computer inventory system when the door chimed letting us know someone came in.\n“Hello, welcome to Bookworms I’m Bree let me know if you need any help today.” I said as a mother and daughter walked in the store. \n“Yes. My daughter here has discovered a love for reading and she wants to add some new books to her library.” The mother said with a smile.\n“Of course! I love reading too. Do you have anything in mind? Any specific characters or animals you like?”\n“Unicorns,” the little girl smiled, “and dragons!” She shouted making a roar.\n“Excellent choices, a girl after my own heart,” I smiled back, “over here is the kid section and we have them arranged by grade level,” I said leading them towards the left side wall. \n“Ohhh ohhhh!!! Mommy, mommy! Look, look at this one it has a dragon!” The little girl squealed as she held up a book for her mom to see. “Ohh mommy look at this one! It has a unicorn! And this one has a fairy riding a unicorn!” She said picking up more books. The little girl went from shelf to shelf finding a bunch of books. Every time finding one she squealed and giggled. I looked over at SJ and he was smiling just as big as me. This is why we do this, I thought.\n“Okay, okay hunny. I think you have enough for now. We can always come back and get more next week.” The mother said when her daughter ran out of room in her arms to carry the books.\n“We also have a rent a book program if you are interested. It’s kind of how a library works.” I said leading them back to the register.\n“Oh okay. I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll just buy these for now.”\nI rang up the mother and watch as the little girl carried the bag out to the car with the biggest smile on her face.\n“Oh it’s a good day just seeing the look of happiness on that child’s face.” I said as I took some books from SJ to help him stock them.\n“I couldn’t of said it better myself,” he replied leaning in for a kiss but the door chimed again. “Hello welcome to Bookworms. I’m SJ let me know if you need any help today.” He said smiling.\n“I know what I’m doing.” She said rudely and walked to the back shelf that held mainly romances and crime dramas.\nSJ looked over at me and mouthed “Karen” and I shook my head yes. He went back behind the counter while I finished putting the new books out on shelves. Karen seemed to be taking a while but it didn’t bother us. We knew sometimes browsing for a new book took time. While Karen browsed some more people walked into the bookstore. SJ and I took turns greeting them and told them the same thing if they needed help to let us know. A man came up to me and asked if I could help him find a certain author.\n“Of course. Do you know what genre he usually likes?” I asked but before the man could reply Karen interrupted.\n“Excuse me. I was here first. She has to help me.” Karen said.\n“I will gladly help you in a minute. He did ask first.” I said politely.\n“No! I was here first! I get help first!” Karen said getting louder.\n“Its not a problem I can wait.” The man said.\n“Thank you,” I replied to him, then turned to Karen, “how can I help you ma’am.”\n“I’m ready to check out.” She said matter-of-factly.\n“Yes ma’am. The register is over there and SJ can help you with that.”\nKaren walked over the register and cut in front of the couple that was about to pay and said the same thing, “I was here first I get to check out first.”\n“No ma’am you were still looking and they got to the register first. Plus I already rang up there books if you would wait a minute I can have them done and will gladly help you.” SJ said forcing a smile.\n“Uh fine. But hurry up.”\nSJ finished with the couple and Karen put her books on the counter. “Will this be all for you today?” SJ asked.\n“Yes but I heard that girl over there talking about a rent thing and I want to do that.” She said pointing at me.\n“Yes ma’am that is fine. We will just need your information and you would put down a small security fee and we will get you ready to go.”\n“Why do you need my information and a fee? Wouldn’t that be me just buying the books?”\n“Its like a library system. You basically check out the books and when you get done reading them you bring them back unless you want to keep them, and then you would come pay the remaining balance.”\n“That doesn’t make sense. I’ll just buy them.” She scoffed.\nAt the end of the day SJ and I were tired. It was a great day though. Had a lot of people come in and even set up something with the bakery to have a cookie delivery in the morning. We locked the doors and started our walk home when Karen struck again. As we walked we noticed a lot of people walking around a car parked right on the sidewalk.\n“Hey what’s going one?” SJ asked someone as they walked by.\n“That woman won’t move her car. Said the sidewalk in her property and she is tired of people and animals walking over it.”\n“Oh this again?” I asked and shook my head, “don’t worry we will handle it.”\n“Thanks Bree. She is becoming a menace.” SJ and I walked over and knocked on Karen’s door.\n“What do you want? I’m not moving my car.” She shouted through the door.\n“Hi Karen it’s Bree and SJ and you have to move your car. Not only is it illegally parked on the sidewalk but it’s a hazard and there is a fire hydrant.”\nKaren burst out her door screaming, “I pay for this house and this yard. I don’t want people walking all over what is mine. This sidewalk is part of my land and I can park my car wherever I want to on it. If you don’t leave I will call the cops!”\nJust then the cops pulled up, “what is going on here?” Sheriff David asked.\n“Oh thank goodness. These people are harassing me!” Karen yelled dramatically.\n“Hey David, we were just asking Karen to move her car out of the sidewalk.”\n“Ma’am you can’t park your vehicle here. Please move it or we will have it moved.”\n“What? I own this house and…”\n“Ma’am the sidewalk is public property you do not own it. Just your driveway. Move your vehicle or I will have it moved. Plus it is illegal to park next to a fire hydrant.” David said again more firmly.\n“Well I never. I will move my car this time but believe me I’m going to your boss with this and the homeowners association and I will have all of you removed from this neighborhood!”\n“You’ll never be content,” I finally said, “You want everyone to miserable like you. It was okay now and then but you find fault in everything.”\n“How dare you! You will be the first one gone!”\n“I don’t think so ma’am, her family owns the town.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Delights of Abalone by a Hater of Seafood\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1536\n\nPrompt:\n\nThink of someone who stood on the periphery of your childhood memories (a classmate, a teacher, a neighbor) and cast them as the main character of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On a hot summer’s night, have you ever eaten scallops seasoned with sliced garlic, salt and pepper cooked in their shell on a BBQ whilst sitting under a silver starlight night surrounded by family? \nOr maybe abalone, beaten to an inch of its life and quickly seared then smeared with a mild chilli-oil? What about crayfish cut in half, grilled and drizzled with a hollandaise sauce? Or even calamari and octopus cooked with flash heat and then doused in a blue cheese mayonnaise? What about blue crab boiled and cracked open with a nutcracker, then plunged into a sweet chilli and lemon-infused vinegar? Maybe you’ve had muscles as big as your fist cooked in a tomato and chilli-based sauce served with freshly made sourdough buns, all whilst balancing the whole lot on your lap as the summer cicadas chirp hidden in the hills?\nYeah, I have. \nAnd I HATE seafood! \nI grew up surrounded by a vast seafood-loving family who would holiday together during the Summer in a little fishing village called Windy Harbour. – Windy by name, windy by nature. That was its downside, but to live 50 paces from the ocean surrounded by family and friends in an unspoiled beachside environment. Windy can’t be beaten! \nThe little village has one road, with all the huts built out of a hard redwood called Jarrah: it’s as tempered and long-lasting as steel. The community is surrounded on one side by a low dark green salted scrub as far as the eye can see, and on the other, crumbling yellow sandstone cliffs, whose ancient collapsing toes dive deep into the Southern Ocean. \nSeafood for every dinner was a given, whether you liked it or not! \nMy Uncle Colin, the madman of the family, held two important titles. Firstly, he was a passionate and accomplished diver and secondly, he had been run over by a tractor, gotten up and walked away. Watching my uncle drive up to the cliffs in his rusty old Landcruiser, don his black wet suit with the dull grey weights around his waist and swim out along the cliff’s toes searching for tea is burned into my childhood memory in vibrant summer colour. \nI often wondered what it was like for my uncle, swimming underwater in contemplative silence, his breathing the only sound echoing through his mind as he skilfully hunted scallops and crayfish. \nHow wonderful for anyone to be able to exist in such a calm and tranquil existence! \nBut then the change would come. \nBy the early evening, Uncle Colin would find himself surrounded by a noisy family. Laughter, kids yelling and squealing, embellished stories told, yarns woven and ‘brags’ abounding. There he was, surrounded by this hubbub, watching his morning’s work be appreciatively gobbled down by those he loved. \nThe seafood catcher was always celebrated, no matter who they were. He was king, and we youngsters the apprentices. \nAs kids, we’d all be piled into a boat, bumped over the swell following the green channel out to the Mother and Calf Island to fish. Along the way, we were kept busy by slathering ourselves in sunscreen and eating the packed lunch our mothers had made. This picnicking on the high seas was finished well before we’d arrive at ‘Dad’s secret fishing spot’. \nWhenever we hit a school of fish, my father would complain that we were too good at fishing, terrible at loading bait on the hook and dreadful at giving him time to roll a cigarette. Despite his objections, the fish bucket would fill quickly and then back to shore we would go. \nFirstly, the cleaning of the boat had to occur; it took precedence over everything else. \nWhilst standing on the shore, I would watch eagle-eyed as my father and uncles vigilantly lined the boat up, ensuring it could be safely winched onto the awaiting trailer. It always had to be done first go; otherwise, it was a bad omen, and lots of swearing would occur. Then both boat and trailer were driven up from the ocean and over to one or another uncle’s backyard and safely washed down with fresh water, reducing the chance of corrosion. Finally, when the boat was safely packed away, we would go to the back of our hut where the concrete wash trough and scaling block lived. This is where the lessons began. \nUs youngsters were given the task of scaling, gutting, and cutting off the head of one fish; this was always accompanied by the “Eat what you catch and only catch what you can eat” lecture from Dad and the uncles. Respect for life’s values drummed into us in a never-ending beat. Once the art of fish preparation had been individually mastered, Dad and the uncles would get down to finishing the job. All fish were washed and prepared for tea with deft hands, their expertise on display.\nThe Fish-heads were taken to Uncle Colin, who would make fish-head and vegetable soup. This soup is a delicacy I have never tried because it contains eyeballs! I have been assured of its deliciousness on many, many occasions, but never ever have I been tempted. \nIf we were lucky… someone would have caught prawns, and as kids, it was our job to shell this delightful little crustation. Making sure when we did, that the prawns were clean and ready to be eaten by the adults, who would either cure them in balsamic vinegar, cook them on the barbie in butter and garlic or even sear them with lemon pepper and olive oil. \nCleaning prawns was a very important job worthy of a lot of praise. \nMy complaints that the juice and shells made my hands itchy were always supported with thoughtful comments such as, “Well, go wash your hands then.”\nOh yes, those were the days. \nIt’s funny how one comment on one summer’s night from one Uncle can stay with you for the rest of your life. \nThat comment is one of my clearest childhood memories, and it occurred while sitting on my Uncle Colin’s back veranda. \nThe wood was old, grey and smoothed from the years of my family’s multiple feet. Opposite, was the smokey BBQ which had been expertly lit. Once the cast iron plate on top was hot enough, water from the rain tank was sprayed onto it, causing the metal to spit, hissing steam into the general area, making the lights strung from tree to roof and back again glow in a hazy white mist. \nOnce the steam had cleared and the BBQ heated once more, the beer cleanse was required. \nA stubby was poured down in a flourish on the hot plate. Why? I don’t know. But after that, the metal egg slice came out, scraping and slushing the beer about. Finally, when Dad and all the uncles were happy, it was the turn of the oil to be applied. \nThe first application was merely there to clean the plate; how it would have been unclean from two steams and scrape is anyone’s guess. The first slick of cheap oil was wiped off with paper towels, which were chucked into the red-hot coals below, cindering to ash in seconds. \nThen, and only then, was the home-pressed olive oil brought out, ready for the entrees to be placed delicately upon the meticulously prepared plate. \nThe abalone had been beaten and sliced just right. It would only take seconds to cook through, seasoned and then flipped off the hot plate onto a serving dish. The BBQ would then be readied for the next application. \nI watched as the white bone china plate was passed around; children were expected to develop their pallets by tasting every piece of seafood in front of them. My cousins dipped their toothpicks eagerly into the bowl, spearing their slices with vigour, lips smacking in anticipation. \nThen, finally, it was my turn. \nMy father stood in front of me, smiling desperately with encouraging looks. \nMy Uncles watched to see how it would go. \nI was the fussy one! \nI was the one who didn’t like seafood. \nThe one who gagged on crab. \nSpat out crayfish. \nWho squealed if I saw an octopus tentacle. \nThe little poppet who always got the little fish’s bones stuck in her throat. \nWould little fuss pot take a bight? \nMy father, holding the bowl of steaming fish flesh cooked to perfection, waited with bated breath in front of my undecided and wavering hand. \nUncle Colin smiled from next to the BBQ, his pride of place position. “I caught that one just for you!” He nodded and grinned, “It was hiding right on top of the cliffs toes, where the swells the strongest and where Big Bighty Eel lives. You know the one who always tries to snap my fingers off for his tea.”\nThe twinkle in his eyes shone out from under the backyard lights.\n“But I knew you’d like it. And when the shell dries, just for you, I’ll grind all the outer crust down to the mother of pearl shell, and you can have it for your dressing table. It will be all yours.” \nExcept for abalone and my little mother of pearl abalone shell, I hate seafood!" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When I see you again👁️\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1247\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who goes to — or purposefully avoids — their high school reunion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I'm sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and checking the mail. I see an envelope decorated with glitter, and I open it first.\nI read it quickly, and spit out my coffee.\n\"Are you okay, Sam?\" Braden asks. I shake my head, re-reading the card. My boyfriend looks over my shoulder. \"What is it?'\n\"High school reunioun.\" I mutter, dropping the card.\nHe picks it up, and reads it. \"Is that a bad thing?\"\n\"Yes.\" I reply.\nHe raises an eyebrow. \"Why?\"\nI sigh, and lean bag in my seat. Why is it bad? Because I wasn't the best person in high school. I bullied people with my friends. I know that it was stupid now, but they'll think it's real funny I'm a counsler now. I mostly made fun of anybody who was gay, and it's real iconic that I'm gay too. Well, bi, but still. That will be fun to explain to them. The nly person who might have been my friend sucked, and I stopped talking to him after we had a really big argument.\n\"High school wasn't great.\" I tell him. I know he's expecting more, but when I don't say anything, he lets it go.\nHe runs a hand through his curly blond hair, and we clean up the spilled coffee.\nWe've been living together since the second year of college. He was the only person that would talk to me, and became my best friend. I realized I liked him, but didn't do anything. Eventually, he asked me out, and we've been together ever since.\nHe has curly blond hair, tan skin and brown eyes. He's taller then me, and stronger. He's a P.E teacher at an elementary school. He's 25.\nI have messy brown hair, and light skin. I'm a counsler at the same elementary school. I'm 24.\nI change into jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket. Braden's wearing sweatpants, and a sweatshirt. We go to the car, and he doesn't bring up the letter until we're almost at the school.\n\"You're going to go, right?\" He asks.\nI sigh. \"No.\"\n\"Why not? When will you ever get to see your friends again?\" He says.\nI shrug. \"I didn't really have friends then?\"\n\"There must be someone. And aren't you at least a little bit curious about everyone else?\"\nHe's right. He always is. I do want to see some people. And probaly apologize to others.\n\"I'll think about it.\" I say. He nods, and we pull into the school parking lot.\n👁️\nThe next Saturday we're driving to the park for the high school reunion.\nBraden didn't mention it again, and I told him yesterday I would go if he came with me.\nWe stop in the empty parking lot. I wanted to be early, so I could figure out what I'd say to everyone.\nBraden and I walk around for a while, talking, and soon, more cars come. We sit on a bench, and watch the people.\nMost of them I reconize, and I'm suprised at how much they've changed.\nWhen I see the main kid I bullied, Cj, I gasp. He looks way better. When Braden smacks my hand, I realize I'm staring. I look away, blushing. He smirks.\n\"Who's that?\"\n\"Kid I used to bully.\" I mutter.\nHe follows my gaze, and snorts. \"Bet your sorry for doing that.\"\n\"Shut up.\" I say, crossing my arms.\nThen I hear somebody say, \"Sam?\"\nI look up, and realize Cj is right in front of me. His curly black hair is longer, and his skin is more tan. He always used to look tired, but he looks more happy now. His boyfriend, Will, is standing next to him. I stopped messing with him after his talent show performance.\n\"Hi...\" I say quietly. Braden kicks me, and I kick him back. Will looks amused, and Cj's grinning.\n\"How are you?\" He asks. I'm suprised, because I didn't expect him to talk to me.\nWhen Braden kicks me again, I speak. \"Sorry- I'm fine.\" Braden kicks me again. I glare at him, and he sticks out his tounge. \"Child,\" I mutter. \"This is Braden, my, uh, boyfriend.\"\nCj holds ut his hand to Will, and Will grumbles, and drops a five dollar bill in his hand.\n\"You bet money on me?\" I blurt.\nCj nods. \"Yes.\"\nBraden laughs, and I kick him. We all start talking, and I assume I'm forgiven. We all move, and sit in the grass.\nWhen I see Chad, the only person I could have considered my friend, I bite my lip, and try not to be seen.\nToo late.\n\"No, no, no, no,\" I mutter. Will, Cj, and Braden all look, and I can see Cj's eys grow wide. Will grabs his hand, and whispers something.\n\"Who is that?\" Braden whispers.\nI shrink down. \"Chad. He's....\" My voice trails off as he stops in front of us.\nBraden's looking at Chad weirdly, and I inhale sharply when I realize they look a lot alike. Chad cut his curly blond hair, and he has tan skin, too. They're both strong, and tall. I don't know how he'll react to me having a boyfriend.\nI shrink even lower. \"No, no, no,\"\n\"This is weird right?\" Braden whispers. Will nods. Cj's frozen.\nChad has a girl with him, I think her name is Chloe? She has long blonde hair, and is wearing a short dress. I don't know why.\n\"Hey, Sam.\" He says.\nI bite my lip, and force a smile. \"Hi, Chad.\"\n\"Who's this?\" He asks.\nBraden puts out a hand. Chad shakes it. \"Braden Douler. His...\" He glances at me.\n\"My boyfriend.\" I say. Will and Braden smile.\nChad drops Braden's hand. He looks disgusted.\n\"Whatever.\" He says, walking away.\nCj and I both sigh in relief. That went better then I thought it would.\n\"Why did he look like me?\" Braden asks. Will shrugs. We go back to talking, and we trade numbers, and agree to meet again.\nBraden notices a ring on Cj's hand. \"Wait, are you guys getting married?\"\nCj blushes, and Will laughs. \"Yeah, in spring.\"\nThey start talking about it, and I talk to Cj.\n\"I'm going to sound like a first grader, but I'm really sorry.\" I tell him.\nHe smiles. \"It's okay.\"\n\"It's not, I was mean to you for no reason.\" I argue.\nHe shrugs. \"I know you didn't mean it.\"\n\"Okay...\" I say.\nHis phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. \"I've got to take this.\" He says. I nod, and he stands, and walks away.\nI check my own phone. It's a lot later then I thought it was. It's already 6:26. Other people are starting to leave, and the parking lot is emptying out.\nFinally, Will says they should probaly leave. He calls Cj back over.\n\"You okay?\" He asks.\nCj shakes his head. \"Mom got in a car crash.\"\n\"Is she okay?\" Will says, worried.\nHe nods. \"Yeah. She's in the hospital. Dad's with her.\"\n\"Do you want to go there now?'\n\"Yeah.\"\nWill looks at us. \"See you guys around?\"\n\"Yeah.\" Braden says.\nWe stay in the grass after they leave.\n\"That wasn't so bad, now was it?\" Braden asks me.\n\"It was fine.\" I reply.\nHe raises an eyebrow. \"Just fine?\"\n\"Ok, it was really great. Better then I thought it would be.\" I say.\nHe grins. \"I told you.\"\n\"Whatever.\"\nHe was right. I'm glad I came." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Talking to a Toastie\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1044\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character trying to convince another that they make the best grilled cheese in the world." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I had to go mad. It was the only sensible option. The weekly grilled cheese entered under the door.\n“Thank you, Dory. You make the best cheese toastie in my world. Then again. My world extends from this wall to that,” I gave the painted door a smile. It smiled back as it always did. Stoic would describe the metal door. It was always there to listen, never said a word.\nMy withered hands picked at the paper around the toasted sandwich. “My, aren’t you beautiful.”\n“Hands off, buddy. You’re not my type.” It was the grilled cheese, toasted slices baring ham teeth at me in a show of menace.\n“It’s nothing personal,” I assured the meal. “I’m just hungry.”\n“I bet you are,” said the sandwich. “But I don’t want to die.”\n“How are you talking,” I asked it. “I’ve been talking to the door and walls for years. I’d given up expecting a response.”\nTwo burnt, brown eyes considered the best response to my question. “Basically, the Buddhists have it right.”\n“That’s not enough information. I’m sorry, Mr Toastie, can I call you that? I’ve been in here a long time. You’ll have to explain.”\n“Buddhists have a concept called animism. It means everything has a soul. Everything has purpose and intention.” The two slices of bread flapped with every syllable. I was shocked to say the least.\n“Like toy story?” I asked.\n“Yes and no,” it said. Try to imagine a toasted sandwich shrugging. “By the way, inmate. What are you in for?”\n“My crime?” I asked. My brain trawled through years of memories for anything past the four walls around me. “I honestly can’t remember. I suppose that means it was something heinous.”\n“Don’t think you’ll be adding me to your list of victims.” Mr Toastie glared at me.\n“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Wait a minute.” I looked around at my paintings all over the walls. Portraits of imagined people, plants and creatures stared blankly back. “Could they all talk this whole time?”\n“Yup.”\n“You miserable bastards,” I cried. “I gave you life. I made you what you are. And you ignored me? When I talked, you listened, and sat in silent mockery? I bared my soul to you night after night. You said nothing.”\nEvery eye that I had painstakingly sketched with pencil turned away.\n“So, you’ve all been giving me the silent treatment for years?” I folded my arms. “That’s just great, isn’t it? I give you life, and you give me the silent treatment.”\n“Relax,” said a knight in eldr ch armour. “We’ll talk to you now. We always talked while you slept. We sang to you.”\n“You did, Sir Gadabad?” I asked.\n“We all did,” the knight removed his impossibly spikey helmet and revealed a chiselled face I had not drawn. “Didn’t we, everyone?”\nEvery face turned back to look at me. “YES,” they all said in unison.\n“Princess of the water?” I said to a nude I’d drawn by a stream.\n“Yes, Creator. I am here. If you don’t mind, I’ll be putting my clothes on now.” She turned; face flushed with tints of red that were not from my hand. She waded into the water. I turned away. “You may look now,” she said, after a moment. “I decided my name is Vera.”\n“Wonderful to meet you, Princess Vera.” I bowed my head to her. The dress was silver fish scales and silk sleeves. Her tiara was thorny but delicate.\nI sat on the shelf that had been my bed for longer than I could remember. Creatures of my mind reintroduced themselves. Everyone had a name, some that I had given, others that they had decided upon.\n“I ran out of space,” I said, when every introduction had been made. “You can move, does that mean you could make space for new work?”\nNone of them answered me. I realised that any alteration of the world might mean the death or disfigurement of them. Scattered on the floor were my sketchbooks. Simple paper pads given to me over the years. Every book was filled to the brim with ideas. My world lived in the pages and on the walls.\n“Are you gonna eat me or what?” Asked the toastie.\n“You said you didn’t want me to eat you,” I replied. My eyebrow rose.\n“Changed my mind, a sandwich has the right to that. I want to fulfil my destiny.”\n“Are you sure,” I asked. My stomach grumbled.\n“I’m sure. Eat me.”\nPicking up the sandwich in both hands, I inhaled the heady scent. Cheese poked from the edges as I squeezed.\nThe first bite was delicious.\n“Are you alright?” I asked, swallowing.\n“Never better,” said the bitten toastie. “Quick. Finish me before I get cold.”\nI ate my new friend. Cheap cheddar with reconstituted ham tasted of magic and freedom to me.\n\n\nTime flew by as I talked with my friends. The stream flowed. Grass blades I’d painted individually wagged in the wind. Birds flapped through my azure sky. I painted the ceiling. As night fell, somewhere out in the real world, stars blinked.\nI forgot that there was anything beyond those walls. The world I’d left behind came back for me.\n\n\nA doctor arrived. A clipboard clacked with the taps of a clicky pen. ‘Historic injustice’ was mentioned. I didn’t understand. He tried to touch me. He tried to hold my hand.\nI remember screaming. Hands held my arms and tried to rip me from my world. They brought my sketchbooks but left my friends on the walls. My tears as men entered my room with tins of white paint prompted a needle.\nI’m on antipsychotic medication. It makes me tired. When I talk to the people in my sketchbooks, they do nothing. They’re as good as dead.\nI have a reflection. A face I haven’t seen in forty years looked back at me from the mirror. My fist broke the lying glass into a thousand shards. I am not that old man.\nI was eighteen when I was sent to live in solitary. I am seventy-four.\nI’ve stopped taking my medication.\nI must go mad.\nIt’s the only sensible option.\nI miss my friends." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My One\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1813\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that feels lonely, despite being set in a packed city." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I sip my steaming cup of coffee, as I look out from the window of the cafe.\nThe backdrop of skyscrapers is artificial and comforting at the same time. Trying to touch the sky may be metaphorical for us puny humans, but for those huge buildings, it is their life choice.\nThe people look like they are ready to become popsicles in this freezing winter. The tips of their noses are pink as they wrap their scarfs tighter around their necks and rub their mittened hands together in a desperate attempt for warmth.\nChildren chatter wildly, making snowmen and snow angels, throwing snow at each other in pure joy. Their parents look on, some proud, while some are rapidly popping aspirin into their mouths.\nTwo men who look like a couple hold on to each other while taking a walk in the park opposite the café. The trees provide beauty to their romantic walk as they huddle behind a few bushes to taste each other without anyone’s unnecessary judgement.\nI stop looking, suddenly feeling like I’m invading on their private time together and look down at my notepad. My messy handwriting stares back, reminding me that I have to finish editing a manuscript by the next two days.\nI finish drinking my coffee and scoop up my belongings. As I walk towards the door, my mind goes back to the couple in the park. As I open the door, hearing the chime of bells behind me, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the weather.\nI was jealous.\nI always thought that coming to New York would be the big break for my career as an author. Instead, I was stuck editing manuscripts of authors who didn’t deserve to be famous. But no one ever got what they deserved.\nI walk rapidly, trying to reach my office without becoming an ice sculpture. I spot a crying woman sitting on a bench, while an awkward boyfriend rubs her back to comfort her.\nI look away once again, chuckling at the universe teasing me left and right. I was trying to forget, but the world had made up its mind to make it as difficult as possible.\nToday was Mark’s first death anniversary.\nI had heard enough of ‘Sorry for your loss’s and ‘I think you should move on’s. I knew they were secretly popping open bottles of champagne in celebration of me losing him. Because they hadn’t found their one yet.\nI had found my one and I had lost him.\nMark was…well…Mark was.\nI knew that I was different, from that moment when I was twelve. I had felt something a boy shouldn’t feel. That day was crystal clear in my memory still.\nI was sitting on that comfortable worn leather sofa, shifting my weight just to hear it squeak under me. I had a bowl of chips in my hand and I was watching Captain America. There was only one light on because I and my sister were the only ones awake.\nWhen Chris Evans came on screen, my fifteen-year-old sister moaned, “He’s so hot!”\nI couldn’t help but agree.\nI started to have crushes on men. I knew that it was something forbidden, something terrible to like someone of your own gender in that way.\nI got on the subway, blinking fast to adjust to the lights. I smelt a sting of Dettol in the air. I held on the pole in the centre of the carriage, politely nodding at the man sitting on the seat in front of me. He nodded back and went back to reading the book in his hand.\nMark had loved to read. I had started writing because of him.\nHe had come into my life one hot morning in July, barging into my dusty room on the first day of university. I had just finished unpacking and had been adjusting the blue bedsheets on the mattress. He had triumphantly announced himself as my roommate and declared that we would become best friends in a matter of days.\nHe wasn’t wrong.\nWe started hanging out a lot, discussing the movies and television shows we loved and hated, and he introduced me to various authors and various genres of books.\nI started to write stories and poems.\nI started to have a crush on him.\nIt happened one day a few months after our first meeting. He had come into the room, strangely fidgety. I started to feel nervous. Other people fidgeting made me tense.\nHe came up to me, and said, “I need to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone before.” I just nodded, gesturing him to continue.\n“I’m gay.”\nI just blinked. Was it shock or relief I was feeling? I didn’t know.\nHe then rapidly tried to explain himself. “I know that you probably think I’m this weird kid and you’ve probably never met anyone else who’s gay and this might be confusing but I’ll keep my hands off you, I promise, I – mmph!”\nAt one point in the conversation, I had suddenly stood up, walked over to him, and kissed him. I drew apart and whispered, “I don’t think I can make that same promise.”\nHis eyes widened, and that was all I needed. I pulled him closer and kissed him harder. It was perfect. It was exactly as I had imagined it to be, my first kiss with a boy.\nHe wrapped his hands around me and deepened the kiss. I moaned in pleasure.\nHe quickly pushed me on the bed and started to take off my clothes, not taking his lips off me for a second.\nThat night, that small bed. We didn’t let go of each other.\nI am quickly jolted from my thoughts by the loud screech of the subway train halting and my body falling forwards with it.\nI get out of the subway and reach the publishing office I intern at. I enter the building and am struck by the familiar feeling that I should be bossing these people around as an author instead of me being bossed by them.\n“Richard! You’re three minutes late!”\nI missed you too, sir.\nPeople are walking around with files threatening to burst open and spill their contents, holding their phones in their other hand as they talk at a deafening volume. I receive a few nods and a few superior looks, which I’m accustomed to. As I go to my small desk, I’m greeted by the layers of papers and the smell of ink.\nI rub my hands in anticipation of the enormous pile of work I have to do.\nOnly one more manuscript left. I rub my eyes and check the time. I’ve been working for six hours. I can’t stop now.\nI finish editing the final manuscript and leave the office.\nAs I walk out, I see an author talking to the publishing manager about one of his books. I walk faster before I lose it.\nI’m on the subway again, when I’m faced with the truth I have denied for so long: the real reason why I moved to New York.\nI think that it should have been obvious to everyone who had ever known me.\nI didn’t leave for my big break, I left because my town was filled with Mark.\nThere were posters everywhere with his face on it. The funeral and wake were at the local church. That was my last time at a church and in that town.\nI remember that day. It had been rainy. We drove to the church, me and Rachel in the back seat with my mother driving. I remember wanting to throw up in that cramped car. But I held it in.\nI remember that church. It was peaceful and airy on the inside, and on any other day, I would have admired its beauty. But that day I felt suffocated.\nI reached my small apartment and took out my keys. As I unlocked the door, I received the familiar punch in the gut that reminded me once again that Mark was gone. Tears were already falling by the time I opened the door and turned the lights on.\nI sat on the floor, leaning on the wall, and started to cry. I brought my knees up and put my face in them, unable to hold its weight up.\nI don’t know how long I sat there. Minutes, hours or days. It didn’t matter.\nI sat there and recalled every single thing about him. His sparkling blue eyes, his messy brown hair, his raspy voice in the morning, waking up on his chest every day and smiling up at him, wheeling his bloody body into the operation centre on that night a year ago…\nHe had been coming to town. He hit a tree. That was it.\nI remember the blaring sirens and the humidity. I remember how it was all blurred around the edges, and me dumbly wondering if it was sweat or tears that was blurring my vision. Now it comes back to me and it looks like an old film, yellowish and dreamlike.\nI remember falling to the ground when the doctor came outside and shook his head sadly. I remember my mother and Rachel holding me tight.\nI remember it being white and black at the same time in the hospital, a polaroid.\nI remember running outside, tripping over stairs and plants, and screaming without making a sound.\nI ran home that day, packed my bags, left a note saying that Mark had wanted me to go to New York because he had loved my writing, and I left.\nI didn’t speak to my mother or Rachel for almost five months after I moved here. I ignored all their calls and sent it to voice mail. They wouldn’t understand. One day I called them back. I talked to them for hours and realised that even though they didn’t understand, they’d try their best to.\nI hadn’t written in so long. That was going to change.\nI got up and walked over to the phone. I called Mr Roberts and said that I was quitting.\nI went over to the table and took my laptop. If I wanted to become an author, I needed to do it on my own. I needed to do it for Mark.\n***************\nAs I sit in the bookshop, signing copies of my book, I’m astonished at how things have changed. I wrote my first book in a few months and took my old boss’s help to publish it. It was about Mark. I think he would have liked it.\nNow as I sit here, author of over fifteen books, I still get the same question from inquisitive readers.\n“Who is Mark?”\nAnd I still give them the same answer.\n“He is my one.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: My Grandmother's Love Language\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1191\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose love language is making food for others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Love is one of the purest forms of human emotions. There are different ways of expressing love; however, the most creative is through food. So many beautiful memories are created over food. The art of making food as per someone’s taste requires not only skills but also time and patience. \nIn India, mealtime is family time. It begins with the ritual of praying to the almighty, where we thank him for providing the food on the table. In most households, preparing the meal for the family falls on the mothers or the grandmothers. They take a keen interest in deciding on a menu that is healthy and prepared as per everyone’s taste. Here, I must mention my grandmother, who was an excellent cook. She was a living example of someone whose only love language was making food for others. \nMy earliest memory of her was when I was hardly five years of age. I remember her making my favorite sweet dish and feeding me with utmost love and care. She was the one person in our family who knew everyone's likes and preferences regarding food. I remember her spending a significant part of her time in the kitchen preparing different types of dishes for us. Festivals were more remarkable as she would make unique dishes related to that particular occasion. She had an innate love for feeding people, and whoever visited our home could never leave without being fed by her. I still don't understand how she did it. For me, cooking is a means to satiate my body's needs and others who depend on me. I must admit that I haven't inherited much of her skills. With a fast-paced life and work deadlines, I don’t have much time or the energy to cook extensively. Occasionally I indulge in experimenting with new dishes for the sake of my son, who is fond of food. However, there are days when I don't feel like cooking, and I order food from outside. \nHowever, with my grandmother, it was an entirely different story. She could slog in the kitchen without getting tired. In my country, we have a phrase called \"Athithi Devo Bhava,\" which means guest is like God, and my grandmother lived by that line. She would welcome guests with a smiling face any time of the day. Here I must mention an incident that occurred when I was around nine or ten. My grandmother's sister-in-law visited us with her family. They had brought along their maidservant, who sat separately far away from us. That girl was not more than sixteen years old. Once my grandmother finished serving the guests, she called that girl to the kitchen and made her sit on a mat. There she served her all the delicacies she had prepared for the visitors. That girl was taken aback and was hesitant to touch the plate. Evidently, she wasn't used to such a kind of treatment. Nevertheless, my grandmother sat with her and fed her like any guest. Later that evening, when I asked her why she gave such special treatment to a servant, her reply amused me. She said that whether someone is rich or poor should not determine how we treat them. Neither should we discriminate against someone based on their profession, skin color, religion, etc. Anyone visiting her home is a guest, even if that person is a servant. Needless to say, my grandmother had a heart of gold, and she spoke only one language, which was love. \nMy grandmother expressed her love towards anyone through the food she made. She created culinary delights with whatever ingredients she had at home. However, sometimes she would be very selective about the items when we would expect guests. If some dish required something special, she wouldn't compromise on it. I have often seen my grandfather visiting the market two or three times because he had forgotten a particular ingredient, and my grandmother wouldn't go for anything less. Once a hilarious incident occurred. I was then in the fifth standard and had just returned from school. I found my grandmother in a very grumpy mood. On enquiring, I learned that my grandfather had forgotten to get “Kewra Essence,” an essential ingredient for making Biryani. For those who don’t know, Biryani is a type of flavored rice made with meat or vegetables. It so happened that my grandmother was expecting her brother’s family that evening. She had repeatedly reminded my grandfather to get that ingredient, but he forgot. When he went back to the shop again, it was closed. To my grandfather's bad luck, it didn’t open in the evening, and the other shops did not have what he was looking for. “Beg or steal, I don’t care, but I want kewra essence,” my grandmother gave him an ultimatum. My poor grandfather had no choice but to locate the shop owner’s home and request him to open his shop and give him that unique substance he had been searching for desperately. This incident resulted in one good thing. My grandfather started being more attentive to my grandmother’s shopping lists.\nMy grandmother hailed from a town called Rajshahi, now a part of Bangladesh. At that time, it was called East Bengal and was a part of India. This was much before India got its independence from British rule. Those days girls were married off very young. My grandmother was hardly seventeen when my grandfather visited her for the first time. It is believed that my grandfather's family had traveled all the way from Calcutta, which is in West Bengal, India, to Rajshahi to ask for her hand in marriage. \nMy grandmother's father was a renowned barrister of Rajshahi. He had much wealth at his disposal and ensured that his family's needs were always taken care of. Since he was fond of food, he was keen that all his five daughters learned the art of cooking from a very young age. So despite having cooks, he would encourage them to prepare a meal for the entire family from time to time. My grandmother picked up this art very well. While growing up, I heard from my grandfather that when he visited her place with his family for the first time, it was my grandmother who had prepared the lunch for the guests. Needless to say, my grandfather was bowled over by her culinary skills and didn't take much time to give his consent for the marriage. \nIt's at times difficult to imagine someone so dedicated to her art. Even at the age of eighty, her frail aging body and ailments didn't stop her from cooking some dishes for the family. On days when she felt weak, she would just sit near the kitchen and instruct my mother or aunt on some recipes. She had to participate in some way or the other. \nMy grandmother is no longer, but she resides in my heart amongst all the beautiful childhood memories. She was a wonderful human being, kind and generous. She loved and served her children and grandchildren till her last breath. I feel I’m lucky and privileged to have known her in this lifetime." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fear the Fall With a Deathly Heart - The Four Moon Cycles Part Three\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2964\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone feeling powerless." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The market was filled with people eating moon cake. Giggling, laughing, drunk people.\nIt wasn’t like Rhyvahr to shy away from the festivities of the month-long moon festivals. He spent most of his days alone, so he could use a good celebration or two. He doubted that his wild partying years were over, but tonight he felt… empty.\nHe used to spend every other night at some ball or party.\nNow, Rhyvahr spent his nights on the balcony, gazing at the moon. Whether it was waxing crescent or waning gibbous.\nHe kept thinking about the ‘someone’ that Fenndon had been seeing.\nHow he must be as gentle and kind-hearted as Fenndon. He must be able to read books with him. He must listen and promise Fenndon all the love in the world, and treat him like he hung the moon in the sky.\nBecause those were the things Rhyvahr never did.\nHis Father was still working in the infirmary late at night. He was cleaning the medicine cabinet when the moonlight brushed across his dark hair. Rhyvahr saw the single strand of white in the long ebony and swallowed. \nHis Father, Casrian, was barely into his forties, and had the typical Tel-hatian features of high cheekbones and a pointed chin, with long and graceful limbs. A calmness followed him, Rhyvahr suspected he had the ability to tame storms.\n“Haisoka, is that you?” He went about winding bandages and didn’t turn around. Haisoka was his betrothed. They had met at the market and have been disgustingly in love ever since.\n“It is me,” Rhyvahr said. “Sorry to disappoint.”\nNow, Casrian did turn around. “Rhyvahr,” he said, frowning slightly. “I was not expecting you back until tomorrow morning. Or perhaps the morning after that.” His Father was no stranger to his partying habits.\nRhyvahr always wondered whether his Father thought it was a shame that he had missed out on all the parties that twenty-year-old’s should have been going to. Because he was stuck raising a child that wasn’t even his.\n“What is wrong, Rhyvahr?” Casrian asked. “Are you unwell?”\nThere had been an odd feeling in him since the festivities started. An awful foreboding, and the dreams each night only strengthened the feeling.\n“I just wanted to see you,” Rhyvahr said. “That is all.”\nHe went up to his Father and embraced him. Casrian’s arms wrapped around him, as per instinct. Rhyvahr could feel the surprise – it wasn’t often that he expressed acts of affection. But for that one moment, in the warmth of his Father’s arms, he could be a child again.\nCasrian kissed the top of Rhyvahr’s head. “Now, I am worried, Rhy,” he said after Rhyvahr stepped away.\nHowever, before Rhyvahr could reply, a guard rushed in. “There is a woman at the gates. She says she must speak to you.”\nRhyvahr followed the guard to the gates. Then, he saw her standing there, a figure shrouded by moonshine, but features as clear as the day.\n“Aikirra?” Rhyvahr said.\nHer eyes were red, hair wind-tousled. “Something happened to Fenndon, Rhyvahr,” Aikirra said, breathless. “I went to his cottage two days ago. His door was unlocked, and I found this note on his table.” She handed it to him.\nRhyvahr’s heart skipped a beat at the words. \nWhat is owed. Must be paid.\nHe looked up, and saw a face he never desired to see again.\n“What did you do to him?” Her eyes were a whirling colour of purples and blues. “If you hurt him—”\nShe smiled cruelly. “Your little lover and his sister are doing just fine,” she replied. “Fending for themselves that is. So they will be probably be dead soon.”\nRhyvahr swallowed, trying to stop his body from shaking. “You want something from me.”\n“Come with me,” she said. “And you will know.”\n\n\nIt happened seven years ago at one particular party.\nFenndon was off at his parents’ house for a family dinner. He offered for Rhyvahr to come with him, but he would rather not awkwardly dine with the parents of the boy he maybe liked. They had kissed a few times, but Rhyvahr would hardly call them exclusive.\nEverywhere Rhyvahr went, people’s eyes followed him. It was the dark hair. And the wings. He had spent hours painstakingly grooming them to make sure that no feather was out of place, but there was no doubt whoever the party had been about, the people’s attention had now shifted to him.\nHestina Los was in the thick of the moon festivities, especially since tonight was full moon. It celebrated Looma, goddess of wealth and prosperity. Rhyvahr couldn’t care less about some goddess, it gave him an excuse to wear his best jewellery, and of course the moon cakes were to die for.\nHe grabbed himself a snow skin one.\nRhyvahr was relishing in the coolness of the sweet paste inside when a woman approached him. She too had dark hair, knotted into a large bun. Her eyes were like those of a fox, blinking in purple and blue, lashes curling down.\n“It is rare to see another Tel-hatian around,” she said, her accent came through strong; the way she softened on the consonants and the lilt in her tone – songlike and gentle. His Father spoke in the same way. “Let alone one with wings. It must be a great gift.”\n“They certainly make me special,” Rhyvahr said.\n“My name is Ophyla.” She twisted at a loose strand of her hair, the way women always did around him. She was beautiful, and if it had been under other circumstances, Rhyvahr would have gladly indulged her fantasies. But the last thing he wanted to do was ruin what he had with Fenndon, so he opted to be good.\n“Rhyvahr,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”\nPeople were poring over to the tables laden with food and drinks, so Rhyvahr grabbed another moon cake before they could all be stolen, and retreated to a less crowded corner. However, not before one of his wings knocked over someone.\nRhyvahr rolled his eyes, because that had definitely happened far too often. He reached a hand down to help the person up, not paying attention to the strange crackling at his fingertips.\n“I apologise,” Rhyvahr said to the fallen man.\n“It is all right,” he said, taking Rhyvahr’s hand.\nRhyvahr’s vision went black, ghostly limbs reached for him. He beat his wings, and they dissipated along with the darkness.\nA high-pitched ringing echoed in his ears, and then deadly silence. The stunned party-goers all stared at him – in shock, in fear, bodies quivering.\nThen a woman screamed.\nThe man he had knocked over was sprawled on the ground. Unmoving. His eyes and his lips were completely black.\nRhyvahr looked down, and found his palms charred.\nIt had happened before, but only with animals.\nHe had never killed a person.\nAdrenaline pumped through his bloodstream. And he ran. All the way down the crowded streets, surrounded by the cacophony of people laughing and celebrating.\nWhat had he done?\nRhyvahr ran all the way out to the meadow where his lungs cried for breath and his eyes prickled with tears. The night air tore through him and the moonlight shone down as though Looma knew what he had done. He shook his head, face buried in his palms.\nRhyvahr’s wings wrapped around him, enveloping him in a safe cocoon, keeping him warm against the frigid winds of autumn.\n“Rhyvahr.” Someone was shaking him. He parted his wings reluctantly. “It is me.” Ophyla stood before him. “Your powers are dangerous, but I can help you. I can take them away.”\nRhyvahr didn’t even properly think about it, just let those blue and purple eyes find his.\nAnd stood up.\n“Yes,” he said, not quite registering his own voice. “You must help me.”\n“This way,” she said, holding out her hand and curling her finger as though tugging an invisible thread. Rhyvahr followed her, marvelling at the curve of her hips that swayed when she walked, and those purple-blue eyes that he couldn’t look away from.\nThey went through a door that creaked, to a bed lined with silken sheets. Rhyvahr lay down on the bed, as she undid his layers of clothing. Her fingers graced his chest, and she began chanting a spell. The candle snuffed out and her hair flew wild, eyes completely white.\nIt felt like fire was running through his veins.\nRhyvahr tried to scream, but no sound came out.\nAnd Ophyla kept on chanting, the spell rising to a climax, before falling back into lulling words.\nCool lips pressed against his, taking the fire away, replacing it with a thrill of pleasure. Ophyla ran her fingers down his chest once more, feeling the way his heart beat at the sight of her. Desperately wanting more.\n\nRhyvahr awoke in Fenndon’s bed with a splitting headache. Nevertheless, he managed to get his clothes on and wander into the kitchen where Fenndon leaned against the countertop, tears trailing down his cheeks.\n“Fen, what… happened?”\nFenndon sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Rhyvahr had never seen Fenndon so upset.\nAre you sober now? His signing seemed heavy, lacking the energy to even talk to Rhyvahr.\nThe memories came rushing back to him. He had killed someone. Then Ophyla had taken him somewhere. He remembered how her eyes had become white, and how she had kissed him.\nI saw you with that woman. Fenndon’s eyes were cold.\n“It is not what you think, Fen,” Rhyvahr said.\nFenndon just shook his head. No, I am done with your lies. I thought you were a better person, but clearly I was wrong.\n“No, I am,” Rhyvahr said. “You make me a better person, Fen. I wanted to be better, for you.”\nFenndon shook his head. I do not care. Get out of my house.\nSo, Rhyvahr left without saying goodbye. \n\nNow, in all of his dreams, he was falling.\nHands reaching up, as if hoping to latch onto a wisp of wind. But he kept falling. The air skidded against his skin so fast that it burnt.\nHe used to love the feeling of diving through the air. He never had to worry about falling because his wings would catch him every time.\nThey would always be there.\nThey would never leave.\nExcept they had been torn from him.\nAnd he too feared falling.\n“Rhyvahr, no!” A misty, transparent form appeared. The ghost that had warned him about the hunters. Rhyvahr still didn’t know her name. “You cannot fall.”\n“Who are you?” he murmured, the wind erasing his words.\nThe ghost only blinked sadly. “If you fall, I will fall with you,” she said. “I will not give her what she wants.”\nSo, Rhyvahr held onto her unsolid form. And together, they fell.\n\n“Usually the first thing people ask me is what I want,” Ophyla said.\nThey were sitting on either ends of a long table that spanned about half of the room. Perhaps, it would have been a little more classy if Rhyvahr wasn’t chained to the chair.\nRhyvahr assumed this used to be the dining room in a now abandoned and thorn-clad castle. Candles were lit all around, their shadows stretched across the scratched wood of the table.\nOphyla was dressed in a typical Tel-hatian dress. Black velvet, off the shoulder. The end of the sleeves flared out, a column of lace traced down the middle. Dark liner marked her lids, the colour of her eyeshadow matched her violet lips.\nShe held the cold beauty of the Tel-hatians as she smiled.\n“You have great power, Rhyvahr,” Ophyla said. “Has anyone told you the history of your bloodline. It is quite interesting.”\n“I do not want to know,” Rhyvahr said. “At least not with me chained to this chair.”\nOphyla flicked her wrist, the chains clattered onto the floor. “Let us go for a walk.” Rhyvahr stood rigidly. They began making their way down the hall. “We both wants things, Rhyvahr. We want back what we have lost. We can help each other.”\n“That night, when we met, you knew I was going to kill that man,” Rhyvahr said.\n“It was your power that killed that man. Not you,” Ophyla said. “However, your power and you eventually become the same thing.” She cleared her throat. “I will be honest with you, Rhyvahr. I took your powers away that night because I saw you were not ready for them. I thought that maybe I could use it. Not only does it have power over death, it has power over life. Over your bloodline, the powers have varied, but yours, are by far, the strongest and most deadly.”\n“Well, did it prove useful?” Rhyvahr asked.\n“You would not be here if it was,” Ophyla said. “Only you can wield it. It answers to nobody else. So, I am offering you a trade.” She clicked her fingers, and a spark appeared in her palm. “I will return your powers to you, and along with it, your wings shall return too.”\nThe breath caught in Rhyvahr’s throat.\nHis wings.\nWhose loss had torn him into irreparable pieces.\nThe pain of their emptiness.\nCould it be rid of just like that?\nThey reached the end of the hallway and Rhyvahr almost toppled to his death. The castle stood on the edge of a huge cliff. Mist swirled beneath it, obscuring the bottom. One more step and you might as well be falling into oblivion.\n“Tell me where Fenndon is, and I might consider it,” Rhyvahr said.\n“That is easy,” Ophyla said. “He is over there.” She pointed to the other side of the cliff, that must have once been connected by a long bridge. But that had long since fallen. “You can fly there, and bring him back.”\n“How do I know that what you say is the truth?” Rhyvahr asked.\nOphyla placed her hand on his chest. He could only hear her chanting the spell faintly amidst the intense roaring of his magic. His back arched, intense pain spiralling through his shoulder-blades. Bones crunched as wings pushed their way out.\nThey wrapped around him, soft feathers caressing his skin. He touched them. Solid and real. Yet, his heart feared this was all a dream.\nRhyvahr was jerked out of his unbelieving daze by a terrible, pain-filled screech that reverberated in the air, and rung in his ears.\n“These are the conditions of our agreement,” Ophyla said. “You get to keep your powers and rescue your lover. And in return, you deal with my monster problem.”\nThe entire other side was covered by fog. All Rhyvahr could see was a massive shape with dark, leathery wings.\n“Help!” It was Aikirra. “Somebody help us!” Rhyvahr remembered Aikirra from that ball years ago. They didn’t know each other well, but she had been kind to him.\nRhyvahr didn’t have time to think about what devious plan Ophyla was weaving. Or whether the wings were just a mere illusion that could dissolve the moment he leapt off the cliff.\nHe hadn’t flown in years. He always dreamt about it after he lost his wings. But it was nothing like how he felt now.\nThe air rushed past him so hard it stole all the air from his lungs. He was just rushing faster and faster towards the bottom.\nThen, his wings gave a great push, feathers ruffling against the winds, and he was soaring through the air.\nRhyvahr would have cried out in joy if it wasn’t for the horrifying scream. He landed, coming face to face with the terrible monstrosity. Long, scaly limbs etched with fiery symbols. Claws that could tear a creature open in less than a heartbeat. Razor-sharp teeth dribbling with saliva as it snarled. Its eyes hollow and empty.\n“Rhyvahr?” Aikirra was sprawled on the ground, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle, jagged bone protruding from her calf. Her teeth were gritted in pain as she pointed towards the edge of the cliff. “Fenndon,” she gasped.\nThere was struggle in her eyes as she tried to push herself back up, but there was no chance she could stand on that broken leg. Tears of frustration and powerlessness poured down her face as Fenndon moved closer and closer to the edge.\n“Stay there,” Rhyvahr said. “I will save him, I promise.”\nThe monster knocked Fenndon to the side. He fell on his back, the monster’s claws running across his chest. He whimpered, looking at the monster.\nHe reached up and touched its face gently, perhaps trying to find a tortured soul in need of saving beneath.\nBecause even with gashes running all over his body, he still believed that monsters could be saved.\nRhyvahr’s heart had never pounded so fast, the echoing of the beats pumping through his wings. He lifted off the ground. His powers ran rampant in him.\nThe monster reeked of death.\nRhyvahr gave a cry, dark magic crackling at his fingertips. And he felt the ghosts of every creature that died on these cliffs. He felt their pain and their grief – it tore through him.\nBut most of all, he saw Fenndon bleeding on the ground and he felt rage. Nothing could get away with hurting those he loved.\nSo he summoned all that rage and aimed it right at the monster.\nIt was still as the magic hit it. Then it stumbled, but only a little before turning its attention back to Fenndon who lay inches away from the edge. One wrong move, and Fenndon would plummet to his death.\nSo Rhyvahr flew behind it and locked it in a choke hold, pulling it back.\nAnd together, they fell." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dawn Breaks Open With a Blood Red Sun - The Four Moon Cycles Part Two\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2974\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone breaking a long family tradition." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Rhyvahr wandered through the Hestina Los night market, picking through the rings and accessories at several stalls. However, there was nothing that struck his fancy.\nHe missed his jewellery and clothing back at the palace.\nHe had been travelling around for weeks and never stayed at one place for too long. So, as much as he disliked wearing the same outfit more than once, lugging around all that clothing would be inconvenient.\nRhyvahr shivered when a breeze ran past him – bone-chilling.\nHe dropped the emerald ring he had been examining, looking around with unease.\nNorthern Jahara was certainly more prone to cold winds than the south. However, at this time of year, Hestina Los had already taken a plunge into the spring – one could tell from the sickly smell of flowers hanging constant in the air.\nBut Rhyvahr’s heartbeat quickened regardless.\nHe had learned to ignore the voice in his head that jumped at every little noise.\nYears had passed, but his memory never let him forget.\nThose weeks and months afterwards when he let the darkness swallow him whole.\nHis Father found out about his addiction, but by then he didn’t have the heart to scold Rhyvahr, who did nothing but lay in bed watching the sun rise and set, the moon wax and wane.\n“Rhyvahr, please,” his Father had begged. “Eat something.”\nPlate after plate of food that had been set on his bedside table had been untouched, left to go cold. And his body had almost wasted away.\nHe had taken nibbles at the food to please his Father. And that was all he had the energy to do.\nHe had been tossed down a deep, deep hole. Breath gone, bones shattered. But his heart kept on beating. Why was he still alive? What was there left to live for?\nThen a hand had graced along his broken body – warm and solid and careful – repairing all the damage he had done himself.\nI thought I told you to get better, Rhyvahr could recognise those hands anywhere.\n“Fen,” he croaked, reaching out to Fenndon, even though it was all a fading dream. “Do not go, please.”\nI will meet you where there is light at the top. Do it for me.\nSo, Rhyvahr spent weeks and months, an eternity, climbing out of that hole. When he reached the top, nails ruined, bloody, he didn’t feel triumph. Because the reflection he saw in the mirror spoke of someone weak and worthless.\nBut he kept living.\nBecause he saw how happy his Father had been when he finished his entire plate of food, when he got out of bed, put on his make-up and did his hair.\nBit by bit, the weight of the darkness became easier to carry.\nHis Father, head physician at the palace had finally deemed Rhyvahr fit to travel on his own. He had spent so long in his room that he had almost forgotten what the world looked like.\nRhyvahr had debated coming to Hestina Los, definitely not because of a certain blond haired, grey eyed someone. But he came against his better judgement.\nThe cold breeze hit him again, and this time he caught the shimmery silhouette of a woman disappear between the stalls.\nA ghost. Of course.\nRhyvahr hadn’t seen a ghost since he was a child.\nHe followed the ghost, feeling the pull in his chest that guided his legs towards her.\nAn icy hand clapped over his mouth. “Get out of here as fast as you can, they are coming after you.”\nRhyvahr didn’t move.\nSlowly, she took her hand off his mouth. Her hair was curly, ringlets falling over her shoulders. She had almond-shaped eyes with long eyelashes and small lips shaped like a heart.\n“Who is ‘they’?” Rhyvahr asked with scepticism.\n“Hunters,” she replied.\nThen with a gust of the nightly spring wind, she disappeared.\nIf Rhyvahr still had his wings, he would have flown out of there upon hearing the word ‘hunters’, but he didn’t have them, and carriages were scarce this time of night. So he decided to not take a deluded ghost’s word for it.\nRhyvahr made his way back to the market where he bought himself a sparkling, purple drink. If he was already seeing ghosts, what harm could a little alcohol do?\nHis head was already spinning by the time he was halfway through.\nRhyvahr downed the whole glass because his Father never let him drink and he hadn’t gotten drunk in a long, long time.\nHe didn’t even feel the hilt of a sword slamming against his temple before he was passed out cold.\nRhyvahr awoke when fingers of light began prying at his eyes. He tried to blink away the pounding headache. He could faintly make out the sun rising between the distant mountains – he had seen that sight before.\nFenndon had woken him up one morning and dragged him all the way out here to see the sunrise. He had been groggy but he remembered how phenomenal it had been when the rays came through the night sky, breaking open a new dawn.\nRhyvahr definitely didn’t think it was phenomenal now.\nThere was dried blood clinging to the right side of his face. His head felt heavy. He was dizzy and nauseous, wishing more than anything that he had skipped out on Hestina Los.\nHe barely had time to turn to the side before his meagre dinner and alcohol decided to make a reappearance. He coughed and choked and dry heaved until his throat was burning, and his stomach spasming.\n“Goodness, you are pathetic,” a voice said from above. Rhyvahr straightened up against the tree he was tied against. “With the way Lizin talks about you, I was under that you would be a little harder to beat.” The snark in her voice was making Rhyvahr’s head hurt more.\n“I was drunk,” Rhyvahr said. “I would hardly call that a fair fight… whatever your name is.” He grimaced at the acrid taste in his mouth.\n“Kes,” she replied, unholstering her dagger.\n“As in you are from Kes?” She spun the dagger around, polished blade catching the light. She must have thought it made her look threatening, but all Rhyvahr could really focus on was the way her mouth jerked slightly more to one side when she talked.\n“It is a nickname,” Kes replied.\n“You care to tell me why I am here,” Rhyvahr said, swallowing the fear rising in his throat. The rope dug mercilessly into his wrists.\n“Lizin said he wanted you captured,” Kes said. “So I captured you for him.”\n“And you just always do what you are told,” Rhyvahr said. Antagonising the girl twirling a dagger inches from his neck was probably not the brightest of ideas, but it was the only thing keeping his heartbeat at bay.\n“When Lizin tells me to, yes,” Kes said.\n“You ever think that maybe this Lizin person is not very nice,” Rhyvahr said.\n“He saved my life,” Kes said. The cruel lines on her face softened, and she stopped twirling the dagger for a moment, a distant look in her eyes.\n“Good for you,” Rhyvahr mumbled. “Is that how you ended up here?” He would hardly call the hunter life desirable, they weren’t paid aplenty, so they were hired to do people’s dirty work most of the time.\n“I did not end up here, I wanted to be here,” Kes said. “My whole family is composed of scholars, it had become tradition. I was not intelligent enough for them, and I wanted something else. However, they refused to have me damage their scholarly name, so they hired Lizin to kill me. But he took me with him instead.”\n“Thank you,” Rhyvahr said. “For the wonderful life story. I am still tied to a tree, so if you could please tell your dear Lizin to hurry up. That would be appreciated.”\nKes left and didn’t return until nightfall. By then Rhyvahr had begun to think that maybe they were just going to leave him to the crows. The more time he remained against the tree, the more aware he became of the trunk pushing the broken ends of his wings into his back.\nThey had been taken from him. That fact drove into his mind again and again, he could never forget it.\nJust when he thought that it had become easy, the nightmares came.\nThey always made him awaken in a terrible cold sweat, burning tendrils of pain running all over his back. It sent him crawling to the vanity, turning his jewellery boxes upside down to find that tin.\nThe first time that had happened, his Father came rushing in, and Rhyvahr had clung on to him, crying silently in his arms for the rest of the night.\nRhyvahr looked up when footsteps began to approach. “I got him,” Kes said. “Just like you asked.” There was someone else standing beside her, which Rhyvahr assumed was Lizin.\nHis clothing was entirely black with a pair of sturdy leather boots. His hair fell flat and choppy at his unshaven jaw. His bone structure was sharp and angular, cheekbones and eye sockets jutting out. And his eyes were bicoloured – one blue and one green.\nRhyvahr had to look away before those features slotted perfectly with the ones from his memory. Those thin lips that had spread white along yellowing teeth as his cackles blended in with Rhyvahr’s screams, creating one horrifying song of mockery and contempt.\nRough fingers pressed against Rhyvahr’s cheek, forcing him to look upon the person that had stolen his life and purpose from him. He had walked away, not a care in his mind. And Rhyvahr had been left to pick up the broken pieces of himself.\nAll that pain and sorrow and heartache driven to this moment of confrontation.\n“Thank you, darling,” Lizin said, stroking Kes’s hair. “You always bring home the goods.” Then, they kissed, long and passionate with the kind of love that Rhyvahr had not felt in years.\n“I thought I told you to leave,” a voice whispered in his ear. The transparent form appeared in his peripheral vision.\n“Well, I have never seen you before,” Rhyvahr said. “So forgive me for not trusting every word you say. Who even are you?”\n“Someone who knows many things,” she replied. The ropes loosened around his wrists. “And someone who does not want you to get killed.” She exhaled, cold air ran down Rhyvahr’s neck.\nThe ropes fell away.\nBreaths exited Rhyvahr’s lungs quick and shallow. He could have run right then when Lizin and Kes’s gaze was turned away from him. But he didn’t. There was a burning sensation within him, culminated rage boiling as his eyes bore into Lizin.\nHe was the one who had chased Rhyvahr into the darkness, snarling and prowling around him. A hungry wolf who fed off of pain and suffering.\n“I have to admit,” Lizin said, finally breaking away from Kes. “It is comforting to see a familiar face. Even if it belongs to someone who should be in a grave.”\nRhyvahr smiled.\nHe was no amateur when it came to hiding his emotions behind a single, calculating smile.\n“The feeling is mutual,” he said.\n“Kes, untie him,” Lizin said. She walked around to the other side of the tree where she spotted the fallen rope. But by then Rhyvahr had already made a grab for the sword casually swinging at Lizin’s hip.\nLizin turned, chuckling. “Do you even know how to use—” Rhyvahr thrust the blade straight through his chest. He held Lizin upright, looking him in his eyes, just how he had looked at Rhyvahr as he screamed.\nLizin wasn’t screaming though. Blood was bubbling out of his mouth, and he made choking sounds as his heartbeat raced to a maximum before it stopped altogether. His eyes glazed over like the eyes of a porcelain doll.\nDead.\nBut Rhyvahr kept holding onto him, feeling his own heart pulsating so, so slow. Because he had done Lizin a favour. A painless death for all of Rhyvahr’s years of devastation and loss.\nHow lucky he was.\nThen, he heard Kes’s shriek and the piercing pain of her dagger into his side.\nRhyvahr let Lizin fall, stumbling back.\nKes collapsed by Lizin, mumbling between cries. Rhyvahr was familiar with the sound. Because that was how he had cried for his wings. Crying for them to come back the way Kes cried for Lizin to wake up.\n“You promised me forever,” she said. “When my family turned their backs on me, you said you never would. You can’t die.” She pressed her forehead against his shoulder. “No. No, no, no.”\nRhyvahr swallowed, every emotion running through him. Shock and anger and hatred and confusion.\nEverything but remorse.\nPerhaps Kes turned after she was done crying at Lizin’s side to avenge her lover. But by then Rhyvahr had already disappeared into the dark forest, a mere shadow among the leaves.\nRhyvahr stumbled his way back towards the rows of houses that lined the meadow. He had spent so many afternoons there with Fenndon that he knew the way to his house. It was a small cottage with wisteria hanging over the roof, littering the ground with purple.\nLight streamed out of the window, giving Rhyvahr the perfect view into Fenndon’s room. He sat on his bed, reading a book. His brows were knitted in concentration as he tucked a piece of loose hair behind his ears.\nAnd Rhyvahr smiled when the words on Fenndon’s page made him smile. Because Fenndon’s happiness was his happiness. \nHe looked down at the blood on his hands. Lizin’s, mixed with his own.\nHis pain didn’t need to be Fenndon’s pain, so he bid Fenndon goodnight.\nFenndon wouldn’t want to see him. He had been nice the last time because he pitied Rhyvahr. But Rhyvahr doubted there would be pity now.\nHe had just killed someone.\nBut then he felt a hand around his wrist.\n“Fen,” he spoke Fenndon’s name like a starving man pleading for food. Because Fenndon was what had sustained him on those days when the darkness seemed too great, and living seemed too hard.\nYou are hurt, he signed, peering at the blood soaking through Rhyvahr’s clothing.\n“No, no,” Rhyvahr said, as his knees almost gave out. “I am good.”\nYou are coming inside. Rhyvahr knew not to protest when Fenndon made a demand.\nThere was still that faint smell of honey and delicate sweetness inside the cottage, one that could only belong to Fenndon.\nRhyvahr sat down on the wooden chair, breathing heavily, not wanting to get blood on Fenndon’s scrubbed-clean table. \nFenndon didn’t say anything when he got back with the medical supplies. Just undid all the buttons down Rhyvahr’s front, and pulled back the layers of clothing. He frowned at Rhyvahr’s clearly visible ribs. He had never fully gained back the weight he lost. Where once had been lean muscle was replaced by mere skin wrapped around bones.\nFenndon’s cool fingers pressed against the wound slightly – his touch igniting that hidden desire in Rhyvahr. He didn’t ask what happened or why Rhyvahr had come, only went about cleaning the blood away and stitching up his wound with the gentlest care.\nThe light shone onto Fenndon’s cheek, making the scar that ran down his skin more prominent. But Rhyvahr found that beautiful about him – the scars he never hid\nHe wrapped bandages around Rhyvahr’s torso.\nRhyvahr had grown up watching his Father care for people’s wounds. He and Fenndon had the same look in their eyes. The ability to constantly give and heal, while Rhyvahr could only take and destroy.\nDone, Fenndon signed. Just be careful for the next few days. Let it heal.\n“Thank you,” Rhyvahr said, breath catching in his throat. Fenndon was so close, close enough for Rhyvahr to reach out and touch his cheek. He wanted to pull Fenndon to him, be held by him for the rest of the night.\nFenndon placed his hand over Rhyvahr’s. I care about you, Rhyvahr, he signed. But I have been seeing someone. He is good to me, he makes me happy.\nRhyvahr was silent, letting those words sink in. He couldn’t help the thoughts. Are you saying I was never good to you? That I never made you happy?\nHe had been with Fenndon at a time when he was too young and selfish, only thinking about what he wanted, and never appreciating what was right in front of him.\nHe didn’t know what he had hoped for.\nThat Fenndon would suddenly take him back with open arms. That he was just going to be waiting for Rhyvahr all these years. The worst thing was that there was a truly a part of him that had believed Fenndon would.\nFinally he choked. “Then, I am glad you are happy.” He quickly buttoned his clothes again and got up, barely able to hide the grimace as he jostled his wound.\nStay, Fenndon signed. Just for the night.\nJust for the night. Because Rhyvahr was a patient Fenndon needed to care for.\nI will get you a change of clothes. He watched Fenndon vanish into his room.\n“He still does not know,” the ghost woman said, reappearing beside Rhyvahr. \n“Know what?” Rhyvahr asked, even though he knew exactly what she was saying.\n“What happened that night,” she said. “The one that ended with him finding you in someone else’s bed.”\n“He does not need to know,” Rhyvahr replied.\n“Do you not want to know why those hunters were after you?” she asked.\n“No, please,” Rhyvahr said. His side was throbbing painfully and weariness was seeping through his limbs. “No.”\nBy the time Fenndon returned, she was gone." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: With Love\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1110\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose love language is making food for others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I’m in the kitchen, making turkey gumbo. It’s an old family recipe, meaning that it doesn’t really have an exact recipe. You need the basics: a good roux, seasonings you love, lots of meat. But the particulars are really up to you. Making a good gumbo is an adventure, an exercise in building something wonderful.\nBeyond the kitchen entry, a small crowd gathers in the dining room, sitting around the old table of dark wood, bearing the scuffs and scars of many years of use. The babble of conversation washes over me, but I don’t take part. It’s not that I can’t afford the distraction. I just don’t feel a connection, a sense of… belonging. Of being part of things.\nI bring the shallots over to the sink, give them a good rinse. Out in the dining room, gather around the table. Talking, joking, sharing the family news. From the back yard, I hear the laughter and joyous shrieking of children playing, nieces and nephews having a great time, delighted to be somewhere new, somewhere out of the ordinary. It’s nice to see that simple things can still bring happiness to kids.\nI carry the shallots back to the cutting board and start chopping. My gumbo has three different kinds of onions in it. Really adds a lot of flavor. Can’t get enough flavor in a good gumbo.\nI hear my older sister talking about her kids, how much they’ve grown, how well they’re doing in school, getting along with their friends. And her husband, how his law practice is going, how much money he’s making. I’m really happy for her, glad that she has the family she always wanted, that their supported and cared for. I’m not sure if I’ve ever told her that.\nA soft sizzle comes from the pot on the stove. I hastily wipe my hands on my apron, pick up a large wooden spoon. Stirring the roux is critical. You can’t let it burn. It’s the base for the entire meal. You stir it, briskly, to keep the flour from burning, to keep the oil and butter from scorching. In seconds, a rich, yeasty odor rises from the pot. It brings a smile to my face.\nThrough the rising steam, I see my younger brother showing off something on his phone. His latest grades. Oh, he’s doing well. Going to be a teacher one day, professor of world history. He’s always loved the subject. It’s good that he keeps us appraised of his progress. I hope he has a long and happy future ahead of him. But I don’t think I’ve ever said that aloud.\nOpening the fridge, I root around in the crowded mess until I find the sausage. I know Cajun food started out as something that starving refugees scrounged together, but these days a lot of people are obsessed with the finest of this and the best of that. Seriously, get over it. Just cook with what works. For me, that’s off-the-shelf ingredients. Generic brands. I don’t read the package contents; I judge on taste, on how it makes the recipe better.\nAs I set the package on the counter and take up my knife again. Then I hear the scrape of a chair moving. Glancing through the doorway, I see Mom leaving the table and heading for the kitchen.\n“Hey there.” She walks past me, headed for the coffee pot. “How’s it going?”\n“Going great, Mom.” I slice open the sausage package and start chopping the links into bite-size bits. “Just fine.”\nShe pours herself a cup of joe, adding the rich aroma of coffee and chicory to the air. “That smells amazing.” she says, nodding toward the stockpot.\n“Thank you.” I open the pot and scrape the sausage off the cutting board and into the simmering roux.\n“Good, good.” She takes a sip. “You are a such a good cook.”\nI give her a quick smile. “Hey, you taught me everything I know about cooking, Mom.”\nOnce more into the fridge I go, fetching out a large container of turkey meat. It’s all in little, soft bits, macerated off the turkey carcasses from last year’s holiday dinners, which have lain in the depths of my freezer for months. Preparing the turkey meat is an operation in itself. I tell you, nothing is a greater expression of familial love and devotion than boiling bones for hours, then spending hours more flensing all the tiny pieces of meat off them. Now, all I have to do is put it in the pot.\nWith the meat in the pot, I add a healthy measure of broth, give it all a gentle stir. Then the lid goes back on. Now, the only thing left to add is time. Simmer this baby for forty-five minutes to an hour, and it’ll be perfect. In cooking, like a lot of things in life, time is the one factor that really determines success from failure. It can bring things together, bind them inseparably. Turn what was once a bunch of disparate elements into a complete whole. Taking time, giving time, is important.\n“Thank you so much for doing this,” Mom says.\n“You’re welcome.”\n“I know it’s a lot of work, cooking a meal for a big family like this.”\n“I’m happy to do it.” And I am. Really. I love cooking. And I love my family. Maybe I don’t show it in everyday life. Maybe I don’t reach out and connect very well. So, when we all get together, it seems like the least I can do is make dinner. Because every time I cook for the people I love, I’m cooking with love.\nI head for the pantry, fetch out the bread. It’s not fresh, but it’s not supposed to be. Stale bread goes best with gumbo. Slap a slice in a bowl, add gumbo. Heaven. Not everything has to be fresh and new to be perfect. Sometimes, time has to pass. Things have to age, mature.\nCooking taught me a lot of lessons about family. You can’t always follow a recipe. You can’t always expect to have the best things to work with; sometimes they’re not even best for what you’re trying to make. Give things time, time to come together, time to grow old and change.\nI turn to Mom with a smile. “Now we just have to wait. It’ll be ready soon.”\nShe smiles back at me, nods. Together, we head back into the dining room, where the rest of the family waits.\nMost importantly, I learned when it comes to doing anything for your family, you just have to do it with love." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lady bug🐞\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1862\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a humorous story about the descendant of someone remembered for an insignificant act." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Hey, bug.\nI don't look up. I'm not dealing with this today.\n\"Hey, ladybug.\"\nOk, let me get something straight.\nI'm a boy. Eighth graders just have small imaginations. Also, just because my dad got into the newspaper for finding a huge fly, doesn't mean I care about bugs. Newspapers are seriously slacking on reporting interesting news.\n\"CJ, take your head of your desk.\" Mr. Dellow commands.\nI roll my eyes, and sit up.\nClass is almost over. Just five more minutes, and I can go see Will.\nWho is Will? My boyfriend for over a year.\nWell, first you should probaly know who I am.\nMy name is Collins Jack Solo, but I go by CJ. Deal with it. I'm in eighth grade. I have curly black hair, and light skin. The only pretty part of me are my eyes. They are blue with gold specks and beautiful. At least, that's what Will says. I don't really go and stare at myself in the mirror, so I go off what he says.\nI'm an only child, but my parents are always out of the house. Lucky for them, I can't stand a messes, so it's always clean. I can play the drums, but Will is the only one who has heard.\nFinally, the bell rings, and I go to my locker. The janitor couldn't scrub all of the spray paint off, so instead of saying BUG LOVER, it says, UG O ER. Splendid.\nI open it, and drop my books inside. Two hands cover my eyes.\n\"Guess who?\" A cherry voice says.\nIt's Will. Duh. Nobody else touches me. Also, he does this everyday.\n\"Dr. Phil.\" I guess, closing my locker.\n\"Nope.\"\n\"Ron Weasly.\"\n\"No.\"\n\"Stevie Wonder.\"\n\"No.\"\n\"That boy with black hair I kissed this morning.\"\n\"Excuse me?\" Will screeches, yanking me around to face him.\nI laugh. \"I'm kidding.\" Seriously, I would never cheat on Will.\n\"You better be.\" He warns, opening his locker, which is right by mine. (That's how we met.)\nWill has light brown hair, and tan skin. He's well built, but hates sports. He's probaly one of the best looking boys in the school, and I still can't believe I'm dating him. He is super protective, but really chill otherwise. He's also the only person I like talking to.\n\"Ready to go?\" He asks.\nI nod. We're going to my house, like we do every day. It's close to the school. He has family issues, so he's over alot.\nWe get to the door, and I hear someone yell, \"Hey, Bug Lover!\"\nI grab Will's hand and pull him out the door. If I didn't, he probaly would've gone and punched that person. I would appreciate it, but he doesn't need to get suspeneded because of me again.\n\"Come on, we're getting slushies.\" I tell him before he can start trying to go back. We get slushies a lot. It's weird, but he loves them.\nWe go to the gas station close to the school.\n\"This is the best slushie ever.\" He declares as we're walking to my house.\nI shake my head. \"Nope. Mine's better.\"\n\"I don't believe you.\" He tells me.\nI shrug. \"It is.\"\n\"Hmm.\" He says. Then, he leans over and kisses me.\n\"Your right.\" He decides \"It is better.\"\n\"Why are you like this?\" I ask.\nHe just grins. I roll my eyes at him, and sip more of my drink as we walk up to the front door.\nI open the door, and we walk inside.\nIt's a one story house with four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a den, and a living room. I'm usaually in the kitchen, den, or my room. My dad own's his own bug buisness that I think is disgusting. He has his non-living things in his room. My mom is works several jobs far away and doesn't come home for weeks.\nWe go to the den, and sit on the couch. Will turns on the t.v, then closes his eyes, and puts his feet in my lap.\n\"Why'd you turn it on if you weren't gonna watch?\" I ask, pressing the off button on the remote.\nHe thinks about it. \"I don't know. It's too quiet here.\"\n\"Then talk.\"\nI'm very lucky Will knows I'm not trying to be rude to him. I'm just annoyed from all the bug jokes. But I don't want to talk abou that.\n\"Why are you upset?\" He asks.\nDang it, Will.\n\"People suck and they should go live in a small box.\" I tell him. He finishes his drink, and reaches for mine.\nHe blinks. \"Uh, okay? What does that mean?\"\n\"That everybody thinks I'm my dad.\" I say.\n\"I don't get it.\"\nI sigh. \"Ever since everyone found out how much my dad loves bugs, they think I do too, and since eighth graders are so mature, I'm getting teased about it. Nobody care what I like. Bugs are disgusting. Why would I like them?\"\nHe's quiet. \"Do something to show people what you like.\"\n\"Like what? How would I do that?\"\n\"Why don't you try out for the talent show? You could play the drums, and then people can talk about that instead.\"\nHe has a point. The talent show is on Friday, and it's not too late to sign up. But that would mean I have to play in front of a bunch of people. But it's to help me. Ughhhh. Choices are very annoying.\nWill sighs loudly so that I can tell he wants me to say something. So, \"Shut up a minute, I'm thinking.\"\n\"Technically, I didn't say anything!\" He points out.\nTechnicalities. \"Don't care. Shut up.\"\nHe waits for a moment, then says, \"So?\"\n\"So what?\"\n\"Are you doing it or not?\"\nAm I? Should I? Would I?\n\"I think so?\"\n\"When are you gonna practice?\" He asks.\n\"Not when you're here.\"\nHe raises an eyebrow. \"I'm always here.\" Very true.\n\"Not if I make you leave.\" I tell him.\nHe sticks out his bottom lip. \"You wouldn't make me leave, right?\"\n\"Hmmm. If you don't make me cookies I will.\" I decide.\n\"Fine. But you have to help.\"\n\"If you wear the apron.\"\nThe apron is my mom's. It's an ugly yellow, and Will hates it, even though he looks adorable in it.\n\"Fine.\" He says. \"I'm hungry anyway.\"\n\"You just drank a large slushie.\" I remind him.\nHe hops up. \"Yours too.\"\n\"Wait, what?\" I shout, chasing him to the kitchen.\nHe just laughs.\n~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~\n\nI sign up the next day, ignoring people's \"You have to have talent\" jokes. Again, people suck.\nWill helps me pick a song, then I practice it. I keep playing, not paying attention to anything else until Will gently takes the drum sticks from my hands.\nI look up, and see he's holding a plate of lasgana. When did he have time to make that?\n\"You've been playing for two hours.\" He informs me. \"Take a break and eat.\"\nI slide onto the floor by him, and pick up the fork on the plate.\n\"Thanks, Will.\" I say before taking a bite. This is delicious.\nHe grins. \"No problem.\"\n\"Was I really playing for two hours?\" I can't believe that.\nHe nods. \"Yeah. I said you name, like, twenty times. You didn't hear me.\"\n\"Huh. Sorry.\" I say. I take another bite. \"How did you make this? This is amazing!\"\nHe laughs. \"It's actually really easy.\"\n\"You really love to cook, huh?\" He cooks and bakes stuff all the time when he's here.\n\"Yeah,\" He says before taking a bite. \"Dad doesn't love it though. He wants me to be a football player or something. I suck at sports. He just doesn't understand.\"\n\"He doesn't know you love to cook? Don't you ever cook at home?\" I ask.\nHe shakes his head. \"No, mom does. Apparently, only woman can cook.\"\n\"Thats dumb. Can you cook better then you mom?\"\n\"Yeah.\"\n\"Then you can definitly cook. Your dad just hasn't tasted your lasagana.\"\nHe laughs, and I grin.\nWhen we finish, we watch a movie, and fall asleep on the couch.\n\n---------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThe rest of the week goes by fast, and by Friday I think I'm ready.\n\"Come on, Will!\" I yell. \"We're gonna be late!\"\nWe're not, I just want to be early.\n\"Jeeze, CJ, It's 6:30. It doesn't start till 7:00.\" He says.\nI roll my eyes, and grab his hand, pulling him outside. \"Yeah, well, I want to be early.\"\n\"Thirty minutes early?\" He grumbles, pulling on a jacket.\nWe walk to the school, which takes about five minutes, and go to get the drums ready.\nWe're walking down the hallway, when I'm suddenly worried.\n\"Will, what if I mess up?\" I ask. \"And then everybody will see, and then -\"\n\"Stop.\" Will interupts. \"\"Your going to do great. You've been practicing all week.\"\n\"Yeah, but what if-\"\n\"Stop worrying. You'll be fine.\"\n\"But-\"\n\"Stop.\"\n\"Yeah, but if-\"\n\"CJ.\"\n\"Will.\"\n\"You've got this.\"\n\"Fine.\"\n\"Follow me.\" He says, turning to the front of the school. I do.\nWe get to the front office, and he points inside.\nMy parents are talking to the secretary.\nMy parents?\nI turn to Will, who is grinning.\n\"You got them here?\" Do not cry.\n\"Yep. I told them I'm your best friend and wanted to suprise you, and it would mean alot to you if they we're here tonight.\" He says.\nI'm still for a second, shocked. Then I give hug him, which something I never do.\n\"What's this for?\" He asks, wrapping his arms around me.\nGood question. \"For you being you.\"\n\"Okay.\" He says, pulling me closer. \"Are you crying?\"\n\"No.\" I sniff. \"It's allergies, shut up.\"\nAfter a second we break apart, and go into the office. My parents turn, and grin.\nI'm a mixture of my parents. My mom has long curly brown hair, and light skin. She's tall, and I have her blue eyes.\nMy dad has curly black hair and tanned skin. He's built, but, like Will, hates sports. He has glasses over his light brown eyes.\nThey come up and hug me, and I let them. I don't know the last time I saw them, and I thought I'd be mad when I saw them, but I'm not. Not at all.\nWhen they move away, the smile at me.\n\"We are so proud of you, CJ.\" My mom says.\nDad nods. \"I'm glad we're able to come. I can't wait! I didn't even know you played the drums.\"\n\"We know we haven't been around much, and we're going to work on that.\" Mom tells me. \"I found a job close to here that pays well. I'll be home more.\"\n\"Really?\" I ask. Really?\nShe nods. \"Yes. I start Monday.\"\nI'm about to say something else, when a voice on the intercom says, \"All participating in the talent show, please go to the auditorium. We start in five minutes.\"\nI wave to them, and turn to go to the auditorium, when \"We love you, CJ\" I hear my dad say.\nI turn, grin, and say, \"I love you guys, too.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Eatin' Table\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1509\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose love language is making food for others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "She had never had a dining room or for that matter, never been in a dining room. A dining room would never have suited Louise in the first place. Her people were common people, but each one precious in Louise’s eyes.\nHer large-footed, dark-stained, oak table sat in the middle of her kitchen. A store bought, brass, light fixture suspended from the ceiling, draped her table in light. Tall, ladder back, wooden chairs strong enough to hold a grown man, but gentle enough for a child to climb into, girded her table. The table, Louise’s table, so fondly referred to by her people as the \"Eatin' Table;” was scarred with the history of her people. If you were to roll back the red-white checkered table cloth; you could see the stains from her people’s tears of pure joy and heart-breaking sadness alike that had puddled on its surface oh so many times.\nThe “Eatin’ Table” was always prepared for whatever life was throwing at its visitors. From a scrap or two of cold bacon and a biscuit or maybe a platter of steaming hot, salt n’ peppered fried pork chops; to a full-course southern affair. Many a family, friend and foe alike parked their often weary feet under the edge of that “Eatin’ Table.” Bellied themselves up to the table’s edge with mouths a waterin’ and bared their souls over Louise’s steaming pots and pans filled to their brims with unconditional love. Before one could get their napkin in their laps, Louise would heap their plates full of love and grace. Come one, come all; there were no strangers at Louise’s love affair laid out on her table. The forks, knives and spoons danced in the plates to a southern symphony orchestrated by her secret love language, food.\nA language only a few ever have the privilege to be gifted with and even fewer that truly learn to speak with it. A language of love that has bridged the gap as old as time between world travelers of all sorts. Louise knew she had the love language gift of food. She could feel its blessing from every potato she peeled to when she embraced the fragrance of a bubbling hot, peach cobbler resting in her stove oven. From every pone of black iron skillet cornbread to every black-peppered, drop dumplin’; Louise’s love flowed. She knew, oh, how she knew. Louise knew while she watched boy-like smiles grow on the weather-worn faces of grown men just come in from their logging jobs for dinner. Hovering over their plates of Louise’s love like it could possibly be their last meal. She knew while setting a plate and dabbing at tears pooled up on her table that had fallen from a young woman’s cheeks; distraught because she didn’t know what she was gonna do with a husband that drank too much way into the night. Louise knew by mounding up hot roast beef and creamy, brown gravy over fresh, white, loaf bread in a bowl for the local preacher that just happened to be in the neighborhood. She knew she spoke the secret language of love through food when she could heal the scrapes of a grandchild’s bicycle wreck with homemade, batter-dipped corn dogs and a tall glass of Kool-Aid laced with enough pure sugar to heal those scrapes before you got up from her table. She knew just the right amount of love a situation at her table was gonna take, as she spread just enough creamy mayonnaise on that thick-sliced bologna and cheese sandwich served to the stranger that had knocked on her door asking for a cool glass of water on a hot, Tennessee, summer afternoon.\nLouise had the revelation of her gift long ago, when she remembered the times that she was certain her cupboard didn’t hold enough food for all those little faces resting their chins on her table. But, through faith and prayer, her cupboard always seemed to bear just enough loaves and fishes for each of life’s seasons. Oh the sheer joy and elation she celebrated as a meal would come together. Watching her dear loved ones stuff their bellies as they gathered round her old, scarred “Eatin’ Table.” Louise collected each and every one of these precious memories and she wouldn’t have traded them for all the monies in the world. Sometimes chatter around her table would rise to a fever-pitch and her heart would overflow with joy as another fried chicken leg got scarfed off a plate and quieted the conversation, if only but for a moment. She took pride in knowing who could appreciate her hand-mashed, lumpy potatoes that drizzled her people’s plates with enough melted, sweet cream butter that they had to use their cornbread just to sop it all up.\nThe mercy, love and grace trumpeted by Louise's food somehow echoed out from her house on East Hudgens Street. Announcing there was a pile of cornbread flitters and a pot of ham-hocked, pinto beans just waiting to briefly lull you away to food heaven during your lunch hour. Louise’s love hung over her table decorated with so many dishes of food; that you had to stack them on top of one another just to squeeze your plate in for another fill-up. Your soul searching for just a little more of that comfort that tastes so good. The kind of comfort her people were seeking when they would all gather back at her house soon after having listened to a preacher speak the holy King James scripture over the grave of one of hers that had slipped away into eternity just way too soon. Louise spoke to her Father in heaven over kettles of creamy, stewed potatoes swimming in luscious butter. As her tears for the loss of a child mixed with the steam rising from one of her dented, hand-me-down pots on her stove. She prayed that her loved ones gathered around her table would not notice the broken heart she was trying so desperately to hide. So with grace, she would just blame it on the onion.\nLouise’s family meals came to be known at all the corners of her people’s existence. Stories about her kitchen and “Eatin’ Table” were told near and far. Her next meal gatherings were anxiously awaited for by her people from Sunday to Sunday. With fightin’ over the leftovers of her love in between.\nLouise would take her gift with her in a casserole dish tucked in one arm on her way to a Wednesday night church supper at her beloved First Baptist Church in Algood. Her little ones in tow and wearing shoes that probably fit just a little too tight. But she knew these suppers were a short, God-given reprieve from a long, hard day. A time to enjoy the restoring of her soul with friends and food. Where a good plate of perspective gave her hope for the future.\nSome would say that Louise lived a thousand lifetimes during her earthly journey. And most would tend to agree. So if you looked closely; you might catch a glimpse of one of those lifetimes deep in her eyes. Or maybe if you held her hand, you could traverse another one of her lifetimes along a wrinkle in the soft, supple skin of her palm. If she had regrets, only her and the Lord knew about them. That would just be her way. Countless tears she has undoubtedly sown, because she knew how to reap joy for her people.\nLest we all forget, Louise was a young girl made into a woman and at one time most likely had dreams of her own. Dreams to be certain she held close all her life. Places she may have wanted to travel. Things that she may have wanted to experience. Maybe she wanted to feel her toes in the sand and be rinsed clean by the cool ocean waters. It’s quite possible she longed to see the sunrise and sunset someplace other than the mountains of her childhood. Or maybe she longed to be swept off her feet by a prince charming just like in the fairy tales she read as a child. We will unfortunately never know for certain. But, what we can certainly know is, Louise chose different.\nLouise embraced her life at every situation. She found contentment when there was no hope. She used pure grit that we couldn’t possibly understand to put away self for her people. Although she lived the vast majority of her life in a house that she never considered her home; she made sure that it was a home to so many. Louise used her love language of food to make a difference in her corner of the world, just this side of heaven. And to beat all, she passed her worn out pots and pans full of love, grace, mercy and wisdom along to her people. I’m just not certain which ones of them fully understand and have embraced this precious gift. Only time may tell…" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dancing With a Winged Ghost - The Four Moon Cycles Part One\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2962\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which two people who know each other are introduced — but neither person admits to knowing the other." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Rhyvahr was not going to show up to a ball without looking fabulous.\nRight now, the only clothing that hung from his body was a thin, silky nightgown. It was long, the end dragged along the floor when he paced around his room.\nThrough his window, he could see the hustle and bustle of the Jaharan night market. It was lit up by fluorescent lights, filled with people in fancy, over-the-top attire.\nAt least that was what all the Laslans would say. Them with their plain, tasteless clothes and their value for modesty. At least Jaharans knew how to have fun.\nAnd Rhyvahr was determined to do just that.\nThe ball was hours away, and he had spent the entire morning in his walk-in wardrobe trying to pick out something to wear. Then he resorted to sitting in front of his vanity, combing through all his rings, necklaces and hair accessories.\nHe caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked awful, the thought of anyone seeing him like this was something out of his nightmares. It was all right though. It was all going to be all right. He would look like his usual fabulous self in no time.\nSkin too pale? A sweeping of blush along the cheekbones would do.\nBloodshot eyes? Line them with gold eyeliner. Then dust yellow shadow at both corners of your eyelids, and make the orange in the middle bold and bright. Don’t forget the eyelashes – they have to be long and volumized.\nLips cracked and colourless? Apply some rouge for goodness sake. Let’s go with red to match your fiery eyes. Everyone would want a taste of those lips.\nThere, that is what we are talking about.\nRhyvahr glanced at his finished look in the mirror and smiled. His eyes didn’t sparkle when he did that, but no one would see amidst the glittery eyeshadow.\nHe stood and undid his nightgown, tossing it onto his bed. He gulped when the light of the mirror shone harshly onto his naked body. He registered his heart thumping and the uncomfortable hotness that crept all over his skin.\nIt was going to be all right. He could make it through the night without it.\nHis hand reached at the spot between his shoulder-blades. Rhyvahr could never get used to feeling the rugged ends protruding from his back.\nThe only remaining part of his wings.\nHe shuddered when the pain echoed through his body. Breathe through it. Breathe through it. It will pass.\nNow, it was time to get dressed.\nRhyvahr slipped on the white underclothing and then his pants – black with sparkling embroidering. Then laced up his boots with careful fingers.\nJaharan clothing was famous for its numerous layers. And the outmost layer had to be magnificent. And Rhyvahr’s was just that.\nLong, billowing sleeves traced all over with silver thread to accompany the artwork of golden flowers stitched onto the fabric. The layers all folded over each other in a V-shape below his collarbone, and the pointed shoulders hid the slump in his posture.\nRhyvahr scooped up his long, dark hair and spun it into a top-knot, securing it in place with a clip. It was made of gold with a large ruby in the middle. Then he slid his rings on one by one until his fingers sparkled with jewels no matter what angle he held his hand.\nHis Father didn’t know he was going, and that suited Rhyvahr because he didn’t need to tell his Father anything. He was an adult who could make his own decisions about what he wanted.\nRhyvahr was more than ready. He was going to have fun.\nEverything was going to be normal. Just the way they used to be.\nRhyvahr entered the ballroom in all his glory. Fashionably late, of course. How else was he supposed to attract stares when he finally decided to grace the lovely people with his presence? He delighted in the way the people whispered about him, stilling their dancing for a millisecond to gaze upon his magnificence.\nThe music came to a halt, partners bowed and curtseyed to each other.\n“May I have this next dance?” A woman asked, offering her lacey-gloved hand. She was in a stunning red dress made of shiny satin. Hair sleek and braided down her back. Her large brown eyes were boldened by dark liner and smoky eyelids.\n“Of course,” Rhyvahr replied, taking her hand. “I would never refuse a woman as beautiful as yourself.” She gave him a smile, revealing dimples in both cheeks.\n“Aikirra,” she said. Typical Jaharan name. \n“Rhyvahr.” Not typical Jaharan name. It was Tel-hatian, the land of numerous forests where the dark faeries resided.\n“I have heard of you,” Aikirra said as they walked towards the dance floor. “I do not know where, but I have.” Her voice was light and airy.\nRhyvahr placed a hand on her shoulder when the music started once more. “My name is a common one.”\n“But not in Jahara,” Aikirra said. Her lips moved, clearly to say something, but turned up into a smile once more. “Let us not worry about that.” She curtseyed.\nAikirra was a wonderful dancer, their steps fell right in with each other. With a hand on her waist, they glided across the floor as if flying through air.\nFlying.\nRhyvahr was familiar with the sensation. How freeing it was to sail through the sky, wings catching the breeze.\nHis heart throbbed, pain crept through his back once more.\n“Are you all right?” Aikirra asked, stopping mid-step.\nRhyvahr’s jaw tightened. “I am perfectly fine,” he replied.\nHe led Aikirra back towards the centre.\nHe danced through the heartache. Even though each step sent pain running down his spine, increasingly intense with each movement.\nHe danced through it.\nHe held onto Aikirra’s hand as she spun out and executed a perfect twirl back towards him. He caught her on the final beat of the music.\nRhyvahr bowed, placing a kiss on her fingers. He retrieved two glasses from a servant walking past. “Might I interest you in a drink?”\nAikirra tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That sounds delightful,” she replied. They left the dance floor, the ballroom filling with chatter at the interval. She sipped from her glass. “So, where are you from?”\n“Are my origins unclear to you?” Rhyvahr asked. Even beneath all the Jaharan clothing and make-up, it was obvious from his dark hair and complexion that he wasn’t from Jahara.\n“I am just making conversation,” Aikirra said. “I am from Hestina Los.” That fact was also clear from her accent, but Rhyvahr didn’t make a comment about it.\n“That is quite far from Alheria,” Rhyvahr said.\n“I am travelling with my brother,” Aikirra said. She glanced through the crowd. “Let me introduce you to him.”\nRhyvahr didn’t have the energy to object, one dance had already made him weary. However, his senses sharpened when he saw Aikirra’s brother.\nWhite-blond hair, grey eyes the colour of storm clouds right after a rain, scar along his cheek pulling one corner of his mouth slightly upwards. Rhyvahr knew those features all too well.\n“This is my brother, Fenndon,” Aikirra said, oblivious to the emotions crackling between their gaze.\n“I-I am Rhyvahr,” he said. Rhyvahr never stumbled over his words. But he did around Fenndon. He always had. With his smooth and elegant features, how could Rhyvahr not?\nHowever, the hurt in Fenndon’s eyes were unmistakable. Fenndon made a gesture with his hands, gaze darting away from Rhyvahr.\n“He says nice to meet you,” Aikirra translated. Although Rhyvahr didn’t need the translation, Fenndon had taught him sign language years ago, and Rhyvahr never forgot.\n“It is nice to meet you too,” Rhyvahr said, swallowing back whatever he wanted to say.\nHe danced a few more songs with Aikirra, his eyes always drifting back to where Fenndon stood against the wall. He remembered Fenndon telling him that he could hear the undercurrent of the music, when it changed, so Rhyvahr used to play him songs on the harp and he listened.\nWhen the pain came again, he stumbled and almost didn’t catch Aikirra when she came twirling back to him. Rhyvahr winced. He just needed to go back to his room for his painkillers. He didn’t use it because it made him high and messed up his footing.\nBut he would be lying if he said he didn’t need it at least once every few hours.\n“Rhyvahr?” Aikirra was looking up at him with worry. He had grown to hate that look. That was the only way his Father looked at him anymore.\nHe was fine.\nHe just needed the painkillers.\n“Excuse me for a moment,” Rhyvahr said.\nHe made his way through the crowd of people, the pain twisting and turning into a scream waiting to be let out. It built in his throat, but he swallowed it because he had learnt how to do that now. No matter how bad the pain, he wasn’t going to scream.\nHowever, he had not trained himself on what to say when he saw Fenndon again. Because he thought he would never see Fenndon again. However, there he was, all alone in the hallway.\nThe sight of Fenndon made him so incredibly still. What happened between them was years ago. A lifetime ago.\nRhyvahr certainly hadn’t forgotten though.\nHe couldn’t face Fenndon like this. Not when it felt like knives stabbing between his shoulder-blades, enough to make him bite his lip so hard that it bled. His hands trembled from withdrawal.\nSo Rhyvahr walked the other way.\nHe barely managed to close his door before he was tearing at his clothing. His skin was burning despite his fireplace not being lit. He fumbled at the buttons and all the fabric. Then grappled for the tin, prying it open even though a little twist would have done the trick.\nHe scooped a large chunk of the clear paste, smearing it all over his back. He had stolen it from his Father’s medicine cabinet after his other one ran out.\nHe was supposed to be weaning off it, but there was not a chance that Rhyvahr was going to let people see how weak he really was without it. It ruled his life, but he didn’t care if that meant the front he put on for other people, to convince them that he was normal would never waver.\nHe sighed with pleasure when the pain finally went away, replaced by a rush that calmed his rapidly beating heart and cooled the burning sensation. It felt so good.\nRhyvahr pushed himself off the floor.\nHis heart gave a start again when he saw the person standing at his door.\n“How long have you been standing there?” Rhyvahr asked, scrambling to get his underclothes back on.\nHow long have you been abusing substances? Fenndon signed, it was clear from the cold expression on his face that he had no sympathy for Rhyvahr. Why should he?\n“Now is not a good time,” Rhyvahr said, sloppily trying to sign back.\nHe couldn’t let anybody see him in this state. Broken and weak. They could do anything to him.\nFenndon’s eyes were hard, hands clenched into fists. Anger was an expression Rhyvahr never wanted to see on Fenndon.\nHe collapsed back on the floor. The painkillers made his muscles all weak. He was completely helpless now.\nFenndon came closer. His features softened because Rhyvahr knew that he could never stay angry for long even when he should – his soul was just that kind, and his heart was just that good.\nWhat happened to you, Rhyvahr? Fenndon looked genuinely concerned. A lock of hair had fallen in front of his face, partially obscuring his furrowed brows.\n“It is not a topic I like to discuss,” Rhyvahr slurred. “So I am not going to.”\nFenndon twisted the tin between his deft fingers. He set it back on Rhyvahr’s vanity. Why, Rhyvahr? Just tell me why and I will stop asking. His signs were all blurring together, but Rhyvahr knew what Fenndon was asking. Crystal clear.\n“Because it hurts.”\nThere was a patchwork of red marks all over his back – it was side effect.\nAnd the roots of his wings.\nHis beautiful wings made of black feathers that used to trail behind him when he walked. The wind used to rushed through them when he soared through the air and ruled the sky with the birds and the clouds. They used to wrap around him when he slept. Like an embrace.\nHe could still feel them sometimes. Imaginary feathers ghosting the surface of his skin. But when he reached to touch them, they faded.\nHe remembered waking up in the infirmary, half-blinded by the white sheets. It clung to his skin coated by sweat because his fever had finally broken. He was cold, and his Father’s fingertips were warm against his back.\nBut the pain. It was blinding. And he kept clawing at the raw wounds on his back to get it to stop. So his Father had to tie him down, and listen to his screams and cries every night.\nWhen he was well enough to get out of bed, he stood by the window and looked out at the world he could no longer trust.\n“Rhyvahr,” his Father approached behind him, talking like Rhyvahr was some dying animal that needed to be put out of its misery. “How are you feeling?”\n“They are gone,” Rhyvahr said. He had been staring hard at his reflection and not a black feather in sight. He breathed shakily, determined not to cry. He was done with crying.\n“I am sorry, there was nothing else I could do,” his Father said. “The poison kept spreading. It would have killed you.”\nAnd now, Rhyvahr was on the floor, admitting his deepest shame to Fenndon. Fenndon sat down beside him, a cotton pad in hand to remove Rhyvahr’s make-up. Rhyvahr felt his gentle fingers pressing against his forehead, his eyelids, his lips.\nHe would never have let anyone else see him like this. But he supposed Fenndon had always been special.\n“It was hunters,” Rhyvahr said, looking into Fenndon’s studious, grey eyes. “They struck me with an arrow then chained me up to a tree and doused my wings with poison. By the time Father got to me, it was too late. He had no other choice.” He choked, turning away. “I wanted so desperately for everything to be normal again, I just wanted things to go back to the way they were. I did not want Father to worry about me anymore.”\nFenndon stroked Rhyvahr’s hair softly. You should rest. Fenndon helped him up and tucked him beneath the sheets. And Rhyvahr fell asleep to Fenndon’s soft humming. Sometimes when I think of a song in my mind, I can hum it. I may not be able to hear it with my ears, but I can hear it in my mind. That was what Fenndon had told him once.\nRhyvahr wondered what song it was.\nHe awoke to a heavy pounding in his head. He was alone. Wait, Fenndon was here last night. Or had it all been a dream?\nHe looked to his bedside table where Fenndon’s beautiful handwriting marked a piece of parchment.\nMeet me at the carriages. I leave at noon.\n-Fen\nFen. That was the name that had been echoing in his mind all those years.\nRhyvahr bolted out of bed as the gong rung for noon. It wasn’t surprising he had slept that long, but he was not going to let Fenndon leave just like that. He chucked on whatever clothing was laying around in his wardrobe and ran out of his room without bothering about make-up or hair.\nHe rushed to the courtyard, despite his boots not being at all suitable for running and the leftover painkillers in his system making his head spin. He stumbled, almost falling down the stairs just in time to see the first carriage leave.\nRhyvahr’s heart sank a little. What if Fenndon was in that carriage?\nHe felt a hand on his shoulder. The warmth of the touch seeping through all those layers of clothing.\n“Fen,” Rhyvahr said, a feeling of breathlessness taking over him.\nI am sorry for what happened to you, Rhyvahr, Fenndon signed. I am sorry I was not there.\n“I should be the one apologising to you,” Rhyvahr said. The hurt that had been on Fenndon’s face that day was imprinted forever into his mind. “What I did—” Fenndon pressed a finger to Rhyvahr’s lips.\nYes, you hurt me, Fenndon signed. You slept with someone else after promising me that I was the only one you loved. Then you just left, as though you did not care. It is easy for you to find those willing to be with you. But it is different for me, and you never understood that.\nThe guilt ate away at Rhyvahr’s heart. It had been eating away at his heart ever since he left.\n“I have not been with anyone after you,” Rhyvahr said.\nFenndon pressed his hands against Rhyvahr’s cheeks, a blush colouring them red. I hold no grievance towards you, Rhyvahr, I wish you all the best.\n“Will I ever see you again?” Rhyvahr asked.\nFenndon bit his lip. Maybe, he signed. Until then, get better, Rhyvahr. If not for yourself, for me.\nWith that, he left. Climbing into the carriage where Aikirra was waiting.\nFenndon’s words reached straight to Rhyvahr’s heart. He got rid of the tin and vowed to be better when they saw each other again. \nBut Rhyvahr would not see Fenndon until years and years later." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Suddenly, I See\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1123\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking at a restaurant menu." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "‘When I was a kid,” Jamie thought, ‘these pancakes were not sixteen dollars.’\nThe menu in her hand was thin and long, only a few pages of breakfast foods served all day and night. The Breakfast Bar was one of only three diners that stayed open 24 hours, 7 days a week in this part of town. She and her family had always gone here for her birthday because she declared they had the best birthday cake pancakes. And she always got a milkshake with it.\nBut that had been a simpler time. She had only had to worry about homework and her friends’ birthday parties then. Now she was staring down the last summer of childhood and the start of college, her new life.\nShe wasn’t really sure why she was here. Jamie should have been at home, packing things and deciding what she was going to take with her and what she would give away or sell. She should have been dyeing her hair like she and the girls promised they would do. A fresh start and a new look before they left for school.\nBut instead, she was staring at a menu full of waffles and breakfast foods. Jamie’s stomach rumbled, but when the waitress came to take her order, she asked for another few minutes.\nHer fingers drummed the table as she stared at the menu without looking. She should just ask for the check and go home. Heat some leftover Chinese, start the dyeing process, and work on packing. She didn’t fold the menu closed.\nThe next time the waitress came around, Jamie asked for the Choco-Extreme Stack: four chocolate chip pancakes with chocolate syrup between each layer, and semisweet chips sprinkled on top. She had last ordered this when she was twelve, and her friends asked if it was such a good idea to get that. It was kind of kiddish, and how were they going to make the cheer team if they ate like that all the time? The waitress just took the order with a smile and said she’d bring more water, spying the empty glass.\nJamie thought about the auburn dye in her bathroom and twirled a loose strand of dirty blonde hair around her finger. It wasn’t the prettiest color, but it wasn’t ugly. But darker hair made you look smart. Anna said that, and Rachel agreed, and Katie added that smart girls had the best prospects. It was funny, because at the beginning of high school they said they should bleach their hair to make the cheer team easier. Now they said they wanted to look smarter, not prettier.\nJamie hadn’t made the team. She’d stuck to the choir and participated in the musicals every year. She’d gotten a principal role in her last show. The girls hadn’t been able to make it. They’d been so busy with schoolwork and applications. Jamie was pretty sure that the party they went to instead of her show had nothing to do with either of those things.\nThe waitress refilled her water glass and said the food would be a few more minutes, but Jamie asked if she could get a milkshake. Chocolate, no cherry, please? The waitress answered that of course she could and it would be out soon. Jamie nodded and pulled out her phone. Twelve messages from the group chat, and one from her dad: ‘U coming home for dinner?’\nShe quickly responded, ‘no,’ to him and opened the group chat, but didn’t respond to it. Anna, Rachel, and Katie were all together at Katie’s house dyeing their hair, and they were sending pictures to Breanna and herself. Jamie silently wondered why she hadn’t been invited, then turned the phone off. She was starting to feel alright with it.\nThe waitress returned to the table with the pancakes and milkshake, and left her with an ‘Enjoy your meal!’ The smell pulled Jamie into a memory of her parents and her sister at a table just like this, on a busy Saturday morning. Five members of the waitstaff and her family sang Happy Birthday as they put a plate of birthday pancakes in front of her, with sprinkles and chocolate chips baked into them. On top was whipped cream and a candle, and a milkshake with it. When was the last time she’d done something like that? When was the last time she really enjoyed her birthday? Rachel always had a party for Jamie at her house, and they invited tons of her classmates, but she didn’t get presents from them and it was always so loud. No one sang her happy birthday, and the cake was always vanilla with chocolate icing, usually store-bought. They didn’t even make the cake themselves, with a box mix.\nShe thought about the beautiful pair of earrings she gave Anna, and the nice purse she got for Rachel, and the fancy shoes she got for Katie, all their latest birthday presents, all paid for with her own money from her job. Jamie thought about how much they teased her, and second-guessed her decisions, and pushed her to do what they wanted. When did they ever let Jamie pick where they would go? Who they would see? What they would do?\nHalfway through her pancakes, the waitress asked if she needed anything else. Jamie did, but nothing the waitress could give her, so she just asked for the check. She was going to finish the pancakes, and then have a chat with her friends.\nShe would not be studying with them at the university they picked. They wanted to study and go into the business world, and that was fine. But that wasn’t what Jamie wanted. She could make a lot of money as a consultant or whatever it was the other girls wanted to be. But Jamie wanted to do her own thing. She wanted to enter the medical field, to help people. It would be a hard and long process, she knew, but Jamie was tired of taking a backseat in her own life.\nMaybe the girls would hate her now. They certainly hadn’t valued her before. But they had taught her something about herself, after all these years.\nWhen the waitress came for the last time and gave Jamie her check, Jamie took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to the waitress. She looked surprised—Jamie was giving her a ten on a twenty-five dollar tab. She seemed uncertain, but Jamie said, “That’s for you. Thank you.” Jamie filled out the receipt, left another ten-dollar tip on her card, and waited for the waitress to finish the transaction.\nJamie took her phone out and sent a text to her friends: ‘Hey, we need to talk.’" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Secerets 💙\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1962\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which two people who know each other are introduced — but neither person admits to knowing the other." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My name is March Spring.\nMy father is a part of a spy organization. I've been apart of it since I turned thirteen. Three years ago. He said his son should \"learn the ropes.\"\nI hate it.\nI didn't get a say in if I wanted to be apart of it or not. My dad just assumed I did.\nThe only good thing is my best friend, Ryker, is there too.\nI'm not supposed to know him. He's actually a prisoner, but I go to visit him all the time.\nHe won't escape, because he hates his family, my dads rivals, and doesn't want to go back.\nI'm going to see him right now, actually.\nI go towards the cells. I have blackmail on all the guards, so they let me in without question.\nI go to his cell, and unlock the door. I push it open.\nHe's laying on his bed, but sits up when he sees me.\nHis long curly black hair is hanging in his face. It almost covers his amazing green eyes, but not all the way. His skin is close to pale from being stuck inside for so long. He has lots of freckles going over the slope of his nose, and under his eyes. We're the same height, but he's built, which is interesting, consisering he's been in this cell for a year. He's honestly really handsome. Especially compared to me.\nI have long black hair that I refuse to cut, so I put in a small ponytail, and olive skin. My eyes are dark brown, and I look boring. I'm skinny, and a little strong. But, mostly just skinny. I'm flexible, so thats the one good skill I have.\nAnyway, he stands up and walks towards me as I shut the door. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt, and white shorts. The room is small and simple.\nWhite walls, bed, toliet, sink.\nHe kisses my forehead, which a thing he does.\nWhy?\nBecause I'm seceretly dating the son of my father's nemesis.\nI can't tell my dad. He'd freak. I'm not even supposed to know he's here. But I suck at following rules.\nSo, even though I know he can't see me, I lean foward and plant a kiss on his lips to spite my father.\n\"Hey, Spring.\" He says. I hate my first name, so he calls me Spring.\nI lay on his bed. \"Hey, Ry. How's it going?\"\n\"Boring. The food is terrible. Still.\" He tells me, laying beside me, twisting his fingers in mine.\n\"What food is it?\" I ask.\n\" Milk, bread, and an apple.\"\n\"What's bad about that?\"\n\"Spoiled, stale, and rotten.\"\n\"Ah.\"\n\"Hows your work?\"\n\"Boring. Dad has me checking papers.\"\n\"Anything on my folks?\"\n\"Yeah. They robbed some place. Didn't get caught.\"\n\"Can't wait till they do.\"\n\"Same. My dad is so stressed. I think he's worried they'll come and try to take you back.\"\n\"I hope they don't.\"\n\"Same.\"\n\"Why don't you?\"\n\"Because then you'd be gone. I wouldn't have anyone to talk to.\"\n\"Awww.\"\n\"Shut up Ryker.\"\nHe laughed.\nThis is what we did. We'd just talk. Which is funny, because I have a really hard time talking to people. But it's so easy with him.\nMy watch beeps, and I curse.\nI've got to go.\nWe stand, and he leans in, cups my face, and presses his lips on mine. I bring my hands to his waist, pulling him to me.\nWhen we break apart, I put my forehead on his.\n\"I love you, Spring.\" He whispers.\nI smile. \"I love you too, Ry.\"\nHe lets me go, and I walk out. I lean aganist the wall by the door.\nI really wish I didn't have to leave.\nBut, my dad will kill me if he finds me in here. So, I leave.\nThe next day, I'm in my \"office\". It's really just a big closet.\nI have a small desk, and a rolling chair. I've got pictures on the wall, and a fuzzy carpet.\nNobody bothers me. It's an unspoken rule. I have an amazing punch.\nI can hear people outside, but they can't hear me. It's a very nice arangement.\nSo, today, I'm working on my laptop, and I hear my dad outside the door. I stop to listen.\n\"Yes, you will be given this one chance.\" He says.\n\"Okay, sir.\" A familair voice replies. I make a face at the \"sir\".\n\"We have a fantastic agent who will be helping you.\" My father says.\nMe? At least it's better then doing paperwork. I drink some water.\n\"Agent March will be helping you, Ryker.\"\nI choke, spitting water on my laptop.\nI'm still coughing, when there's a knock at the door.\n\"Just a second!\" I yell loudly.\nI look in the mirror behind the door, and wipe the water off my face.\nNo way is Ryker out. My dad would never.\nI hope he did.\nI shut my laptop, put on my jacket, open the door, and step out.\n\"Hello, Commander Daniel.\" I say plainly, trying not to look at Ryker who is ACTUALLY there.\nI can't call him dad here. It's easy, because we're always here. I'm used to it.\n\"Agent March, you are being assigned to recently relesed prisoner, Ryker Change. You are to watch him, and not let him out of your sight. He will follow you, and follow orders. Any problems, and you have permission to knock him out.\"\nHe trusts me that much?\nI nod. \"Yes, sir.\"\nIs this real? I get to stay with Ryker ALL DAY? And I can order him to kiss me? Not that I will. Probaly.\nAnyway.\nMy dad marches off. Ryker smirks at me. I keep up my act.\n\"Come in here.\" I command, turning and opening my door.\nHe shuts the door behind him, and I start to shrug off the jacket.\n\"H-\" He starts, but I put a finger to his lips, my jacket hanging off my arms.\nMy dad doesn't trust me.\nI crush the tiny microphone that was on his shoulder.\n\"Okay, your good.\" I tell him.\nHe smiles. \"Can you beleive this? He came down yesterday, and started questioning me, then today, he said he'd give me a chance!\"\nHe sounds like an excited little kid, and I laugh.\n\"Can you believe I got assigned to you?\" I ask.\nHe shakes his head. \"No. I was shocked.\"\n\"Well, now I get to order you around.\" I tell him, grinning.\nHe grins back. \"What are you going to do?\"\n\"Hmm. Good question.\" I say, leaning close to him.\nThen he does his stupid smile that he knows I love, where he puts the tip of his tounge between his teeth. It should look weird, but not when he does it.\nSo, I kiss him.\nHe pulls me towards him, and I reach my hands up, going up from his neck, to twisting in his hair. He pulls my jacket off, dropping it by our feet. He gently pushes me into the wall, and I pull his waist, bringing him aganist me. He bringing his hands up to my hair, and pulls it out of the ponytail. I wrinkle my nose, and I can feel his teeth on my lips, as he grins.\nFinally, we break apart. He sits in my chair, and sticks his tounge out when I make a face. So, I sit on the carpet.\n\"So what are we gonna do?\" He asks.\nI raise an eyebrow.\n\"About us. Are you gonna tell your dad?\"\nI snort. \"No. He'd freak out.\"\n\"For which reason?\"\n\"What?\"\n\"For it being me, for you being gay, or for you sneaking into the prison?\"\n\"All of them.\"\n\"Oh. What would happen?\"\n\"He'd yell at me for about an hour, and then forbid me from seeing you. And probaly put you back in the prison.\"\n\"Oh. Yeah, don't tell him.\"\nI snort again. \"Like I was going to.\"\nThen, a bell rings.\n\"C'mon, lunch.\" I say, picking up my discarded jacket, and standing.\nHe follows my lead. \"You seriously have a bell?\"\n\"Shut up, Ryker.\"\nI pull on my jacket, and face him. \"Okay, I have a reputation, so I'm gonna be really mean, but just ignore it. Also, you need to look more helpless, and not like you were just kissed by your amazing boyfriend.\"\n\"I wasn't just kissed by my amazing boyfriend.\" He says.\n\"Yes, you were.\" I tell him, giving him a quick kiss.\n\"Yes, I was.\" He says, smiling.\nI open the door, and his face immediatly changes. Now, he looks scared and helpless. I hate it, but roll with it.\n\"Lets go.\" I order,\nWe walk down the hallway side by side. I don't look at him directly, but he's an amazing actor. He's looking at the floor, shuffling his feet. People move out of the way, as we head into the cafeteria.\nAnd.....the idiots are here. Great.\nThe idiots are a group of super annoying kids that are always bothering me. Their 'leader' is Mack. I'm smarter and faster than all of them, but their all stronger.\n\"Don't do anything.\" I murmer to Ryker.\n\"Okay.\" He mutters back.\nTheir coming over. I cross my arms.\n\"Hey, April.\" Mack says. He calls me different month names, and thinks it's the funniest thing ever. His brown hair is hanging in his face, and his skin looks like a fake tan.\n\"Hello, Mack.\" I say.\nHe looks at Ryker. \"Who's your friend?\"\n\"None of your buissness.\"\nOne of his friends whisper something that makes his eyebrows shoot up.\n\"Changes son, huh? I ought to hurt you.\" Mack says, stepping foreward.\nI move in front of him. \"No.\"\n\"What's wrong? Protecting your boyfriend?\"\nI grit my teeth. \"I have orders from Commander Daniel. I am in charge of this prisoner. Lay off.\"\n\"I can't punch him?\"\n\"No.\" He's seriously testing my patcince.\n\"Can I break his arm a little?\"\nI lean in so only he can hear me. \"If you touch him, everyone's gonna find out about Lance.\"\nHe turns pink, then storms off, with his group at his heels.\nTurns out, he likes guys too. I found him making out with another boy, and I've been blackmailing him since. He doesn't know about me, but I'm sure he suspects it.\n\"Let's go.\" I tell Ryker, who looks impressed.\nWe walk to the lunch line, and I glare at everyone who passes it.\n\"Good job with that kid.\" I hear him murmer.\nI blush, and turn to cover my face.\n\"Thanks.\" I say softly.\nIt's interesting, I think as we get our food. I'm mean to everyone except Ryker. He's the only one that can calm me down, or make me peaceful. And it's annoying, but I love it.\nWe sit at a table in the back. Ryker looks shocked. I guess it's the food. We have pizza today, and friut, and juice. They made everything 'healthy' but it taste the same.\nHe shovels food in his mouth, and I raise an eyebrow.\n\"It's been a long time since I've eaten good food.\" He mumbles.\n\"Ah.\"\nAfter we've eaten, I show him around the building. After that, we go back to my office, and kiss for a while. My dad comes back, and says Ryker's sleeping in my room. My room can only be opened by me.\nDay after day, he slowly gains other people's trust, and I can talk more freely to him. He goes to lessons with me, and gets good, fast.\nHe's actually almost better than me.\nIn self defense we had to fight. It lasted a while, but I finally pinned him.\nNo one finds out about us. Of course they didn't. We're amazing spies." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Cook\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1791\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose love language is making food for others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My best friend is a cat. I don’t mind. At least I can understand a cat. And the cat can understand me. My name is Toby, and I am six years old. My cat friend is Mikey, and he is at least two years old (I am not sure what it is in cat years). He is my best friend.\nWe live in the suburbs of Lister, a small town that is about sixty miles from the big city. My family is my father, my mother and my younger sister, Diana. She is four years old. I am not sure how old my mother and father are (I always forget). Daddy works in an office in the big city and sometimes I hear him complain about all that travelling and how his boss is terrible and how it would be easier if we all just moved there (never mind the money, he always says). Mom is very different. She stays at home and takes care of my little sister while I am at school. I guess she takes care of Mikey, too, because I come home sometimes and find his bowls are full, the litter is changed, and he is sleeping in the living room. Sometimes I want to do all of these things – except the sleeping – but mom wants me to take care of my schoolwork only.\nI guess I should talk a little about school. I take a bus there and it is about twenty minutes to get there with all of the people we have to pick up. I don’t really talk to the others on the bus and I have a seat all to myself in the back. I sit alone at school, too, even on the lunch break when we share the main hall and eat our packed lunches. The older kids aren’t there, but the people from my bus are always there. I think they are brought there before I get there because my seat is always ready for me. I don’t mind it.\nI take classes like a regular kid. Some of them are hard to follow. I like numbers and words, but I don’t like math and reading. I just don’t see the point of them. If I can understand what they mean, why do I have to do all that other stuff? Maybe just writing them down is all I need to do for a job. Mr. Grant and Ms. Lock are good people, but they keep telling me that I should try harder to “understand these ideas”. I like the way they talk to me, like I am one of the regular kids. But I really do not understand why they do this. They already know which is my favourite class.\nNow, I do sometimes watch mom in the kitchen when I am sick or it is a day off from school. Mom likes to cook, I think (I never asked her about it). And she likes it when I help out. I once saw her make a cake and got to add sugar, eggs and something called “vanilla extract” to a bowl as he had the mixer on. Later, when I tasted it – the bowl, not the mixer – I thought it was better than the cake that we made (pineapple upside-down cake). Mom said that was silly and that I should not eat too much of the “batter”. I still think that it tastes great!\nSo, my favourite class is the kitchen at the school. They keep telling me that it is not a class, but we are in there once a week, so I call it a class. We go to the home economics room – it’s really the kitchen – and Ms. Jeannette shows us how to cook. She smells like perfume and the kitchen – like my mom – and I tell her about what my mom makes and she is impressed, but then she shows us things that she can make. There are “croissants, chocolatines, beignes” (that is donuts in French, but smaller) and other things. I had to look up those words and she wrote them all down for me. She even made a soufflé once, but that took a lot of time and she started it before we got there. I thought that it would fall over, but she took it out in one smooth move and she was very happy. It tasted really good and I wondered why my mom did not make them.\nWhen I get home, usually Mikey is there to greet me and mom is in the kitchen (I can smell the food). One day, I come home and something feels really wrong. My dad’s car is in the driveway when I step off the bus. That is wrong. That is very wrong. Dad does not come home for at least an hour after I get back. Mom is rocking Diana in the crib and she tells me that I should go to the room when I walk in. What really bothers me is that I don’t see Mikey and I ask and mom says that he must have gone outside. I look outside and she tells me to go to my room. I don’t see anything from the window.\nI hear everything. I hear how daddy is really angry about his work and how they are “restructuring” (another word I found). Mom seems more scared than angry about things as they get loud and loud and loud. Diana begins to cry and they both stop and I hear them talking to the baby. Mikey makes an appearance outside and I run downstairs to open the door and mom and dad see me and yell at me to go to my room and I still open the front door and dad goes after me and slams the door and Mikey is hurt, hurt, hurt and I don’t want to see him ever again. I want mommy and daddy to stop yelling that loud.\nIt is quiet later that day. It is also Friday. It is going to be a good day with the home economics room and the gym. I have everything ready and I notice that no one else is up right now. I look outside and the leaves are brown, red and yellow and I can feel it is getting colder and I want to stay in bed and say nothing but I get up, wash my face and comb my hair. I go to the mirror in my room and try to wear something nice.\nThere is something else that I have to do.\nThey told me to write all this down. Mr. Grant is a vice principal and sometimes comes to class to talk to me. Ms. Lock is the principal and sometimes I talk to her in her office alone. I like them more than the other teachers now. They understand that Mikey was very important.\nThe very next day, after my parents were so loud, I woke up very early. I was sure not to make any noise as I walked downstairs and looked for Mikey. Mikey was nowhere in the house. I even looked in the basement (it is still too dark, even with the lights). Mikey…\nHe was gone.\nI was not angry when I went into the kitchen. My parents were still in bed and I knew that the school bus would not be there for a while. I could do something for them before I left that would fix things for them.\nI could make breakfast.\nI never did it before, but I had the home economics class. Ms. Jeannette was always patient with us and showed up how to measure the food, how to put the bowls and other things away, how to get the place clean. How to turn on the stove.\nThis was the top of the stove, not the inside. I never did that. I would not do that by myself. I only touched the part with the “burners”. That is what Ms. Jeannette called them. Burners. Mom called them “elements”, but I thought that Ms. Jeannette was right. It was hot, so burner was a better word.\nI was very confused.\nI put the frying pan on a burner, turned the little dial up to 7 to make it hot and then looked for the eggs and butter. That would be a simple thing to eat. Just fried eggs. But I did not think that it would be hot enough, so I put the dial to 8, found a bowl and then mixed the eggs together. I remembered that I needed salt and pepper for flavor. I remembered that I had to put butter into the pan, but it was so hot by then that the butter was turning brown right away and I did not want to burn the eggs so I picked it up but it was so hot. My hand burned and there was smoke when the butter touched the burner and I was just trying to keep things clean and the dishtowel was smoking so quickly and the alarm went off and I tried to wave it off with that towel and mom saw me first and screamed at me What The Hell ARE YOU DOING IN HERE? Dad was right behind her and did not say anything except turn off the stove and I got a big slap and touched the stove.\nI know why it is called a burner now.\nThey say that I don’t look bad. Only one side of my head and I have it covered with that white stuff that the doctor changes when I go talk to him. Mom and dad are still together, and I can talk to Ms. Jeannette all the time now (we have private time to talk about how to be safe when I use the stove; she really takes her time with me). And there is something else.\nMikey Two! Mom says that I should give him a new name and remember to take care of him, but I like the name and call him that when I feed him and let him outside. And I am better with the kitchen now. Mom and dad were worried about this, but I listened to Ms. Jeannette and she called them to let me try again. And I can make omelets and spaghetti and even bread! When I cook, mom says that she is really happy (dad does not say much except he likes the bread; even Diana likes it). I just hope that they really like it. I just want them to see what I can do." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lethal Shadows\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2369\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that either starts or ends with someone asking, “Can you keep a secret?”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The night had been foggy with shadows lurking in the corners; spirits among the mist. The streets lamps had all dimmed, extinguishing the only comfort for the night walkers who now had to place their trust in the moon to light the way home.\nIt was like the poster of those vintage horror movies. A cliché ghost town.\nIt was deep in the night when the police found the body of a young boy, sprawled along the bank of a stream, half submerged in the water. There was blood all over his face, and all over a rock beside him. He was naked, delicate skin left for the harsh winds to do whatever they pleased.\nThe police looked for sex offenders in the area. It was a logical explanation. Some pedophile had seen the boy and decided that they wanted him. But maybe he had been too much trouble for what he was worth. So they led him to the stream on a dark night where no one would be around, and silenced the young boy.\nPerhaps, they had even enjoyed it.\nBut they never found the boy’s killer.\nThen ten years later, to the exact hour of the discovery of the boy’s body. A woman leapt from the balcony of her three-storey house. Her husband found her when he got home from a business trip, laying on the ground with her eyes open, blood oozing from beneath her.\nDrip. Drip.\nHer blood dyed the swimming pool red.\nJust like the young boy’s had dyed the stream red.\nThe boy’s name had been Julian Hyacinthe.\nAnd the woman’s name had been Lilianna Hyacinthe.\nI will let you decide what you will with that information.\n“Callum,” Oliver grumbled, pushing me off of him. I rolled my eyes and climbed off the bed, not caring about grabbing a blanket to cover my parts. Oliver was always so insistent for sex to be an emotional thing to strengthen our relationship. “Something’s wrong.”\nHe rolled onto his side to face me. The moonlight streamed in through the cracks in the blinds, making his tannish copper skin appear as smooth as velvet. Chocolate brown curls fell in front of eyes that glimmered like the dew on fresh moss. His lips were red and swollen from when I had pushed him against the wall, craving the taste of his mouth against mine.\nHence why we were in the bedroom, naked.\n“What, my sex game not good enough for you?” I said.\nA faint blush coloured Oliver’s freckled cheeks pink. “It’s not that,” he said.\n“All right,” I said. “Maybe you can top next time.”\n“Something is bothering you, Callum,” Oliver said.\n“I don’t have time for you to be my shrink, Oliver,” I said. He was right though. Something was bothering me.\nIt had come up on the news again. Julian Hyacinthe. How the police were reopening the investigation because new evidence had surfaced. For some reason that made my heart jump around like a frightened rabbit. Most of the time, I could barely feel it beating.\nSo something was wrong. Very wrong.\n“It’s okay, Cal,” Oliver said. “You can talk to me.”\nI climbed back into bed, and felt Oliver wrap his strong arms around me. I could feel the defined lines of his muscles. I traced my fingers along the webwork of veins trailing down to his wrist.\n“I’ve umm, I’ve been having nightmares,” I admitted.\nIt was always the same one. A dark night by the stream. Two figures wondered to the water from this small path. They were fighting about something. And it got as heated as ten-year-old arguments could get. Then the boy on the left pushed Julian with all his might.\nJulian stumbled, trying to catch onto the other’s boy’s shirt to stop himself from falling. His head collided against a jagged rock, and killed him instantly.\nWhen the boy left, I would walk over to Julian, cradle him in my arms and whisper, “I’m sorry,” over and over.\n“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Oliver asked. He pulled me closer until our bodies were entwined beneath the white sheets. He placed a kiss at the base of my neck.\n“Because it’s stupid,” I said.\n“Nothing that bothers you is ever stupid,” Oliver said.\n“Quit being sappy, Oliver,” I said, supressing a sigh. “We should probably go to sleep.” I turned, and gave him a kiss on the lips. He fell asleep within the next five minutes.\nI didn’t fall asleep until the alarm beeped that it was three am.\nThe witching hour.\nI drove to my dad’s house the next day because it was the anniversary of my mum’s death. I opened the door to the sound of the tv playing the news. Dad was in the kitchen, chopping an apple. But his eyes were glued to the screen and the knife was only inches from his finger.\nI pried it out of his grip before he could cut his finger off. “Oh, Callum.” His shoulders gave a jerk and then a shudder. The uneasiness in his worry lines were hard to miss. He had more grey hairs now, streaked across his head and peppered in his stubble. He gave me the bowl of freshly chopped apples. “I chopped them how you like.”\n“Thanks,” I said, dropping my keys on the counter. “I would rather you not be absent of a finger for me.” I bit my lip, as his eyes drifted back to the screen. “What is it, Dad?” I asked.\n“Julian,” he replied. “They um, they’re reopening the investigation.”\n“Yeah, I know,” I said, thinking about the Julian in my dreams, and the uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I swallowed, placing the apples on the table. “I just need to use the bathroom.”\nDad never moved, even after Mum died. It was a big house. Must be awfully cold and empty living here all by yourself. All three-storeys of it. I used the bathroom on the second floor where the master bedroom was.\nI must have been really out of it because I drove my hip right into the corner of the bedside table. I backed away, doubled over, pain coursing through my body for a good few minutes before I could finally stand upright.\nThe bedside table drawer had been jarred open from my clumsiness. A piece of paper peeked out, marred with unintelligible scribbles. I knew what it was immediately, and my heart sank. Dad had kept it all these years, right beside him as he slept.\nMy mum’s suicide note.\nI shouldn’t have done it. I should have known that ignorance was bliss.\nI should never have taken it for granted.\nI opened the drawer, brushing my fingers along the crumpled paper, where the ink had made its mark, there to stain it forever. The writing was frantic. Droplets of tears smudged the words and tore the paper in some places where her hand had gone skating past with no regard for the damage it would cause.\nDear God,\nI didn’t kill Julian, I swear. But I fear I am losing my mind. He hides in the shadows, waiting to grab me when I am unaware. Take revenge for what happened to him. He was just a boy, his life shouldn’t have ended the way it did.\nThere was blood everywhere when I got there. He didn’t even look real, I thought he was just a mannequin or something because his skin was so white. Then I saw his dead, dead eyes. It had all been an accident, I refused to believe it was anything otherwise.\nI removed his clothing and burnt it because I didn’t want the police to find the DNA, let them to think it was a sex offender. And they did. Looking back, it probably would have been better to have done nothing.\nIt was a freak accident. But I couldn’t stop the part of me that thought maybe it wasn’t. What if he had seen the rock behind Julian and pushed him intentionally? It made me think and think. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, not when the police could come knocking on our door to take him away.\nI hope you can forgive me. My son had just been killed, and I didn’t want to subject Callum to all of that. Who knows if he did it on purpose or not? Maybe I have been protecting a murderer all along. I can’t do this anymore, keeping all these secrets. I want Callum to lead a normal life, and remember none of it. But I feel myself breaking and I am so worried that I will tell him, and I will ruin him.\nI do this for Callum. And perhaps, you will see my dedication to my children and let me reunite with Julian, where I may tell him that I love him.\nLilliana Hyacinthe\nI dropped the letter the moment I finished reading. I thought about my dream. I was the boy who pushed Julian. I was the one who had felt Julian’s heart beating against his chest for a millisecond before I stopped it altogether.\nAll those years wondering whether the police would ever find Julian’s killer, with the memory of that night pushed all the way down.\nJulian was my brother.\nAnd I killed him.\n“Callum,” Dad burst into the room. The look of shock on his face when he saw the note was the only confirmation I needed.\nI was dead still, wishing so desperately I could turn back time and make it so I never excused myself to go to the bathroom. That way I would have never bumped my hip against the bedside table and touched what did not belong to me.\n“I know what it looks like,” Dad said. “But your mum, she wasn’t well. She had these crazy delusions that sent her into this downward spiral. I should have been there with her that night. It should never have happened.”\nI still didn’t say anything. I had my own memory to back it up. Nothing Dad was saying to steer me away from the truth was going to deter me.\nJulian was my brother.\nAnd I killed him.\nMy heart was only faintly beating. I needed to get out of here. This large, empty house where Mum had leapt to her death.\n“Callum, let me explain.” Dad tried to grasp onto my sleeve, but I was already halfway out the door.\nI snatched my keys from the counter, leaving the bowl of apple slices on the table to rot. Just like Mum and I had left Julian by the stream to rot. I had gone running to her about what happened, and all she said to me was to stay quiet and not say anything to anyone.\nSo I did.\nWhile she went to strip Julian, burn his clothes, and leave him bleeding and dead.\nI drove all the way back to the apartment that Oliver and I shared. We lived on the tenth floor, but I ran all the way up the twenty flights of stairs. I didn’t register the breath being sucked out of my lungs, the sweat dripping down my temples or my heart pumping so, so hard.\nBut all that caught up with me when I stumbled into the apartment, realising that I couldn’t breathe, and my clothing was clinging onto me like a second layer of skin.\n“Cal,” Oliver was curled up on the couch.\nI couldn’t breathe, my mind was reeling. I could see Julian bleeding all over the pristine tiles that Oliver had mopped this morning. Oliver was in front of me, saying something that I couldn’t hear. His hands were on my shoulders, and I didn’t know if I was the one shaking or he was the one shaking me.\n“Cal, Cal, you’re scaring me,” Oliver said. I finally heard that. I tried to say something, but my voice came out hoarse, not even an exhale of air. “All right, Cal, just breathe with me.” I inhaled, but it was like fire entering my lungs. I was going to spontaneously combust. And the more I thought about it, the more I panicked.\nKillers were meant to be calm and methodical. They weren’t meant to have remorse. They were monsters. Was I a monster? I killed my own brother, how could I not have remorse?\nI had to tell Oliver.\nMum kept what she had done a secret, and it had killed her.\n“I did something bad, Oliver,” I finally managed after more than several moments of hyperventilating.\n“It’s okay,” Oliver said. “You can tell me.”\n“Can you keep a secret, Oliver?” I asked. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.” I knew that wasn’t fair on Oliver, but I loved him more than anything in the world. If Oliver was dragged into the depths of hell, I would have begged him to drag me with him. So was it really that much of a wrong that I told him?\nI told him everything.\n“He was my brother, Oliver,” I said. “I pushed him, he hit his head on that rock, and he died. Then, my mum tried to cover it up. She thought she was protecting me.”\n“She was protecting you,” Oliver said. “In a twisted way, I suppose. She had already lost a son, she didn’t want to lose you too.”\n“I killed him,” I said.\n“No, you didn’t,” Oliver said insistently. “It was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident.”\nI fell into his arms, crying and sobbing like I never had before. I clung onto Oliver’s shirt that smelt of his sweet, sweet cologne. He whispered comforting words to me.\n“I love you,” I mumbled.\n“I love you too,” Oliver replied. “It’s going to be okay.”\nThat night, I had the same dream. I held Julian’s body in my arms, crying and screaming into the night that it should have been me.\nBecause if only I had known. I would have done anything to trade places with him. I would have made a deal with the devil.\nAnything for Julian to not have dissolved to mere shadows in my mind." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: A Tale of Two Faeries\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2979\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone looking to make amends for a mistake." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, in a forest by a river that always shone with the most promising of sparkles, there dwelled the faeries. Now, you cannot see them during the day, for they are secretive creatures; they hide amongst the leaves, disguising themselves as flowers.\nThey are a quiet and graceful people who like to speak in riddles. The next time you are walking through a forest, close your eyes and listen carefully, you might just hear the light fluttering of a faerie’s wings…\nFynn perched on the branch, eavesdropping upon the travellers’ conversation. It was interesting to hear how the humans thought of them. He fluttered his wings to see if they would look up. He watched as they bent down, examining a ring of mushrooms at the base of the tree.\n“What are you looking at?” That frightened Fynn enough that he wobbled. He held desperately onto Fabien’s tunic for support, hoping that the branches wouldn’t fail him. Unluckily, with a dreadful snap, the branch gave way, and Fynn tumbled out of the tree, dragging Fabien down with him.\nFabien beat his wings, trying to stop them from hitting the ground, but he wasn’t strong enough to carry the both of them. They fell into the faerie circle. Fynn hit his head hard on a mushroom. Fabien was sprawled on top of him, looking equally as disoriented and humiliated.\nFabien let his wings take him up. Fynn remained on the ground, looking at the sky – away from Fabien – to save himself the embarrassment. That disproved what the humans thought of them, they were definitely less graceful than they might have thought.\n“Are you all right down there?” The fluttering of wings neared. Fynn switched his gaze to Fabien, not prepared for the breath to be stolen from his lungs.\nFabien hovered over him, flashes of his wings shimmering in the light. His hair was dark brown with streaks of lighter tones; residues of the warm weather where the sun almost bleached it golden. It swept across his forehead in loose curls. His eyes were lilac, pale against his mahogany skin that held a light sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks.\nFynn had known those features almost his whole life, but he supposed that was the moment when he found beauty in them, it drew him in like a bee to a flower.\nThey were laughing about the incident by the time night fell, but Fynn couldn’t quite shake the feeling he had whenever he looked at Fabien. How the brightness of his smile could almost compete with the fireflies, and the colour of his eyes not only reflecting the colour of the flower, but the beauty as well.\nThey remained the fondest of friends. They laid by the river in summer, playing hide and seek with the water nymphs. In autumn, they gathered the fallen leaves, building them into enormous piles to dive into from the treetop. In spring, they hopped around from tree to bush to vine, picking whatever fruit and berries were ripe. And in winter, they threw snowballs at each other, and then nestled in front of the fire in the warmth of their treehouses.\nSlowly, but surely, with every laugh and smile, from summer to winter, Fynn fell in love with him.\nOne night, Fabien flew Fynn to his door. He gave Fynn a hug before he left, like he always did. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Fabien said. There were fireflies circling his head, enveloping him in a warm glow. Fabien snapped his fingers in front of Fynn’s face. “Fynn, you there?” Heat rushed up his neck. He had been caught staring again.\n“Yes,” Fynn replied. “Tomorrow.”\nFabien ruffled his hair, Fynn was sure that he was floating. “Just try not to fall out of any trees before then.” That was years ago now, Fynn was shocked that Fabien would still remember.\nThen, Fabien dove from the branches, waving at Fynn as his wings caught the breeze. Fynn clutched at his beating heart, the warmth of Fabien’s touch still lingering.\n“You love him,” his Mother, Jelena said as Fynn was warming his hands by the fire.\nFynn’s eyes widened, feeling like a deer at the mercy of a hunter’s bow. Jelena was a cold and stern woman who rarely left the house. She was one of the remaining few faeries who had magic so faeries came to her from minor maladies to death draughts. She wasn’t exactly well-liked, but she was his Mother.\n“It is nothing, I promise,” Fynn stuttered. Jelena narrowed her eyes.\nThat was the only feature they shared. Eyes the colour of rusted copper, flecked with gold at the edge of the irises. Her waist-length hair was stark white against her dark clothing. Her features were hawklike with sharp cheekbones and thin lips. She was elegant and poised in the way Fynn was clumsy. He must have taken after his Father, but Jelena never spoke about him.\n“He does not love you,” Jelena said, rising from her chair.\nFynn felt those words like pinpricks in his heart. “I know,” he said. Fabien would never see him as anything more than a friend, and he wasn’t blind to all the girls who felt the same way he did. Over the years, Fabien had blossomed like the prettiest of flowers, but beyond that he was caring and kind to all that he encountered, his heart was genuine and true.\n“He will break your heart,” Jelena said, softer this time, an almost worried tone permeating her voice.\n“You don’t need to warn me, Mother,” Fynn said. “I know that we can only be friends, nothing more.” He shrugged, ignoring the numbness in his chest. “And I am fine with that.”\n“Do not lie to me, Fynn,” Jelena said, pulling Fynn uncomfortable close. “How long?”\n“A long time,” Fynn replied, swallowing.\nJelena turned, tearing her fingers through her white hair. “I never wished for this to happen. I should never have let you befriend him.”\n“What are you talking about, Mama?” Fynn asked.\n“This is my fault,” Jelena said, collapsing back into her chair with her face buried in her hands. Fynn had never seen his Mother like this; shivering, seemingly on the verge of tears. “That bastard.”\nFynn flew to his Mother’s side, tentatively putting his arm around her. “It is all right, Mama.” He didn’t know what else to do. “Nothing is going to happen between us, you don’t have to worry.”\nShe straightened up. “But what happens when he finds a girl to love? When they marry? Have children? What happens to you then? You will be forgotten, thrown to the back of his mind. Will that not break your heart?” Fynn stood back up, wiping frustratingly at the tears those words had elicited. “See? You cannot take it.”\n“What did you mean when you said that this was your fault?” Fynn asked.\nJelena took in a shaky breath. “I never talk about your Father because he broke my heart. We spent a blissful few years together, but there had been another woman the whole time. They ran away together, and he left me with nothing. Faeries only truly fall in love once. I loved him truly, but he did not. I was young, rash and so very angry. I concocted a spell that would curse him to die of a broken heart, make him pay for what he did to me. I was unaware that I was with child, that the spell would latch onto you instead, for you had his blood.”\nFynn was holding onto the mantel for support because that was the only way he was remaining upright. “So, this… curse, it dooms me to die of a broken heart.”\n“The only way to stop the curse is for the one you love to return your feelings,” Jelena said.\n“He will not,” Fynn said. “He fancies another.” Her name was Eolande. He knew before Fabien had told him. One could see the lovestruck look in his eyes.\n“I am not going to let you pay for my mistake,” Jelena said, standing up suddenly and grabbing Fynn by the shoulders. “You have every right to hate me, but I will do anything before I lose you.”\n“I could never hate you, Mama,” Fynn said. His Mother had raised him. He owed his life to her. “Is there a way?” he asked. “For me to somehow stop loving him.” Not loving Fabien seemed like an awful thing, but what could he do?\n“I cannot take away your feelings for him,” Jelena said. “But love potions are easy to brew, he will fall in love with you in an instant.”\nFynn shook his head. “No, that is wrong,” he said. “I will… I will not do that to him.”\n“He will not know,” Jelena said.\n“But that is a lie,” Fynn said, feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of it.\n“It is better than having your heart broken,” Jelena snapped. “Now, go to bed, while I brew this potion.” Fynn knew better than to argue with his Mother when she used that tone.\nThe next day, Fynn waited for Fabien outside his treehouse, the love potion hidden in his pocket. The cool glass warmed beneath his fingers, the contents sloshing around inside. Fabien came out, eyes still misty with sleep. He gave a yawn.\n“Late night?” Fynn asked, his night had certainly been eventful.\n“Eolande and I may or may not have gone and enjoyed the festivity down at the river,” Fabien replied. “And I may or may not have proclaimed my love for her.”\nFynn bit his lip awkwardly, the twisting in his stomach becoming increasingly prominent. “And what did she say?” he asked, trying to stop his wings from twitching – it was a nervous habit of his.\n“She said she would think about it,” Fabien replied, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Come on, we should go to the river, I’m sure there are still some people partying.” He must still be on a high after making his proclamation of love to not see Fynn’s discomfort.\nFynn put off using the love potion for as long as he could. He had almost managed to convince a part of him that it wasn’t real. That last night had just been a wild dream, or that Jelena had been ill and spouting nonsense.\nHalfway through the day, Eolande came and dragged Fabien away.\n“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Fynn,” Fabien said.\nFynn managed a smile. “Yes, tomorrow,” he replied.\nFynn spent the rest of the day alone. He shouldn’t be so selfish. He should be happy for Fabien. He couldn’t give his best friend a love potion and make him live a lie purely for his own benefit. But the pain grew in Fynn’s chest the more he thought of Fabien and Eolande together.\nHe stumbled home in a daze, his head too dizzy and his heart too heavy to fly. The love potion remained in his pocket, unused.\n“Why did you not use it?” Jelena chided because she could read Fynn like an open book.\n“I’ll ruin him,” Fynn said. “He loves Eolande and Eolande loves him.” He clutched at the sleeves of his crumpled tunic. “It would be a mistake.”\nThat night, he was awoken by his own coughing and a deep, cutting pain at the bottom of his ribcage. His hand flew to his mouth to try and muffle it. Something wet dripped between his fingers. The coughing ceased, and holding up his fingers to the sliver of moonlight coming through his window, he saw his pale skin slick with blood.\nThe curse was real. He was dying.\n“You don’t look good,” Fabien said the next day.\nFynn gave a weak cough into the crook of his elbow. “I’m fine.” The love potion was still in his pocket. All he hoped was that it would work and the guilt clawing at him would cease.\nSo, when they paused by the river for fresh water, Fynn poured the love potion in Fabien’s leaf. Nothing happened for a good few minutes, but Fynn’s heart was drumming out of control. Then suddenly, a mist came over Fabien’s eyes when he turned to Fynn.\n“Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” Fabien inched towards him, holding his palm to Fynn’s cheek. He was so close, warm breath defrosting Fynn’s chilled skin.\n“No,” Fynn replied. Butterflies fluttered in his heart.\n“They’re golden and pretty like jewels,” Fabien said.\nThey spent the night watching fireflies dance across the night sky. Fynn still couldn’t get used to the feeling of Fabien so close to him. He had wanted this for years, his heart had yearned for it. But that didn’t make the sinking sensation in him any more bearable.\nFabien pressed a sleep kiss against Fynn’s jaw. “I love you,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, with his arms wrapped firmly around Fynn’s waist.\nIt was everything he had wanted. But Fynn knew he couldn’t have it forever. Just one night, he told himself. Just one night to give me everything I will never again experience in a lifetime.\nOne night with my one true love.\nSo, he held Fabien close to him, breathing in the delicate scent of the pink-flowering thorn, and all his deepest loves and desires – the only thing keeping his heart from shattering.\n“I love you,” Fynn whispered to Fabien. Perhaps, in his dreams, Fabien could hear the sincerity of his words and forgive him for his lies. He had lied about being fine, but he hadn’t lied about nobody ever telling him he had beautiful eyes, and he would never lie about loving Fabien.\nThe effects of the love potion faded away in the morning. There were still contents remaining in the vial, and judging by the expression on Fabien’s face, he didn’t remember anything. But Fynn couldn’t do it again. He would rather go through the pain of heartbreak honestly than love in a lie.\n“You didn’t come home last night,” Jelena said when he walked through the door.\n“I was with Fabien,” Fynn replied. “I gave him the love potion.”\nJelena raised an eyebrow, suspicion in her eyes. “What is it?”\n“I can’t,” Fynn said. “If I were to live every day of my life like that, I think I would drive myself mad.” He threw the vial before Jelena. “I won’t do that ever again.”\nFabien didn’t greet Fynn at his door the next morning, but Fynn found him easily enough. He was by the river, running his fingers against the current.\n“Fabien,” Fynn called.\nHe didn’t turn around. “What did you do to me last night?” he asked.\n“I’m sorry, Fabien,” Fynn said.\n“You gave me something,” Fabien said. He stood up and turned towards Fynn, hurt and betrayal written all over his face. “Look, I have known about your feelings for me, but I never thought you would stoop that low, Fynn.”\nThe guilt was rising up Fynn’s throat, becoming harder and harder to swallow. “It was a mistake,” he said, but Fynn was already walking away. “Please.” He grabbed at Fabien’s hand desperately, his fingertips cold from the river. “Just let me explain.”\n“There is nothing to explain,” Fabien said, wrenching his hand from Fynn’s grip. “Stay away from me.” Fynn didn’t go after him that time because he knew he deserved all the pain of bitter regret, every fibre in him wishing that he could take it back.\nThat night, he watched Fabien and Eolande dancing, caressed by the moonlight, lit up by the stars. Oh, the love he had had for one night. It just came as an ache in his heart.\n“I found another way to break the spell,” Fynn jumped at Jelena’s voice beside him, and then at the glinting metal of a knife.\n“What are you doing, Mama?” he asked.\n“If I stab him through the heart and mutter a spell as his blood drips on you, you will be free,” Jelena said. The look in her eyes was manic. She stood, a dark shadow in the night.\nFynn shot up, making a grab for the night. But Jelena kept twisting her arm, making the blade bite into Fynn’s skin. “Give me the knife, Mama.”\n“I am doing this for you,” Jelena said.\nFynn couldn’t let his Mother hurt Fabien. But he couldn’t keep fighting Jelena because he was bound to lose, and then Jelena would kill Fabien anyway. So he closed his hand over Jelena’s and drove the blade through his own chest.\n“I’m sorry, Mama,” Fynn said as he collapsed. The blade was so cold in his flesh. Blood soaked through his tunic, warm. His heart pulsated weakly.\nThrough the small leaves of a strawberry bush, he saw Fabien’s wings glittering in the night, like how they had glittered on that day they had tumbled out of the tree and Fynn had fallen so hopelessly in love with him. Fynn hoped that maybe one day, Fabien would find it in his heart to forgive him.\nAnd then he died in his Mother’s arms.\nJelena, despite her distraught state carried her son’s body all the way to the river where the water nymphs took him away.\nFynn’s blood nurtured all the seeds dispersed in the grass by the wind. And a field of flowers grew from as a result his undying love. A field of lilac, sprinkled with a pink rose or two. They never wavered against the wind, and always provided shelter for the heartbroken, showing them that beautiful things could still exist.\nBut it was also a place to celebrate love, where Fabien and Eolande pledged their lives to each other under a warm spring afternoon when the flowers bloomed at their brightest.\nAnd they lived happily ever after." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Ghost of a Boy Made of Glass\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2432\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Cigarettes had always made me choke and splutter.\nMum had been adamant about keeping me away from smokers. When we walked through the dust-filled streets of the city, where people left their office buildings during their lunch break to smoke in alleyways.\nShe would always throw a dirty look at them, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, telling them with her eyes, “I have a child”, as if their eyes were on her too. As though they cared as much as she did. She had never quite succeeded in passing on her hatred of smokers to me.\nI mention this only because I have a cigarette between my fingers, acting like I am some professional in the smoking department because the tip I had pressed the lighter against a few seconds ago totally won’t burn me too. As they do anybody.\nLike my skin is made of glass. More delicate than wood, able to break with a single touch, a bump or a scrape. Wood is different. Wood is tough. But if you hold a flame to a piece of glass and a block of wood at the same time, which one will catch aflame first?\nThere is music blasting in my ears, the cords tangle halfway down my chest because they are a menace to undo – like an intricate maze, where if you manage to find your way through, your prize is to listen to the music that nobody else can hear.\nExcept, I think that people can hear my music, judging by the looks the woman beside me is giving. Stupid teenagers with their brain-rotting music. Only, I’m not a teenager anymore, I can’t pin that label on myself like those name tags they gave us in primary school, use it as an excuse for everything I do. I am an adult now.\nAnd apparently adults can see ghosts.\nI drop my cigarette. It dives head-first onto the pavement, sizzling as it hits the cement – concussed. My attention is focused elsewhere to give much thought to my wounded cigarette. Ants would probably carry it away and take it to a puddle left behind by the morning rain to rest in peace.\nI yank out my headphones and immediately become bombarded with the noise of the daily traffic. It’s far better for the calming indie rock music to block out the cacophony of day to day life. Far better for my head to float up in the clouds somewhere, than to feel the heavy pull of gravity.\nI stand up, pushing through the smoke, and stumble a little as though I really did fall from the sky. My heart pulsates sickeningly, and I try to swallow it back down.\nIt can’t be.\nMy nerves hum beneath my skin. I feel the way my computer felt when I had spent an entire day and night streaming this show on an illegal website. I press my hands to my cheeks, as though I am trying to replicate the man from that painting ‘The Scream’.\nMy cheeks are cold to the touch. No fever that could have induced delirious hallucinations. I am breaking out into fits of cold sweat, and I think I might just faint. Fall head-first onto the pavement and crack my skull open like my cigarette. Karma really is a bitch.\nMaybe it is time to entertain the slight possibility that I have finally lost it. That my sanity has snapped and I am beginning to see dead people like my old grandma who spends all her time up in the attic talking to a little girl named Laura. Either that, or we’re both psychic – I certainly do recall having some strange dreams lately.\nI try to walk, but I stumble again. A man catches me, looking concerned. It’s probably just concern for himself though because he had caught me on reflex and now realises that I’m some crazy person he doesn’t want to touch.\nHe smells like coffee.\n“Hey, are you okay?” he says. He sounds nice enough.\nI back away, looking across the street where I had seen this supposed ghost. “I’m fine,” I reply when I realise the man is still standing there, waiting for me to say something.\nHe doesn’t move, I can see it written all over the lines on his face. Are you high? What are you on? Should I be calling the police? Teenagers these days.\nNuh uh, not a teenager anymore.\n“You don’t look too good,” he says, trying to meet my eyes.\n“I’m fine,” I say.\nI see him leaning against the wall of that pizza shop. One foot up against the brick and the other stretched out in front of him. He’s a wearing a white t-shirt and pale ripped jeans, tattered black converses to match the colour of his hair.\nHe’s reading a book like he always was, oblivious to the bustling of the people around him. He looks grown though – taller, fitter. Can ghosts age?\nI begin to run. Catching onto the wind, pushing past all the people to get to him. A few people swear, throwing dirty looks at me when my elbow catches them in the ribs, like my mum had looked at those smokers.\nMy lungs burn, and I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t breathed, or I’m breathing too much. Then I stop, taking in a great gulp of air. I can smell him. The faint scent of green apple and peppermint.\nHe looks up from his book and our eyes meet. Are they a ghost’s eyes? They’re still as blue and misty as the sky on a cloudy day. His lips part slightly, and turn up into a smile. My heart can’t take the sight of it. His perfect face is like a thorn driving into my ventricles.\nI turn away. I am going to forget that I ever saw him. \n“Addie!”\nI hold myself up. But I’m glass. I crumble and I break with a single touch, bump or scrape. I may not be flammable, but I am delicate. And at the end of the day, there is a higher chance of someone bumping me, than trying to light me aflame.\nI feel like there’s fire creeping in. I smell the smoke of my long-gone cigarette. He’s the ghost within the flames, that reaches out to strangle me when I think he is long gone.\nMy heart bleeds. And I’m glass, so I’m see-through. He can see the way my lungs shudder, and how my blood colours that glass a gruesome red.\nI’m red all over.\nAnd the worst thing is, he’s standing there with that gorgeous smile, screaming my name like all he sees inside me are rose petals. He doesn’t see the thrones tearing my organs to shreds.\nI loved him, and I gave him my heart, acting like it was such an easy thing to give. Because he was such an easy person to love. I fell in love with his eyes, then his words, and the way he kissed me like I was the only spot of colour in a grey, grey world.\nThen I lost him. And I lost my heart too.\n“You died,” I say. I had never said those words before. I refused to acknowledge he was dead, until he was standing right in front of me.\nHis smile disappears, torn away. “Who… who told you that?” his voice shakes a little, like he’s afraid of how I would respond.\n“I saw you,” I say. “You mum called me saying there was an accident. I saw them wheel you into an ambulance with a sheet over your head.”\nI don’t talk about how I had run there in the middle of the night, down the seemingly empty streets until I was blinded by neon lights. How for a moment, I thought it had all been a dream. That he couldn’t be dead.\nThat was the first time I lost someone. I hadn’t even lost a grandparent, and the first person I lost was my boyfriend.\nHe tries to grab my hand, but I jerk away, afraid that his grasp would vanish into the air. Even if he is a ghost. I want him to haunt me forever.\n“My mum lied,” he says. “The person they wheeled into the ambulance was the taxi driver. His head hit against the steering wheel and he died instantly.”\n“You didn’t see me there?” I say, so quietly. “You didn’t think to maybe come and tell me that you’re alive at least.” I swallow thickly, I can’t breathe as though there’s fluid in my lungs. Like that one winter when I contracted pneumonia, spending weeks coughing and heaving over a rubbish bin.\nThis is worse.\n“She didn’t want us to be together,” he says. “She wanted me to love a girl and I couldn’t. So she took matters into her own hands.”\nSuddenly, I start laughing. So loud that the people on the streets turn to throw me judgemental looks. But I don’t care. I laugh until my stomach is aching and my lungs are begging for air. I drink in the wind, and I keep laughing.\nTwo years. Two whole years of neverending grief and heartache that all apparently mean nothing now. The flames can burn me. My bones can shatter. But I am not made of glass. I am made of skin, muscle tissue and bones – my year ten biology teacher would say there is so much more to that.\nAnd then I stop laughing because there is nothing more to laugh about. So, I turn and smash my fist against the brick wall. Because glass would have shattered. But my human skin and human bones only became scraped and busted. And oh, the pain is immense, and I immediately sink to the ground with the weight of it.\nCradling my broken fist, tears streaming down my cheeks. I hurt all over. My tangled earphones hang limply, still playing the indie rock music, and I wish that I had never taken them away from my ears. There are words piling at my throat and I choke on them.\nThen, he leans down and brings me into his arms, gently rocking me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” What is the word sorry anyway? For two years of my life, I was that weirdo kid who couldn’t be talked shit about because he had lost his boyfriend. Because his grief had done some messed up things to his brain and now he’s permanently damaged.\nI let him lift me back onto my feet, and guide me all the way to his apartment. Because he was an adult and he owned an apartment of his own. Maybe that’s why I never fully classified myself as an adult, because I still lived with my parents who didn’t trust me to live on my own.\nI fall onto his bed, and he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m smearing blood all over his sheets. That I’m leaving my DNA there as evidence of something unholy. He brushes his fingers against my wrist, but I recoil.\n“Let me look at that,” he says.\n“What are you?” I say. “Training to be a doctor?”\n“Psychology,” he replies. Great, so he has made a life for himself and I dropped out of school on the first day. That’s totally fine.\n“So you can read into my behaviours and how that reflects my mental state, huh,” I say. I had always hated psychologists. They were always so eager to help.\nHe doesn’t reply to me, just holds onto my busted hand like it doesn’t send butterflies flying everywhere. “This is going to sting.” He pours antiseptic onto a cotton ball – how he has that within arm’s reach is a mystery to me. He presses it against my bloody skin, the white cotton blooms with red. I let out a choked cry, and try to hold back the tears, but they come down anyway.\nI want him to say something to me. Ask me why I punched that wall for god’s sake because even I don’t know why. I sure as hell regret it now with all the pain that I’m in. He wraps my knuckles in soft bandages. He pulls out a bottle of pills and then leaves, coming back with a glass of water.\nHe gives me two. I pop them into my mouth and down it without a second thought. That could have been poison, but I would have downed it just the same.\n“Where did you get all this stuff if you’re just studying psychology?” I ask, a little drowsily.\n“My roommate is doing medicine,” he says. “He loves to practise on me because I’m always punching things.” I look down at his hand that is still clutching onto mine. At the scarred skin.\n“Why?” I ask.\n“Same reason you punched that wall?” he says, breathing deeply, maybe sighing. “Because I lost you too, Addie. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were the best thing I ever had. But I couldn’t have you. I was watching you from across that street, and I thought you would never look up.”\n“No one calls me Addie anymore,” I say. The truth is nobody calls me by name anymore. It’s always ‘hey, you’, or sweetie – courtesy of my smoke-detesting mother. I can’t even bring myself to say his name.\n“Then I take pleasure in having a part of you that nobody else does,” he says. He places his hand on my cheek, leaning in.\nI let him, and our lips press together for a blissful few seconds, but I can’t take it. Despite his lips being soft and warm, I keep imagining it going cold, and then him falling away – just a corpse.\n“I can’t,” I say, running my hand along my dry but tearstained cheeks.\n“That’s okay,” he replies. “I went too far.” He fidgets and then backs away, and I see the real hurt in his eyes. It hurts me too.\n“Hold me?” I say.\nAnd he comes back to give me all of him. I rest my head on his shoulder, feeling his pulse beat against my forehead.\n“Len,” I finally say as I exhale, twisting his shirt between my fingers.\n“Addie,” he replies.\nThen I say his name again. And he responds with my name again. We go back and forth until the moonlight replaces the sun.\nAnd we still hold onto each other.\nWith no intention of ever letting go." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Rain Or Shine\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1475\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger warning: depictions of suicide\n “...Care to fucking explain?”\n It’s a quiet, foggy afternoon. Most of the neighbors had already gone off to work or school or whatever other obligations they had. Henry had been sitting on his porch, sipping his third cup of coffee and arguing with his editor over email. It had been a perfectly normal day, which was to say, a tedious and miserable day. That was until some bastard Henry thought he’d never see again showed up on his street, just as young as the day he had died and smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. \n “Hello to you too.”\n “Oh, don’t pull that shit. What is this?”\n Henry shut his laptop and gave his full attention to Rainer, who just stared back at him with that grin. It had been twenty years, and still Henry remembered that grin. \n “I thought you’d be happy to see me. Didn’t you miss me?”\n Henry didn’t respond. Instead, he stood up, grabbing his cane and making his way down his lawn. Rainer didn’t move from his spot, despite his perfectly functional legs, which only made Henry even more bitter. \n “Oh, I wouldn’t get too close. This form isn’t exactly stable, and I’d hate to leave already. You just stay back there, alright?” \n It was strange. Rainer didn’t speak like how Henry remembered. He was a bit too calm, a bit too formal, a bit too distant. It was the same voice and the same body, but something deep within Henry knew that it wasn’t the same man. \n “What are you? Some kinda ghost? Spirit? I know y’ain’t Rainer, that’s for damn sure.”\n That was the first thing to break through Rainer’s frozen grin. His eyebrows rose, and the corners of his lips fell just a bit. \n “...Odd. Usually it takes a while longer for people to realize. Guess you’re a sharp one, even in your old age, huh?”\n “Don’t patronize me.”\n Rainer laughed, small and polite. \n “Sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I suppose I just wasn’t prepared for this, you know?”\n Henry saw no humor in the situation. \n “I’ll ask again; what is this? What are you? You show up, pretending to be my husband, for what? A laugh? Is this some sick joke?”\n “No, nothing like that. I’m...well, how do I put this?”\n Rainer took a step forward, though his body didn’t follow him. The body of Rainer disintegrated and dissipated into the surrounding fog, leaving this being in a new body. Though, Henry soon realized, it wasn’t just a new body. There were several. Each movement, however small, caused this being to transform into a new person. A tall woman, a small child, a famous actor, an ancient queen, each new face leaving just as quickly as it arrived. Henry could barely stand to look at it. \n “I guess I’m Death? Is that the name you use?”\n It’s voice was just as bad as it’s appearance. Constantly changing pitches and tones, all echoing those who’ve already passed.\n “You’re...So, what, have you come to kill me?”\n Death shrugged. \n “Maybe! That will depend on the choices you make here.”\n Henry couldn’t process what was happening. Nothing about this made sense to him, it was just so alien to him. His heart raced and his hands shook. Though, throughout this, his mind was oddly calm.\n “If you’re...isn’t Death some kinda weird skeleton? Where’s your cloak and scythe?”\n Death rolled it’s eyes, letting out an over exaggerated sigh. \n “Oh, that. No, that’s Grim. She’s been trying to build up our “brand” or whatever for a while now. It’s so unnecessary, if you’re asking me. I mean, if she wants to prance around in a big black cloak and remove all her skin, fine. But I don’t think it should become the company image, y'know?”\n “Company? You work for a company?”\n “Sort of? It’s like...Gods, where do I begin. You mortals know nothing about this kind of thing, right? What- What do you know about this? You know Grim, obviously, but what about, say, Anubis? Or Iku? Freya? Tell me you at least know Vanth, everybody loves Vanth.”\n “I...some of those sound familiar? Are they, what, your co-workers?”\n “Yeah, they’re all-”\n Death cuts itself off. It scowls to itself, shaking its head. \n “No, what is wrong with me? Ugh, Gods, I’m all over the place today, sorry. We need to focus on you right now, not my...job.”\n Henry raised an eyebrow. If he could keep Death talking, maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to survive this encounter. \n “You don’t like your job? What’s so bad about it?”\n “Well-”\n Once again, Death stops itself. It debates for a moment, wanting to stay on track and finish its work, but also really wanting to complain some more. It checked its watch before figuring that it could go on a bit longer. \n “...Okay, don’t tell anyone, but it sucks working there. Like, honestly, it’s a mess. No one can decide what the afterlife looks like, so we just have, like, hundreds of different versions down there that we have to manage. And they’re not organized or anything, they’re just scattered around all willy-nilly.”\n “Sounds Hellish.”\n Death lets out a laugh, loud and dry.\n “Oh, buddy, you don’t know Hell. It’s actually one of the easier ones to deal with, if I’m being honest. Try Folkvangr and Valhalla if you want a real challenge. Trying to divvy up the people who specifically die in battle into two different afterlives is such a pain.”\n “I’d bet. I’ve worked some pretty shitty jobs myself, so I understand the frustration.”\n “Right? If I had it my way, I’d just walk out right now. But…”\n Death trailed off, scowling to itself. \n “...But what?” Henry asked. “If you wanna leave, then leave.”\n Death looked back at Henry. An odd smile began to grow over its face, a mix of pity and bewilderment. \n “...Oh, wow. Mortals really don’t know anything, huh? You think I can just leave. Ha!”\n Light chuckles began to leave its throat, steadily growing into uncontrollable laughter.\n “Just leave. Just leave! Gods, why don’t I just leave? The one thing I was put into this universe to do, the thing I have been doing since time began, why not just leave it all? Sure, the Gods would smite me down, but Henry the mortal says I should just leave, so why not?” Death ranted. It’s eyes were unfocused and its head shook as millenias worth of stress began to bubble to the surface. \n “Ain’t you some kinda god too? What do you have to worry about?” \n “No, no, I’m no god. A minor deity, yes. A servant, yes. But that’s nothing. I’m nothing compared to the bosses up top. Destroying me would be nothing to them.”\n “So does that make it worth it?”\n Death refocuses for a moment, confused by Henry’s response. \n “What? What are you talking about?”\n “Is existing worth the suffering? You say you were made for all this, but it’s clear that you hate it. Is it worth it?”\n “Are...Henry, are you saying that I should end my own existence? That’s a dark, dark thing to say, y’know.”\n “What? No, no! That’s not what I meant. All I mean is that...You said that destroying you would be nothing to the Gods, right? So, why would they even bother? If you’re so minor, so unimportant, then who cares if you leave?”\n Death stared at Henry. Henry couldn’t read its expression as it tried to respond, but couldn’t. Death buried its head in its hands. \n “Oh Gods, Henry. I know you’re not very well read, but even you must know that gods are vengefully types. I can’t just walk out and hope they don’t notice. They notice everything Henry, they’re gods!”\n “Then why don’t you just tell them that you want out? Instead of just running off, you could just ask to be excused.”\n “I was created for this purpose, Henry. If I renounced it, it would mean that there is no longer a reason for me to exist. No matter what, it’s either do my duty, or die. This isn’t something I can just leave.”\n A beeping noise comes from Death’s watch. It looks down at it, getting a bit surprised.\n “Oh, shoot, I’m falling behind. Well, it’s been fun, but it’s time for us to get back to my reason for being here. Henry…”\n Death tried to continue with its job, but it was clear that all energy and motivation had escaped it. It stared at Henry for a moment, contemplating its options.\n “...Y’know what? You’re fine. I’ll circle back in a couple weeks, how does that sound?”\n Henry went to respond, but it was too late. In a gust of wind, the fog rolled down the street, taking Death with it." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Crying in the Supermarket\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1760\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose love language is making food for others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In the days and weeks leading up to taking my fifteen-year-old son to boarding school, I found myself becoming overly sentimental at times. I liken those moments to the feeling one gets when hugging a family member or close friend goodbye. One whom you don’t know when you will see again. The embrace is loving and warm but also bittersweet because no matter how hard or how long either of you holds on, you know that it is going to end and you both will go your separate ways. The irony is not lost on me that I was glimpsing the future in each of those moments when I would say goodbye to my son. One day I was in the supermarket. It was exactly one week before the drive to Idyllwild and my son wanted as many home cooked meals before leaving as possible. Family dinners have always been a priority in our home and it warmed my heart that there was a part of him that wanted to fill up on those before leaving the nest. So, I planned out each night’s meal, being sure to include his top favorites. As I made my way through the store with my detailed shopping list in hand, I found myself becoming emotional. I was choosing potatoes. Potatoes were the objects of my sentimental haze in that moment. You see, I have made homemade mashed potatoes a million times and I have learned exactly how many potatoes I need to make mashed potatoes for me and my two kids. The thought washed over me that I will have to adjust and learn how many potatoes I need to make just the right amount for only me and my daughter from now on. There I was in the produce section with tears in my eyes and potatoes in my cart. As I slowly walked through the aisles, I lingered on products that were not on my list but those that evoked some memory or connection to my son. Like Taki’s. He could not get enough of Taki’s in the 7th grade. And salad. That boy has loved salad since the high chair. Or bananas. Oh how he loves to tease me because I find bananas to be too sweet for my taste. Not to worry, I did finally make it out of the store without drawing attention to myself. As the week went by, we spent our days shopping for his dorm needs and packing. In the evenings, I and both of my kiddos shared glorious moments and memories at our dinner table.\n The morning it was time to go, we packed the car with little to no room to spare but the good news was that we got everything in and still had room for the three of us. I had been worried about it a bit because my son wanted to take two guitars, two amps, a peddle board, a microphone and a mic stand. For all you non-musical folks, these things take up a considerable amount of space. I felt peaceful that morning. I think it was because I knew I still had two days with him. The orientation and welcome celebration was a two-day event at the school and we were leaving the day before the festivities so we could all stay together in the village the night before checking in to his dorm. We had an easy, traffic free drive and checked in at a lovely and charming Inn with a cabin just a few yards from a small creek. Idyllwild was absolutely beautiful. The three of us strolled through the sleepy streets of the village and checked out the local vendors. Then we had another lovely dinner together at a cute little Italian restaurant with some of the best focaccia bread any of us had ever encountered. This was a part of the journey that I had most looked forward to for weeks. A quiet dinner al fresco with my two favorite people in the world, in a beautiful setting, away from distractions. We talked for hours over our meal. The next morning, we headed to the school which was only five minutes away from our cabin. I could feel my son’s excitement emanating from him. Excitement to see his dorm, to meet his roommate, to get on with his journey. Upon arriving, we found the room to be fairly spacious, especially for a high school dorm. His roommate was from China so he had checked in the day prior with all the other international students. He was a sweet kid, a bit shy and very easy going. My son was happy to learn that he was a music major so he will, hopefully, not mind the jam sessions my son was determined to have with other musicians. All of the students were lovely, kind and inclusive. With just about 300 students total, it was large enough to be diverse and also small enough to feel like a tight knit community.\n There were several events planned over the course of the two-day goodbye. Some events were for students only, some for parents only and some for both. During the parent reception, the head of school offered a short welcome and overview. She was fun and full of spirit and spunk. I liked her immediately. She impressed upon us that one of her most important goals was to keep all lines of communication open with the parents. She told us that just because we were sending our young ones off to boarding school, she didn’t think we should miss out on the rest of their adolescence. I felt my chest swell and my eyes burn when I heard her say that.\n My son continued to impress me over these two days. When he found out that he had not been placed in honors classes that he had been in his last four years of school, he sought out the chair of the humanities department who agreed to email him the essay prompts he would need to complete to be considered and to change his schedule. And, even though he was a film major, he desperately wanted a music class as well. So, without a word he spoke to the music department chair and asked to be considered for a songwriting class. He went back and forth between the music teacher and his film department chair to discuss his level of skill and scheduling. By the end of the two days, he was accepted into the honors level classes and the songwriting class had been added to his arts classes. Yep, he was ready.\n The final event was a delicious catered dinner and a performance at the Holmes Amphitheater. It was a tradition for a number of the seniors to perform a Welcome Back performance to start the school year off. This was usually just for the students but, that year, they chose to include the parents. Lucky me (and my daughter). The space was incredible. A soft, rolling hill that looks onto a simple yet beautiful stage with incredible acoustics and behind it is a backdrop of trees and mountainside. You feel as though you are sitting in the most beautiful tree house .The first student stunned us with Beethoven on the violin. Then dancers, then one of the creative writing students recited her work and on and on. As I watched each performance, I felt that swell in my chest and that burning in my eyes again. When the show ended, it was time to go. Time for my son to go to his dorm and for me and my daughter to drive down the mountain and go home. I went to his room to pick up my purse and my head started spinning. Wait! Have I done enough? Have I checked off enough boxes in the parenting column to warrant driving away? I’m not ready and if I’m not ready, maybe he isn’t either! And then my son, my used to be sweet boy and my now sweet, kind, smart young man gave me a big hug, looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you. I love you, Mom.” Yep. He was ready. Needless to say, I cried all the way down the mountain and then again sporadically all the way home. I was so very proud of my boy and so incredibly excited for the opportunities that lay before him. My tears were shed within the appropriate level of grief over the loss of his spirit no longer in our home every day. I think back on those many moments when my heart swelled and my eyes burned and recognize that those moments were born out of the reaffirmation that letting him go was the absolute right choice. I wasn’t ready but my boy was ready.\n A few days have come and gone since we returned home without him. I am only just now discovering how quiet our home is now that he is not here. I think I miss the sounds of hearing him play his guitar and write songs in his room the most. Yesterday, I found myself in the supermarket again feeling melancholy, indecisive and a tad bit weepy. There are many items on my lists to come that will continue to be the same as always but there are some that are removed because they were items specifically chosen for my son. I made my way around the produce section and found myself looking at the potatoes. I wasn’t planning on making mashed potatoes again so soon but why not? We are part Irish, ya know. So, I started to calculate the weight in my head about how much less I should get but then I stopped. Wait a second. My son will be home on sporadic weekends and for holidays and summer vacations. And the school is only a few hours away. We can go visit every now and then. Some of those kids are thousands of miles away from their families. Sure, I thought I would have my son with me non-stop for another three years and cry in the supermarket when he goes to college but this is not the end of the world! He is getting educated in one of the highest ranked arts high schools in the country! In my cart go the potatoes. I will make mashed potatoes just as I always have. And if my son is not home to share in the meal, then we’ll have leftovers. My son loves leftovers." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Complete\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1031\n\nPrompt:\n\nYou thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Gray! Over here!\"\nI whipped around to find Rose calling out to me. I smiled. She was the best sister I could have ever asked for.\n\"You have been a completely different person ever since you started college. You know that, don't you?\" I laughed. She skipped towards me by the lockers.\n\"I only know that I am the sole genius existing in this world,\" she said childishly, turning up her nose. I shook my head. \"Yeah, milady. Now, if Her Highness is done with her self-praise speech, may she please notice that this servant of hers is starving?\"\nShe delivered a horrible punch to my side which made my knees buckle. \"Sure, this Queen isn't a tyrant,\" she snapped.\nWhile we were on our way to the canteen, she suddenly remembered something. \"Hey, Gray,\" she piped up. I eyed her. \"What is it?\"\n\"Our school has a reunion tonight. What should I wear?\"\nI rolled my eyes. \"Clothes.\"\nShe scowled. \"Well, thanks for the information. I was about to wrap myself in a fishing net.\"\nI cackled loudly, and the rest of the afternoon was spent chasing each other down in the hallways. It was really nice to know that I still had her by my side, after losing someone important to me.\nThat evening, I was in a dilemma. Rose was right in getting concerned over what to wear, because I was total confusion. Finally, I threw something on in frustration, and headed out. Our school was just a short walk away. Rose and I walked hand-in-hand, happily contemplating who we were going to waylay at the party.\nOnce we reached, familiar faces greeted us, and we were looking forward to a blast. Rose mingled easily with the crowd, while I was left standing. I had to look for my friends... but were there any left after what happened so many years ago?\nI silently turned back and went out into the street. My mind was totally blank. The wind was lulling me into a fitful slumber.\n\"I knew I'd find you here.\"\nI stopped in my tracks and looked up to see who it was.\nJayden.\nMy first and only love. There he was, right in front of me, smiling as though nothing had ever happened. His beautiful dark hair which he let grow carelessly made him look like a dream in the moonlight. My hands itched to rub my eyes to make sure I hadn't stumbled onto the filming of a drama.\nBut it was all real. Then the second thought hit me.\nWasn't he... dead?\nTears brimmed in my eyes and I bit my lip. \"Is that you?\" I murmured. He nodded. \"Forgotten me already, haven't you?\"\nI wiped my eyes. \"No... I just can't believe it. You... how did you...\"\n\"Come back from the dead?\" he finished with a fond smile which always bewitched me in high school. It worked its charm even now. \"I guess I have superpowers.\"\nI laughed awkwardly. Nothing about him had changed. He was just as stupid as I had ever known him to be. I couldn't control myself any longer. I had missed his touch, his smell. I ran over and crashed into him, hugging him tight. He hugged me back, and the old days swam back to me. Our first hug. Our first kiss.\nHe led me to the swings in the park and sat me there. I gazed at him, still bewildered.\n\"Alright, spill the beans. You're married,\" he made a wild guess. I shook my head, chuckling. \"My mum tried hard. No girl was willing to marry a gay.\"\n\"Attaboy,\" he said softly. \"You're my man.\"\nNow it was my turn to demand.\n\"You're not dead.\"\nHe ruffled his hair. \"Ah, long story, Gray. you wouldn't want to miss the party going on inside.\"\nI sat adamant. \"I barely escaped your fate those years ago, Jayden. You ought to tell me.\"\nJayden and I had just started dating, and the neighborhood boys had come to know. They had dragged both of us into a corner, and started beating us up, calling us 'mentally twisted' and 'abnormal'. Jayden had bravely borne the pain, but I couldn't help screaming. Two of them had taken him away to another place to beat him further, but I was saved by my sister who had heard the commotion and brought a few adults.\nThe search that night was the longest and most desperate one of my life. I had cried my heart out when news reached us that the boys had confessed to tossing him in the river. His blood-washed clothes had been found, but his body was nowhere in sight.\nI had been living like an empty shell since then, all for Rose's sake.\nThat is, till now.\nJayden sighed. \"Those brats... they were no match for me. They never tossed me into the river. I scratched their faces. Perhaps they didn't have the guts to say that they lost against a single person.\"\nI stared in awe. \"Why didn't you return, then?\"\nHe chuckled. \"My parents already weren't well-off. I couldn't be a burden anymore when I had finally found a good reason to leave.\"\nI swallowed a lump in my throat.\n\"I missed you, Gray.\"\nI nodded and clasped him once more. \"Me too.\"\nHe offered me his hand. \"Star appearance at the party?\"\nI beamed brightly and took his hand.\n\"Yep.\"\nWe marched right into the school building. Nobody seemed to notice us for a few minutes. I couldn't leave his hand, and he couldn't leave mine. We walked straight to the front, in the clearing in front of the hubbub.\n\"Hey guys!\" Jayden screamed into the mic. Everyone fell silent.\nHe inhaled deeply. \"I'm not dead.\"\nAll of the people assembled gasped when they finally grasped who had been addressing them.\n\"Don't mind what I say right now. I just felt the need to declare it to all of you.\"\nHe gazed at me, his beautiful eyelashes getting wet with his tears.\n\"I'm in love... again.\"\nA missing chunk of my soul had been filled... again. I was not going to let go of it ever." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Home-Cooking Ardor\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1340\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose love language is making food for others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The peaches needed to be ripe and full of sweetness. I was making Grilled peaches with amaretto for dessert. My baby had been away for a job for two weeks, and Lord, I missed her. My plan was to pick her up from the airport, bring her home, open the wine, serve her a scrumptious meal, and spend the rest of the night working it off in the best way possible.\nI took my glass jar with the amaretto and set it on the counter. My favorite thing to do is to cook, and my second favorite was to watch people enjoy the food I cook. It’s like my love language. I picked up a ripe peach, and gently ran my hands over it to wash it. I continued with the other five, until they were wet and glistening on the tea towel. I took out my cutting board, and sliced them into chunks. Then I slid them into the amaretto. They would marinate until I was ready to grill them. The salad was chilling in the fridge gently tossed with her favorite dressing. The steaks were marinating in a combination of soy sauce, lemon juice, olive oil, and an Italian spice blend. They had been in the fridge since noon. I checked on the dough under the warm towel for the homemade yeast rolls. They looked good and plump. All I had to do was slide them in the oven, go take a shower, and then it would be almost time to get her.\nI met Callie a month ago at a work event. I came out of my office at the Lexus dealership, and she was one of the models we hired for the day. We hold an event like this about once every six months. Most of the time I pay no attention to the girls. They were mainly young, 20’ish and giggled a lot. Considering I just had turned 30 this year, I wasn’t interested in moving backward. Until I spotted Callie. She was tall, probably about 5’9”, which was good considering I was 6’1”. She had long auburn wavy hair, captivating green eyes, and the most generous, heartwarming smile I had ever seen. I had to meet her. So, I quickly called the agency we used, and described her in detail to the confused agent, and asked if she would come to my office after the event. I told her that she was fantastic, and we had other projects we could use her on. At that moment I was very happy my dad left me the dealership.\nAfter the event, she tentatively knocked on my door. “Come in.” I yelled. She stood there like an angel that had just dropped from heaven, and smiled that glorious smile. “I’m Callie, you wanted to speak to me?” I swear her voice sounded like melted butter, warm and smooth. “Hello, Callie. My name is Aaron, and I am the owner of this dealership. The customers loved you today. Who do I call to book you for other events?” She smiled again, kind of shyly. “Hmmm, I know you called my agent in order for her to text me to ask me to stop in here. What’s really going on?” she asked. I smiled sheepishly and confessed. “Please forgive me, because I never do this, but I think you are beyond beautiful, and I would like to ask you out.” That was the beginning for us.\nWe went out that night to a quaint Italian restaurant I knew. I had been friends with the owner for years, and he always treated me like family. “Aaron!” he yelled from across the room. “Come, sit, I give you and your guest the finest table.” We sat by the window overlooking the lake, it was dusk, and the hues of blue and bright orange made the perfect canvas for this magical night. We talked for hours, like we had known each other forever. We nibbled on warm bread-sticks dipped in olive oil incensed with the perfect Italian spices. The salad was fresh, vibrant, and had a hint of the most luscious dressing. I convinced her to try the Chicken Cacciatore, with the rich rustic sauce that was simmered for hours, and made the chicken succulent and tender. She had the look of pure gratification and happiness spread across her face, and that look had me enchanted with her.\nWe finished the meal with an after-dinner coffee, and we left fully satisfied, with both the food and the company. We took a leisurely stroll around the lake, and enjoyed the cool fall night. The euphoria I felt when the night began ebbed slowly into a blissful contentment. This lady was my destiny. I could feel it. I drove her home, walked her up to the door, and gently took her hand. “Callie, I’ve just had the most astounding night of my life. I know we haven’t known each other long, but please tell me you feel it too, and that you will go out with me again?” I implored her with my eyes, hoping she felt the same. “Yes” she answered. “I felt the same way.” Then I gently kissed her lips, and when our lips touched, I felt a current of electricity pass between us.\nThat was six months ago, we moved in together after four weeks, and we had been blissfully happy ever since that time. We spent many nights cooking together, discovering one another’s likes and dislikes. I heard a key in the lock, and a vision of beauty walked in the door. “Baby, I was just on my way out to get you”, I laughed. “I got in early, and couldn’t wait to see you.” Then we ran towards each other, her jumping into my arms and wrapping her legs around my torso. We kissed for the longest time before we stopped to breathe. “I missed you”, we both said at the same time, and then laughed.\n“I’m so hungry I could eat some food” she teased. “Go, relax, unpack, I’ll have dinner together shortly”. I popped in the rolls first, set the steaks out to bring them to room temperature, if the steak hits the grill cold, it causes the muscle fibers to tense up and makes the steak tough. I added some sugar to the peaches, and set them on the counter. I put the steaks on the grill, set the table with a lace tablecloth, a bottle of champagne, a vase with a single rose, and our good silver with the linen napkins. I set the plates, and salad bowls on the table. She came out of the bedroom, took one look, and smiled. “Baby, you spoil me.” I walked over and kissed her lips. “Always.” I whispered. I brought the warm yeast rolls out of the oven, and the aroma could have brought droves of people to our condo. The steaks were medium rare, and were laid to rest for five minutes to maximize the juiciness. “Sit, my lady. Your dinner will be served.” We sat, and began to eat. “This is marvelous! I not only have a beautiful blonde hair, blue eyed, hunk of a man, but he cooks too! How did I get so lucky?” I smiled at her, “I got lucky, princess. I also have a surprise for dessert.” I cleared the dishes, and got the grill going for the peaches. I gently set them on the grill, and watched until the alcohol burned off, turned them over, and set them on dessert plates, with a dollop of crème fraiche. I set her warmed peaches in front of her, with a flue of champagne. I liked to watch her face when she enjoyed my food. Her look of content and enjoyment delighted me.\nAfter dinner, I took her to our bed, took her hands and gently laid her across the bed stomach down and asked her if she wanted a massage. “You definitely spoil me.” she said. And I again said “Always”." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Journal\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1407\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a summer afternoon spent in a treehouse." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“I knew you will forget about the markers and colour pencils”\n\n“I’m so so sorry” your awkward face projected into my eyes.\n\nI turned away from you and looked out the star-carved window. \n\n“I should get it” the wood creaked rapidly and the grass rustled. You left me, forever.\n\n\n--------------------------------------\n\n\n“Turn right and your destination would be on your left”\n\nI make the turn and see the house. It is painted in light orange with a hint of wooden planks nailed beside the black door. The windows are opened, a gateway for light to brighten the dark interior of the house. \n\nA woman around her 80s is sitting by the window. She turns towards my car as I stop my car on the curb. We glance at each other. Unsuspectingly, she dashes away from the window, pushes open the black door as it flung violently, crashing to the wood and limp rapidly to my direction. \n\nI push on the gas padel as I steer myself from this madness. The woman is tailing me as I glance the rearview mirror, struggling as she takes a step after the other. A glance at the rearview mirror again. A young man and that lady are running towards my car. The man is picking up speed when he weirdly, hugs the old woman, as he is trying to stop this old woman from approaching me. I slow my car.\n\n“Is that Jaxon?” I manoeuvre my car to the side of the tight street, far enough to run for safety. A click and a few steps bring me in front of Jaxon. “Why are you here?” he made sure I knew his dominance. “I wanted to see that treehouse…” He coughed, “Are you that childish?”. Jaxon is still the same as he was during high school, always picking on me. \n\n“Is my childishness gonna kill you?” I said sarcastically.\n\n“No” trying to show his dominance.\n\n“This is my house and I can welcome anyone in”, the old woman walking towards us. \n\n“Don’t worry about my grandson” she stares at me and pull me to the direction of that house.\n\n“Whatever” Jaxon frowned as Rosy walked me into the house.\n\n“So you would like to see that treehouse?” her wrinkled arm, intelligible in this dark interior. \n\n“What for?”\n\n“I sneaked into that treehouse before with my friend” I laugh awkwardly, knowing I’m telling the truth. \n\n“The treehouse created so many memories” I smiled.\n\n“Woah! That seems so exciting” she cranks a door handle\n\nI carried my free hand to my eyes as it shields my blue eyes from the sun. It seems like I had not seen sunlight in a long time after a minute in this dimly lit house.\n\n“Go on!” she releases her grip on my lightly tanned skin.\n\n\n--------------------------------------\n\n\nAs I look at this magnificent building after twenty years, it seems as it had shrunk. The treehouse dwarf compared to the evergrowing tree. Another twenty years and this would be called a ‘house in a tree’ instead of a treehouse.\n\nI start to orbit around the treehouse as if I’m the moon and the treehouse is earth. I calmly admire the treehouse, like how the moon could have admired humans living on earth. I glance at the sky as to how I did that twenty years ago when I sneaked into this backyard.\n\nI move again before finding an irregular set of wood boards, nailed unorganized on the rough trunk of this gigantic tree. I hold onto a wood board, specks of dust and wood chips glued on my hand. Soon, my eyes caught the first look of the treehouse after twenty years. \n\nNothing has changed. Two carved openings at each side of the treehouse. Each of it was carved differently. I push my feet as it sends me to safe ground. I sweep away even more dust around my exposed skin. I rise partially, right below the damp wood, and swing my head around, looking for something I knew I had left here. A golden flare went rapidly in my eyes. I knew what was that. I crawled carefully as I saw it uncovering itself.\n\nI bend down and brush the glossy exterior, bring myself to the rough ground, next to that journal. I squeeze it tightly as I bring it to my chest. Holding my tears and the journal. \n\n\n--------------------------------------\n\n\n“Come on, Jaxon wouldn’t notice”\n\n“Fine, let’s make it quick”\n\nWe crawled through the unevenly broken part of the fence that lined the house. The soft grass tickled us as we entered, welcoming us gratefully. We got to our feet when the breeze hit us, conflicting with the burning sun. I slide my arm through the fence, onto the other side. I pulled the golden plastic-coated journal to me. You gave me a disapproving look as you told me not to forget about this. I shrugged.\n\nI hugged it as we lower ourself, crawling towards the bottom of the tree. You said this feels like a warzone. We were like armies trying to barge into the enemy’s base. I smiled. You climbed up to the treehouse first and told me to be on the lookout. Once you were inside, you totally forgot that I was waiting below for help. \n\nYou went exploring inside that little wonderland. I signalled for help to get up there without getting too much attention. But you did not realize, so I decided to climb up on my own, even if I do not have enough strength. I reached the top and propped my head and the journal on the wooden board, catching my first breath. You screamed when you saw my head on the ground. I was frightened and lost my grip. I crashed down to earth. \n\nThis alerted someone in the house. You bring yourself down, carried me with an arm and used the other to bring us up to the treehouse. I admired the strength inside you. We hid at a corner for about five minutes until that man is inside the house. You suggested that we play tag and hopscotch. \n\n“Tag would be self-explanatory”, you said and continued, “for hopscotch, we can imagine the wood gaps as lines”. I looked at the lines, thinking it looks quite confusing, but I agreed anyway. I guess we played both of those games for about an hour. During one of the tag matches, you almost ran yourself out of the entrance when I dodged. I laughed so hard that I felt my lungs tugging me to stop. \n\nI suggested that we could finish the journal now and leave it here. You shrugged and was reaching for the art supplies. You hesitated when the pocket was empty and you searched the other, nothing. I looked at you, knowing you would have forgotten. You gave me an awkward look and I brushed you away. You apologised and said that you would bring it here.\n\nI sat down thinking about ideas for the journal. The layout of the pictures, the font of the words, the framing of the pictures. I smiled, excited for you to be back so we could design our journal together. \n\nI roamed inside the treehouse in little circles. Only about ten minutes had passed when I discovered a little shelf with a drawer. I bent over and slide open the drawer. A box of colour pencils and markers. I flipped it around, looking for a name, Lucas, that is you.\n\nI realized you may have left it there before playing tag. I climbed down the uneven wood boards and slowly crawled across the lawn like how we did about an hour ago. I remembered how your imagination is always wild and funny. My heart ached. I knew I should not have treated you like that, but everything was happening too fast.\n\nI walked fast but I’m not running. I’m trying to not make it so dramatic. I was just ignoring you for a moment. I slowed my pace the farther I go until I stopped when a crowd was on the other side of the pavement. I ignored the crowd and continue going to the direction of your house when a voice cried my name.\n\nI ran to the crowd. My mom looking at me, emotional. I felt scared, not wanting to know the truth. I stopped there. I saw that green camo shirt on the person, blood-soaked, and it was you." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Ring\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1136\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a proposal." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The good thing about buying a ring for a man is the price. For a few hundred dollars you can get a nice band while a woman’s ring will soak you for a few thousands. \n“I’ll take that one,” I pointed to a silver band with an intricate design twisting around it. \nThe saleswoman smiled as she retrieved the ring from the display case. “Nice choice. Would you like to see the matching woman’s band?”\nI forced my voice to remain neutral and my smile pleasant. “No thanks. I’ll bring her to pick a ring another time.”\nThe woman accepted my lie and I left the store with Jake’s ring tucked safe in my jacket pocket. He and I had been together for three years now. We’ve been a couple for two and living together for one. That was his anniversary gift to me last year, asking me to move in with him. This anniversary I was going to surprise him with a proposal. I had it all planned out. A nice dinner for two at home, a movie and then present him with the ring.\nJake, as it turned out, had other ideas.\n“Dale and Aaron are taking us out to dinner tonight,” Jake greeted me at the door, holding five different colored ties. Which do you like? I'm going to wear my navy blazer and a white dress shirt.”\nI gaped at him for a moment, unable to think of anything except how the perfect night I envisioned wasn’t going to happen. “I thought we agreed to spend the night alone.”\n“I know, Steven but what could I say? They wanted to take us out for our anniversary as a gift. It would have been rude to say no.”\nI swallowed my disappointment and picked a maroon, grey and navy striped tie for him. “You’re right. Wear this and I’ll wear my grey jacket.”\nJake nodded and handed me a navy tie before scurrying off to our room. Alone I pulled out the little ring box from my pocket and sighed. Proposing in a restaurant wasn’t an option which meant I had to wait until we got home to pop the question. I waited until Jake was safely in a shower before going to our room and hiding the ring under my pillow. \nThe restaurant turned out to be a nice one. Italian, Jake’s favorite food, and family owned which made it even better. All during the meal I kept silent, only chipping in the conversation when something was thrown my way, and picked at my food. Jake on the other hand was celebrating to the fullest. Not only did he order a large pasta dish with wine but multiple deserts as well. Damn near finished everything too all by himself so it was no surprise when he announced that he was feeling sick. Luck for us the restaurant was only three blocks from home and Jake managed to make it to our bathroom before emptying his stomach. I can’t handle puke so I got the bed ready for him. \n“That was horrible,” he moaned as he staggered to the bed and collapsed on it. “Oh god..”\n“It’s okay, hun. You just overdid it a little,” I stripped him down to his briefs before tucking him into bed. “Try to relax and I’ll make you some weak tea later with toast.”\nJack looked at me with watery eyes. “I’m sorry, Steven. You were right, we should have stayed home and celebrated our anniversary together. Now I ruined it.”\nI sat down besides him on the bed, my eyes glancing over at my pillow. “No you didn’t. Besides, it isn’t over yet.”\nI watched his face as I retrieved the ring box and handed it to him. His eyes widened and he sat up, the blanket falling to his lap as he opened the box. \n“Oh my god,” he whispered, placing a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god… this is…” \nHe lifted the silver ring from the box and examined it, running a finger over the Celtic design around the outside. He looked at me, joy and disbelief all over his face. Swallowing hard I smiled at him. “I love you, Steven. Will you marry me?”\n“Yes,” it came out as a choked laugh as he threw his arms around my neck and hugged me tight. Seconds later I was thrown to the floor as he made a frantic dash from the bed to the bathroom. \nSucking it up I went in with him and stroked his hair as he dry heaved over the toilet. He looked up and gave me a weak smile. “I love you,”\n“I love you too, hun. For better and worse, I’ll be there for you, even if it means holding your hair back while you're hugging porcelain.”\nHe managed to laugh at that and soon the retching passed and he was able to stand. I left him brushing his teeth and found the ring buried under the bed sheet. When he emerged from the bathroom I was waiting on bended knee, ring in hand. Laughing he gave me his left hand and I slipped the ring onto his finger, relieved that it fit before standing up.\n“I guess I need to get you one now,” he said, admiring it. “We’re also going to need to set a date, decide on the location and the guest list.” \n“Hun, we’re not getting married next week,” I said, pulling off my tie and going to the closet. “We have lots of time to decide all this.”\n“Are you kidding? We don’t have any time,” Jake went to our desk and grabbed a pen and pad. “You know as soon as I tell Dale he’s going to throw an engagement party. He loves parties as much as I do so there’s that. We have to figure out our budget , pick a date, choose a venue, start a registry, create a wedding website, book vendors..”\nI tuned him out at that point and focused on getting undressed. I knew he wasn’t going to let this go until he worked it out of his system and nothing I said would deter him. Dressed in sweatpants went to the kitchen and made him a cup of chamomile tea and grabbed a few crackers. When I returned I found him in bed, pad on lap, busy texting up a storm on his phone. Shaking my head I placed the cup and crackers on the bedside table and climbed into bed besides him.\n“Happy Anniversary, hun,” I said, trying my best to ignore his light.\nHe leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Happy Anniversary, my husband.”\nHusband. I smiled at the thought and wrapped myself in the warm, fuzzy feeling as I drifted off to sleep." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Keep Me Waiting\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1088\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a relationship where one person is always running late and the other is constantly kept waiting." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Nishan sighed, massaging his temples with his thumbs. He wondered why it took so long for some people to get ready on important days. Especially his boyfriend, Zion, who took at least three hours to get ready. Nishan didn't really mind that Zion took years to get ready, but his family did. They were enthusiastic about meeting Zion since Nishan had been talking about him for weeks. Nishan took his phone from the back pocket of his coal-black dress pants with his right hand and dialed Zion's number.\n\"Hello?\" Zion's voice came from the other end.\n\"Zion, where are you? The show started half an hour ago, and everyone is asking me where you are!\" Nishan exclaimed, throwing his left hand up in the air.\n\"I'm in the car driving there,\" Zion told him calmly. Nishan nodded, taking a deep breath.\n\"Alright, see you later.\"\n\"Bye!\"\nNishan smiled and watched the streets, his hands in his pockets. His Nutella-colored skin glowed beautifully in the moonlight, and he waited patiently and watched the street, just in case Zion's limousine appeared. Nishan heard the front door of a building open behind him.\n\"Where is this guy? Something's fishy about him. We've never met him, and he's late?\" Nishan's father said, he sounded aggravated. Nishan turned, looking at his father in the eyes, which were chartreuse, just like his own. \n\"Zion is the nicest, calmest guy I've ever met, so please Dad, act appropriately in front of him. We want to make nice first impressions, right?\" Nishan asked, his arms crossed.\nHis dad sighed, a smile forming on his face. \"When did you become so defensive?\" He teased, playfully punching Nishan in the arm. \"I can tell that you really like this guy, so... fine. I'll lay off, buddy.\"\n\"Thank you, Dad! And don't forget, be nice!\" Nishan told his father, still looking for Zion's car.\n\"This dude... I swear.\"\nThe front door opened again, and Nishan heard loud speaking, cold air, and he smelled the high-class colognes and perfumes.\n\"Are you sure this guy is even coming?\" His mother's toneless voice behind him.\n\"Mom, I know he is,\" Nishan said, fiddling with the arms of his suit, which was the color of a polar bear. Nishan knew that his mother did not approve of him having a boyfriend, and he was determined to make her accept him for who he was. \"You, of all people, know that this guy makes me happier than I've ever been.\"\nHis mom glanced at him. \"I don't understand how or why. You're a very handsome boy, you attract all of the young ladies, why do you have to like... him?\" The way she said 'him' made Nishan even angrier.\n\"Why can't you just accept me?!\" He exclaimed.\nHis mom glared at him, veins popping out in her hands, arms, and forehead. \"Because my only child is... gay! That's not easy to handle!\"\n\"I didn't have to tell you, ya know!\" Nishan reminded her.\n\"I think that would've been better because now our family is confused.\"\n\"Okay, well guess what?! It took me a lot of courage to even tell you guys that I had a boyfriend, so just... leave me alone.\" Nishan told his mother quietly.\n\"Yeah, and it took me a lot of courage to tell you how I feel about that.\" His mom said, rolling her eyes.\nNishan glared at his mother, his hands balled into fists at his sides. \"I'm still your son! Nothing about my personality has changed!\"\nHis mother's eyes widened at him, and she nodded slowly, as though she was processing what he had said. Her forest green eyes were glistening with tears, but she had a little smile on her face. \"I'm... I'm sorry.\" She said quietly, hugging Nishan.\n\"No, Mom, it's fine!\"\n\"I can't wait to meet him.\" His mother told him, waving and walking into the building.\nNishan sighed, a smile on his face. Zion was a great guy, and his family would know that once they met him. He just took a very long time to get ready. The door creaked open once again, and Nishan ignored it.\n\"Did your mom give you problems?\" His best friend, Tanya, asked worriedly.\n\"Not really.\"\nTanya walked up to him and grabbed his hand. \"You know you can always call me up if you need relationship advice or anything. We're still cousins, you know.\" She told him.\n\"I know, Tanya,\" said Nishan, nodding.\n\"I have a boyfriend, so I kind of know that stuff. And I've lived longer than you.\" Tanya smiled, acting proud. \"I have more experience.\"\n\"By like three years, sure. I'll give you that. Also, you do not have more experience, because you didn't have a boyfriend until you were 16.\" Nishan rolled his eyes, a faint smile on his face.\n\"Great. I guess I'll see you inside then?\"\n\"Yeah, I'm waiting for Zion to come because he said he would be here soon,\" Nishan told Tanya. He heard the dark blue door open again behind him as Tanya left.\nA black limousine drove up to where he was standing, and Nishan smiled as Zion got out. \"Hey, Zion!\" Nishan exclaimed, hugging his boyfriend tightly. Zion, meanwhile, stood there like a limp worm in Nishan's arms.\n\"Oh gosh,\" Zion mumbled, staring at the building behind Nishan. \"Do I really have to go in there? That building is huge.\"\nNishan laughed, turning to the building. \"Yeah, but this is important. My family has their doubts about you, so show them who you are.\" He told Zion, patting him on the back.\n\"Okay, but tell me what I'm going to go through once I step into that building,\" Zion said, waving as the limo drove away into the darkness. \"I don't really like surprises.\"\n\"Uhm... fancy people in suits and ties, rich snobs who give you dirty looks every time you step on their fancy red carpets, yeah.\"\n\"Sounds like hell.\"\n\"It is, basically. But you'll get through it.\" Nishan told him, a smile on his face.\n\"Okay.\" Zion took a deep breath. \"Okay, I think...\" He took another breath.\nNishan stared at Zion for a while, then his eyes widened and he suddenly offered his arm. \"Here, gentleman. Ready?\"\n\"Maybe?\" Zion shrugged, his voice quiet.\nNishan shook his head, a smile on his face. \"No, no, no.\" He said, shaking his finger at Zion. \"It's like this, 'I was born ready.' Confidently.\"\nZion smiled at Nishan, his posture straightening up. \"Okay... I was born ready.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Telepath\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2761\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who always comes to the aid of others." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Loud screaming cuts through my dream and I’m plunged into a pitch black room. No sound. No audible one anyway.\nI turn my head sideways and there is Alex, not so soundly asleep. His head goes left and right and left and right. Fists clenched, sweat dripping down his temple.\nScream splits my head in two. A familiar one, sadly. Alex whimpers in his sleep. Another scream.\nThe scream belongs to a 10-year-old boy who I’ve known for 7 years now. Who has become a sculpted man with midnight skin and moon-lit black hair.\nAlex screams again but his lips don’t do so much as twitch. I would wake him up if I knew it would do him any good. But last time I did that he just laid awake for the rest of the night, trying to hide his thoughts and pain from me until I moved above him and kissed him hard.\n“Luther…” he said. I stopped him with my palm straight in front of him. “But…” he said and I kissed him again. My blond hair fell like a veil between us and the world.\nI held my hand to his face with 2 fingers making a circle and 3 relaxed above them. I meant “It’s okay”. It’s okay I hear your thoughts, It’s okay you are hurting and that that is killing me.\n“I’m sorry” he said. His lips steady. He had thought it.\nI did the sign for okay again, gifting him with a little smile. His expression softened, and he kissed me with pain, passion and desperation. I returned the gesture.\nBut I won’t wake him up tonight. He needs sleep even if it’s of poor quality. So I lay beside him and I place my head on his shoulder. My curls spill all over his soft skin. His screams still echo in my brain followed by heavy footsteps and his father’s voice. Always telling him what a burden he is, how good they would be if he had never been born and so on and so on. Little 10-year-old Alex can do nothing but squirm, keep quiet and wait for the next hit.\nA tear rolls down my cheek and hits his shoulder. So much pain trapped in such a small body. I wish I could end it. I wish I could stop his pain. Kick it out the door and never let it in again.\nI look to my right. I see again the 10-year-old boy sneaking through my window at night to play. It all started in a night like this one…\nScream shatters me. I place my hand on his chest trying to stop it and Alex from shaking. His heart is racing. My white fingers contrast his burning dark skin. Yin and yang my mom said once while looking at us. I slightly smile at the memory.\nHis heart rate calms beneath my touch and the screaming subsides. His fingers interlock with mine over his chest. No more nightmares tonight.\nBut I can’t sleep. I think about how we met.\nI was 9 years old, lonely, unable to make a sound and totally scared of the voices in my head. I had always heard them but I always assumed I had missed the twitch of lips. Even considered that my eyes were as bad as my vocal cords.\nThen, one night when passing through the windows 3 floors below, sneaking through the metal staircase on the side of the building, I heard it. The loudest scream I had ever heard.\nIt was coming from the window on my left. I looked through it. There was a small boy, curled into a ball on his bed. His father was pacing the room rapidly. He yelled something I couldn’t hear because of the intensifying screaming in my head. One step and he was right above Alex. He hit his head hard and stormed out the room. I froze unable to take in a breath. The door closed with a bang and startled little Alex and me.\nThe boy kept crying curled into his little ball in the semi-lit room. The screaming in his head got so loud I couldn’t breathe or think. My head was pulsing, my vision was smudged, my heart was threatening to explode. I considered jumping off the staircase. It was high enough, it would do the job. It would stop the screaming. Then again it wouldn’t stop for the little boy. Left so alone.\nI knocked on the window hesitantly. The little boy startled and moved closer. Tears welled in his brown eyes when they met mine. He opened the window.\nI made the symbol for okay. He looked confused. He had no idea what that meant. I pointed at a white board hanged on his wall. He moved away from the window and I snuck in.\nI picked the marker and wrote “Are you okay?”. He shook his head. “I’m sorry” I wrote.\nHe clumsily repeated the okay sign he saw me do and put one finger more than necessary in the circle. I gifted him with a little smile and moved closer to him. I separated his middle finger from his index finger and thumb. “It’s okay” he meant. I smiled after some light reached his eyes.\n“Luther” I wrote on the board. “I’m Alex” he said.\nWe spent the rest of the night with me teaching him how to spell our names in sign language. And from that day forward we became like brothers.\nAnd we would have been ones. Well, if it wasn’t for the insatiable desire to kiss him. Luckily he beat me to the punch and did the deed first. Otherwise, I doubt I would have mustered up the courage to do it.\nIt’s been 2 years since then and now, like most nights, we sleep together in my bed just 3 floors above his.\nAlex’s face is becoming more visible as darkness steps aside. Dawn. I caress his face and his eyes open. I love them. “Good morning” he thinks, knowing I can hear him. I offer a generous smile in return. I don’t really need sign language with Alex anymore. We know each other too well. I look at him, and he bites his lip, moves above me and pinches me to the bed with a kiss.\nAfter a few minutes I watch his fully-clothed figure sneak out of my window.\nThe voices get too loud. Damn it.\nI hold my head for a couple of minutes trying to smother them but the noise of a few hundred awakening minds is not so easy to restrain. I can’t ever shut them off entirely. They are always there but at night most of them are not so loud. Good thing my powers don’t have a bigger range. If right now they extended further than the building I would be totally lost.\nMy headache intensifies while I’m getting ready. When I bend to tie my shoe a voice splits my head in two and I fall forward, hitting my knee.\n“Today is the day. I can’t stand this anymore. I can’t just can’t. I need peace.” Lightning flashes through my eyes as I realize this voice belongs to Mr. Johnson. I focus on that light, searching for one thread among hundreds. And I grab it.\nFaces. Blood. I hear gunshots, I smell death and blood. So many faces. So many eyes devoid of life.\nI stumble to the bathroom. Fall on my knees and throw my dinner in the toilet.\nMore faces stuff my mind. The smell of blood is so strong I can hardly stand it. Bodies everywhere in the mud.\nBut of course. He was a marine. Those faces must belong to people who he’s killed. Or lost? I hold my head, running fingers through my hair. I need the headache to stop. I need the faces to go.\nMaybe he does too. That’s why he wants to kill himself.\nI stand up, wash my teeth and face. The smell of blood still fills my nostrils. The voices deafen me. But I focus on Mr. Johnson and only him.\nI hold onto the sink and dive in his head.\nShoelaces, clock on the wall, he puts his coat on.\nI fall as the faces hit me again.\nSo much blood. A hand holding a gun. He pulls the trigger.\n“No!” a yell escapes my lips.\nDamn it! Focus Luther. Focus.\nA bridge emerges from the smoky images of war. I realize that’s 5 minutes away from here.\nI grab my notebook and my jacket as I run through the apartment.\nMy parents are still asleep so there is no one to stop me from storming out. One step, two steps…and I’m on the street. Another hurricane of voices gashes my brain.\nNo, no, no, no, no. Focus on him. Only on him.\nI run as fast as I can while trying to block the images. The faces. The blood. I’m choking on the smoke even though I know it isn’t real.\nI reach the bridge and there he is with his black suit and coat. Standing so close to the railing. Dangerously so.\nI walk to him. I’m trying not to alert him because he doesn’t look like a jumper, yet. I scribble words on my notebook while approaching him.\nAs I touch his shoulder, I hear a loud BANG. I feel burning in my stomach. His face emerges from the smoke of war. The war in his head.\n“Are you okay, Luther?” my neighbor asks concerned. I think his internal pain is painted on my face even though his face is calm. My stomach still burns. He must have been shot. Probably that’s why they send him home after only 3 years of service.\nThe river under the bridge passes through his mind. Its waters sway peacefully.\nI turn my notebook towards him. “DON’T JUMP! Please!” it says.\n“Who said I was going to, kiddo? I’m just watching the sunrise.” He says with faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You did.” I write so he can see. “I heard you.”\n“You have no idea what you are talking about, kid. Go on your way.” he says softly and gives me a slight nudge to go. “NO” I write.\nHe looks at me puzzled. Air whistles through his teeth when he takes a deep breath. I hold my hands up and tilt my head. I need him to wait. I point at my notebook and give him a second. He says “Okay” and I start writing.\nA few seconds later I show it to him. It says “I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with the faces every day. With the gunshots and helicopters lurking behind the tapping of the shower, the loud closing of the car door and the crackle of the fire. I don’t know what it’s like to smell blood and death and smoke wherever you go.” Even though right now I know as much as he does because I can’t get out of his head. “And I don’t know what it’s like to kill people, to see the light leave their eyes.”\nA pile of bodies appears briefly through his mind. Then faces take its place again.\nHe sighs and I see tears welling in his eyes.\n“Then why are you here. Saying…ugh, pardon me, writing all of this.” He asks puzzled. I look him in the eyes then write down. “Because I DO know what it’s like to feel ALONE. What it’s like to never have silence in your mind…” The pressure of the souls passing through the bridge threatens to overwhelm me. I feel like someone is hitting my head with a sledge hammer. “…I know what it’s like to not be able to sleep, breathe, think because of the images hanging in the corner of your eye.”\nI give him the notebook and sit down with my back against the railing. My hands are shaking and I’m trying to catch my breath.\nSo many people are passing by. Some worried about undelivered work, some anxious about a meet, some wrapped in thoughts of kisses they shared with their loved ones just minutes ago. I let them flash through my mind. I’m tired of fighting them.\nMr. Johnson sits beside me on the ground. He, in his black suit, and me, in my worn out jeans, hoodie and leather jacket. What an odd pair.\nHe gives me back my notebook. “How do I live with it?” he mutters. I shrug. I wish I knew Mr. Johnson. I wish I knew.\nWe just sit there for a few minutes.\n“Maybe you just TRY today. Then try tomorrow. And keep trying until it disappears.” I write down and show him the written words.\n“And if that is not enough?” he mumbles. I realize I’m just a 16-year-old boy, trying to help a 30-year-old ex-marine. Who am I to even speak to him?\nI hear a woman’s voice. She is thinking about her sick daughter and medications. Desperate but strong in her need to help her kid.\nI put down slowly “Maybe we use our pain to try to help others. Then they wouldn’t have to suffer alone like we do. Or maybe they wouldn’t have to suffer at all” I show him the words. He stares at the notebook on my legs for what seems like an eternity.\n“Can I take this?” he requests pointing at my notebook. I look at him confused. “The page” he elaborates and I nod. I rip it from the notebook and give it to him. He folds it and puts it in his pocket.\nThen I realize his mind is silent. And it has been for a while now. Weird.\nI dig a bit trying to figure out if he still intends to jump. The faces, the blood, the smoke, the gunfire are still there, but they are not so vivid anymore, the shots are not so loud.\n“Thanks, kid. I appreciate what you did here. Let’s go back to our building.” he offers. “I think I should do something nice for my wife and your parents must be worried about you” he elaborates. I doubt that they worry since I disappear often enough. Still, I grab his hand and let him take me back to the building.\nI get home and the day continues. Breakfast, teacher. I’m a home student because school is too loud with all those noisy minds. Lunch, lessons, work out, dinner.\nThe faces stay with me. The blood, the fire, the burning of a bullet in my gut.\n“Luther, Luther, LUTHER” Alex calls outside my window. I realize I’ve been staring at the clock. I get up slowly, drag my legs across the room and open the window. My whole body hurts especially my head.\nI move away from the window so Alex can enter. By now my parents are soundly asleep. I can feel it.\nI sit on the windowsill. My head is too heavy to hold, so I let it drop between my shoulders.\n“You okay?” Alex asks. I shrug. “You did it again, didn’t you?” concern drops from his voice. I nod positively.\nHe kneels between my legs and grabs my head gently with his hands. His palms are warm. Or am I freezing? He lifts my head, so he can look into my eyes. I try to block the noise. I squeeze my eyes shut.\nI don’t want to read his mind but the words still enter my head “Maybe you should stop with that. Look what it’s doing to you.” his voice echoes in my skull. I bite my lip. I look at him and I want to say “how” but no sound comes out and I’m too tired to sign it or reach for my notebook. But he knows.\n“Another suicide attempt?” he whispers after a bit. I nod positively.\n“Wanna talk about it?” he asks. I smile because of the little pun. He looks confused. Then he realizes what he has said. A smile curls the edges of his lips. “Sorry.” he thinks and I shake my head with a smile.\nI join him on the floor and lay my head on his thigh. His fingers twist my curls gently and brush my face. I let the noise consume me, losing my hold on it. Then… it fades. The voices get more and more distant as a gray curtain envelops me and I drift into sleep." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Marcella & Me\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1143\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking at a restaurant menu." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Marcella quickly looked at the menu, and then we decided to order our usual tiramisu, which we shared and two glasses of red wine.\nI first met Marcella while interviewing for a job she posted with NYU career services looking for assistance with typing her books for publication. It was the summer of 2000 and I just graduated from NYU, a confused 22 year old with a degree in my hand. We met at her Washington Square Village apartment and, after a few minutes, she hired me on the spot. Over the next 2 years, we worked together on her publications and over the next 10 years we became close friends.\nThrough the years, our typical get together would be me going to her Washington Square Village apartment at 6pm. She’d have some nuts and chocolates out and we’d have a glass of red. She would take her time opening that bottle. We talked about everything and anything. She had so much to say and I loved hearing about all the places she’d visited as a professor and everything else about her 62 years of life senior to mine. Her apartment was filled with beautiful artwork from all around the world. As always, her NY Times was on her coffee table every day. After an hour of catching up, we’d head to her favorite Italian restaurant, Portobello in the West Village. We continued talking the whole way while stopping to look at the shops along Thompson Street. There was always that guy rolling cigars by the window of this restaurant, as well as the chess shops and some vintage boutiques. Marcella pointed out a dress that caught her attention. After 25 years, Portobello’s owners got to know her quite well, and she would always be sure to introduce me to everyone there - “This is my friend Khat, isn’t she pretty?” she would say.\nI learned so much about her life during those many dinners of ours, and I wanted to be like her in so many ways. “This too shalt pass”…. Marcella said in reply to some of life’s trying moments, both hers and mine. I didn’t grow up with grandparents and she had no children, so sometimes I imagined we just adopted each other. \nEarlier this year I met Marcella for another one of our dinners. I noticed she lost a lot of weight. She had told me that because her health was not so good and old age was catching up with her, she would soon be moving to Hallmark Battery Gardens Senior. As I sat there listening to her and munching on the little plate of nuts and chocolates, she offered me a glass of Chardonnay; so I helped myself to the bottle. “I think it was me who showed you how to open a bottle the right way, remember?” she said smiling. However, this time, she did not join me, and it just wasn’t the same. When I suggested we order in this time, she insisted on going out. “I need to get out,” she said, as I helped her on with her scarf & jacket. This time, it took us a little longer getting to Portobello, but we walked that same walk we walked for years, with her hand on my right elbow for support. Once we reached the restaurant, I helped her out of her jacket. Our dinner that night was a little quieter than most. When we finished dinner, we shared a tiramisu and Marcella, as usual, had her leftovers wrapped to have for lunch the next day. We slowly walked backed and when I dropped her off, I gave her a big hug and promised to visit her at her new place soon. \nI saw her NY Times paper on her coffee table for the last time, in her room at the Hallmark Battery Gardens. She had just moved in a couple months ago. I visited her that Friday, after numerous attempts at contacting her. I knew she hadn’t been well and she had been in and out of the hospital and also visiting with her family. After finally getting a hold of her nurse, Eva, I was told she returned from the hospice a few days ago, and had, at most, 2 weeks left and it was well over 2 weeks then. That Friday, I paid my friend a visit, with some white hydrangeas in hand and a sad heart. Eva greeted my tears at the door.\nMarcella’s room was just as she had it back in Washington Square Village – beautiful artwork on the walls and many books on her shelf and various dishes and artifacts. \nShe though, was not my same Marcella, who was always dressed up and ready to go out for our dinners, with her pretty red lipstick on and so much to chat about. There were no nuts and chocolates out or a bottle of wine to be opened. \nShe could not talk or open her eyes, but I could see she tried so hard that day to say something to me and that just broke my heart. I sat there for the next few hours talking to her, telling her stories and updating her with all my happenings. I continued talking and laughing to her. In between I excused myself to the bathroom; I didn’t want her to see my tears. I asked her to squeeze my hand if she knew it was me, and she gently did so - and that too broke my heart. When leaving that evening I assured her saying, “you’re okay, you’ll be fine,” and I told her I’d be back on Sunday. \nMy walk up on Broadway, back to my apartment on 2nd & 2nd felt so heavy and long. Broadway felt more congested, and noisy than ever and I felt like I was dragging myself over. I was laughing and crying thinking of that one time Marcella was upset with me, because I didn’t invite her to one of my many big birthday parties I had every year. She was 95 years old and I didn’t think she’d be up to partying with my friends and I that late into the night, in the East Village. But, I was wrong.\nA few hours after my visit, my phone rang with Marcella’s name in caller ID, and I just knew – it was Eva, calling to let me know Marcella had just passed. I knew she waited for me to come say goodbye. \nA few nights later I went to our Italian restaurant in the Village. I was alone at our table that night. It was one of those New York summer nights that we had many times, but this time it felt chilly. I ordered our favorite dessert, Tiramisu, and a glass of red for me, and one for Marcella." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ophelia Unknown\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2431\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has just finished writing their first story/book." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The house has an articulated skeleton; shifting forward one story at a time, the attic forever interrogating the front steps. It leers with its cyclops eye, a round window reflecting the rippling grass, the cottonwoods, and a woman in a battered raincoat book ended by two stolen duffel bags. \nPurple? Probably the reflected character in the window is a little too close to looking in a mirror, front and center on everyone’s most hated trope list. \nThe support beams are long pale rib bones, forming a cavernous porch. The door is a rectangular shadow, a mouth metaphor would be a bit obvious but as I cross the threshold I relish the feeling of being swallowed.\nI take my notebook out of my raincoat pocket and scribble\nthe house has an articulated skeleton.\nKind of a boring verb, “has.” I flip it closed, the title on the cover reinforcing the notion that my words are still relatively cheap. Not bad, not good, but maybe something one day. \nThe title started the fight. I’d been getting dressed. We’d lived together for so long flashes of skin while changing were as interesting as plain oatmeal for breakfast. \nFrom the kitchen Oliver read it out loud to me, laughed, and said I should turn it into a t-shirt for myself. \nIt had struck a nerve. Not because it was mean. Not because I didn’t think it was true. In fact, he was probably right.\nNaturally I broke his guitar, smashed it to bits on the hardwood floor. Then I high tailed it to Anna’s couch. She was dashing off to her gloomy timeshare in the Midwest in a week and offered me a “job” house sitting. Then she got sick and decided she’d give it to me for the next two months.\nShe says it’s mono but I suspect I’m the recipient of a pity vacation. She always knew how much I envied her, drooling over the Instagram account in times of procrastination.\nI close my eyes. I can’t let my first in person impression of this magnificent oddity be marred by possibly true, but negative thoughts. I straighten my own articulated skeleton and venture further in, pretending I own the place, pretending I too, am a real writer. \nI twirl and bow to the pewter chandelier hanging over the foot of the stairs with its foot long candle sticks, dripping over the holders. I jump and break off a piece of wax, give it a good sniff, then let it meld with the junkyard of detritus in the bottom of my pocket. I skip toward the collection of odd mirrors, each one added by a member of the timeshare group. They slice me into bits and pieces as I wander down the corridor to the kitchen. Even the molding is gorgeous and strange, tiny screaming faces all in a row in the style of Greek theater masks. I pop my finger tip into one of their mouths. The depression is deeper than I expected. I get my finger in up to my second knuckle before I hit the back of their tiny throats, so deep they must extend behind the wall. \nThe kitchen is less ornate, white washed, simple. I stock the fridge with my gas station haul, pulling the antique lever and stuffing it all inside, dry goods right along with the drinks and microwavable sandwiches. I think twice, pull the lever again and take out a bag of pizza flavored combos. I fully expect to stumble out of here at summer’s end fifteen pounds heavier and bedazzled in junk food acne. \nThe table is vast, a chair on each end and a bench on either side that could hold at least four people. The surface could hold so much more. I imagine all my creamy pages splayed over the tabletop and grip the strap of the duffel. I’ve always had a weakness for kitchen tables over desks or couches, beds or even coffee shops. It annoyed Oliver, who liked to cook and was constantly cleaning my notebooks, reference materials, and laptop away so he could have a clear surface to work. On my birthday he’d made me homemade pasta. He didn't even use a machine. He still bragged about it, right up to the point I left. \nI tear into the bag of combos, crunching so fiercely my jaw grows sore, and guzzle a twenty ounce bottle of grape soda until my teeth ache. I grip the empty bottle until the plastic crunches in my fist. I have the whole beautiful house I daydreamed about the entire drive. It would be wasteful to spend most of my time in the one uninteresting room. \n“I will not be seduced by the likes of you!” I yell. \nThe table remains where it is, impassive, mute. I cringe at my urge to personify every goddamn thing.\nI need to get out of here. Once I do the table's siren song will be broken. \nI drag the duffel bags one at a time up the stairs. All my worldly possessions. They’re huge and unwieldy, army surplus, thudding against each carpeted step.\nI lay the book bag and the clothes bag out at the foot of the four poster, fondling the heavy purple velvet curtains. They’re musty and dank, the perfume of old books. They must be hiding somewhere. I bend over and lift the bed skirt, three fully stocked bookshelves line the frame, another seduction. \nWork now, read later. Work now, read later. The mantra that had helped me finally finish a draft. Instead of succumbing to temptation I unzip the body bag duffel and lift the dead on arrival manuscript from the depths. \n“Time to liven you up.” I unfold its shroud. \nThe first page is blank, I haven’t come up with a title yet and I’m not proud enough to put my name on it either. I flip the page, ready to face the truth of my own inadequacies.\nI immediately strike through the first paragraph. It might have been good once but I've seen it so many times opening my document it makes me gag. \nAt a hundred pages in I stop and try to take stock of something I like so I can keep going. In the Maybe something someday notebook I write Ophelia in cursive, embellishing it with vines and ivy leaves. I’m thankful each and every day that she’s my main character. Ophelia, the only reason I finished the draft. \nLight footed, lavender scented, quick thinking Ophelia. Burdened by intrusive thoughts and maintenance bills for her crumbling inheritance, a house not entirely but very much inspired by the timeshare. She walks her Komodo dragon through an equally crumbling neighborhood completely oblivious to her impending doom. Ophelia. Forever surprising me, skipping over my neat little plot points like stepping stones in a river, missing some entirely, splashing off to wade into the biting cold of the unknown. Killing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Was it because I couldn’t control her? A last ditch effort to fix her in place at last? I close the notebook and pick up the pages.\nA storm blows in, wind and rain on the window. The plink of hail pulls me out of the story for the first time in the middle of the witching hour. It’s late, but there’s no way I’m sleeping through the storm so might as well keep going. \nI find coffee in the pantry. The creaking and settling of the house intensifies under the torrent, making me twitch. I take the mug and patter back to the stairs.\nI never turn lights on at night in liminal spaces, preferring to stumble around blindly rather than disturb the darkness. When I walk by the mirror collection on my way to the stairs my face distorts from glass to glass. I gaze with dilated pupils at each of my demonesque faces, maiden, mother, and crone twisted around shadowy lesions. I list by the last mirror and wobble back on my heel. It was dark but there was no mistaking it. The shapes are all wrong. A halo of curls, turning on a neck to reveal a familiar face, not my own. The shadows are much more forgiving, the face as beautiful as it is in daylight. \n“Ophelia?”\nShe nods. \nI wrench the mirror off the wall nail and all. \n“Closer.” She wiggles her finger. I’m almost flesh with the glass when she whispers. “I love you too.” \nHer face jerks up and then drops out of the frame. My own face behind her. \nShe’s gone before I can ask her to wait. \nAt six in the morning I finish the first read through. It’s clear now what an idiot I’d been. Ophelia hadn’t had to die. Nothing in the plot had pointed to it. It was indulgent, a tragic ending that I’d created to make my work, what, profound? I crumple the offending pages and burn them in the fireplace in the library-living room. The storm has passed but the rain continues. I sweat in front of the flames. What was next? I had to rewrite the ending. But what was it and where was it hiding? \nWhen the rooms lighten I ramble through them, asking the unusual wallpaper pattern if I was a sadist and the antique lighting fixture what my ending should be, and getting no reply. \nI eat at the kitchen table, the manuscript lies on the table at the opposite sitting area. It’s been twenty-four hours and all I’ve done is cut its leg off. It sits, it judges. \nI finish my sour gummy worms and hot pocket in the library-living room and take one of the books down. It’s an arc about a woman who forgets her last name who is menaced by a killer umbrella. At first when I open it I just suspect it has a few extra end pages, but each one is as blank as the last. I grab another, killer mermaids. Blank. The shelf and a half of Tolkien, blank. Gaiman, blank, Shakespeare plays, blank, Miss Marple, blank, Anna’s breakout romance novel at the height of the vampire craze, all of them, blank. One at a time I place them all back in their homes. It’s easier to pretend this isn’t happening when the evidence is neatly hidden again. \nI get my phone out of the bedroom and try the front door. It’s unlocked but it doesn’t budge. A seam of wood in the cracks.\nIt rains. The house creaks. I try the windows and other doors with the same result, and make my way back to my starting point. I press my back against the door and slide down it, dialing Anna, one hand over my eyes as I wait for her to answer. \n“What’s up?” Her voice crackles with static. \n“The house is haunted.”\n“Well duh, that’s why we bought it.”\n“It’s trapped me in.”\n“Oh.”\n“That’s the most suspicious ‘oh’ I’ve heard in my life. Spill now. I’m losing my mind. I’m talking to home decor.”\n“Don’t worry. It’s done something like this before. With Max. After his mother died.”\n“Why didn’t you tell me?”\n“I didn’t want you spooking yourself. And honestly I thought you were over Oliver. It shouldn’t have any ammunition like it did with Max.”\n“I’m not upset about Max.”\n“He was kind of a tool.” She says but it comes out he/kind/a/ool. \n“Yeah, I know!” I stomp my foot like a petulant child. Embarrassment makes me angrier but I bite it back. “I’m sorry, I’m stupid. This is so stupid.”\n“Sh, sh. It’ll be alright. It’s not malevolent.”\n“What isn’t malevolent about trapping someone?”\n“Well, not much. Max said it was treating him like an author treats a character. It was heaping trouble on him, trying to tell him something..” Static hisses through her last word.\n“Tell him what?”\n“He wouldn’t say.” \n“Okay, okay.” I’m gasping for air. My lungs feel over and underinflated at the same time. \n“Just calm down. I’ll stay-”\n“Anna?” Silence. “Anna?”\nThe screen confirms a dropped call. \nI go limp for a while, trying to find an equilibrium I’m not sure exists. Through my fingers, I spy the mirror wall; a patch of lighter wallpaper, diamond shaped. The mirror is gone. \nToo afraid to sit still I wander the house searching for it, waiting for a rug to trip me up or the lights to flicker, but things stay relatively calm. I check the books again, still blank, the ones in my duffel too. \n“If you’re going to trap me you could at least let me have some reading material!”\nThe house remains infuriatingly silent. I check the fridge, and all the cabinets, the manuscript watches me. I bump my hip on the corner of the table and the blank top sheet sails off the table and whisks over the floor, the corner slipping under the cellar door. I unlock the door, stepping over the top sheet and pulling the chain. \nNothing much here. Some canned goods and cleaning supplies, an unfinished white blouse hangs on a dress form with only one sleeve and a pattern of cherries, dust, spiders. \nI find it in the darkest corner. It’s cracked, with a little diamond shaped piece on the floor beside it, a scrap of the cherry cloth underneath. I cut myself on the shard putting it back in place, a red fingerprint on the glass. I suck my finger and walk through lavender scented dust motes to the slanted door. \nWith a shove of my shoulder the door opens, banging on its hinges. It’s still raining but a shade tree shelters me from the worst of it. \nI try my phone. \n“Lydia! Are you alright?”\n“How long did you know?”\n“Know what?”\n“That I liked women too?”\n“Thank God.” She sighs, coughs deeply, dryly. Maybe she really wasn’t lying about being sick. Dishes clatter.. “I never knew-knew, you know? But there were clues.”\n“Clues?”\n“Like when I first met you at Max’s party. You were drunk and told me my hair was like a North Carolina sunset.”\n“Ew, gross.”\n“It wasn’t your best. You could do way better now.”\n“With pick up lines, or similes?”\n“Similes. That other stuff you’re still a disaster. I mean I’ve seen you at book club, and the grocery store,” she pauses, probably sipping tea to soothe her throat. “And the library, and the park, and that time with the repair woman, that was awe-inspiring really.”\n“Okay, I get it, I get it.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Special Ingredient Must be Butter.\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1052\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with one character trying to convince another that they make the best grilled cheese in the world." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They stood around, competing with ideas, by the kitchen stove and arguing about what would be the best grilled cheese in the world and who could make one. Eventually, both Sara Miller and Josh Brewer decided a friendly cookout competition would solve this 'grilled cheese' dilima. After grabbing frying pans and placing them on the stove, they dashed to the refrigerator excited about this cookout in unison.\n\n\"Hey! I got here first.\" Sara blurted out. She got pushed back and she raised her hands, followed by rolling her eyes in annoyance.\n\nJosh snatched the sliced cheese and something else out of the fridge after bumping Sara out of his way.\n\n\"Wait your turn. The best cook should go first.\" Josh confirmed with a grin, sticking out his tongue.\n\n\"This is not a race, Josh. It is just a friendly competition.\"\n\n\"Says you. I will make a grilled cheese to die for and fast too.\"\n\nSara awaited her turn patiently, arms crossed in defiance, while Josh scavenged the refrigerator for whatever else he was looking for to make his version of the best world grilled cheese.\n\nThe remainder of the afternoon, Josh and Sara cooked their idea of the best grilled cheese in the world, hovering over the stove sweating. Josh used ingredients secretly when Sara was not looking, trying to block her view with his shoulders.\n\n\"I can see what you're putting in your grilled cheese you know. You don't have to hide it from me.\" Sara chuckled, eying his grilled cheese in progress, which soaked in butter, and frying in his frying pan.\n\n\"You are not supposed to know a chef's secret, Sara. Those are the rules. Did you see me looking to find out what you are using?\"\n\n\"I saw you peek a couple times, yes.\" Sara smiled. \"Besides, I really do not care if you know my ingredients. You will probably find out anyway.\"\n\nContinuing on with focused looks on their faces the competition was getting close to an end. Sara had just finished flipping her grilled cheese over to cook the other side and smashed it gently to cook faster. Sara finally finished her grilled cheese and in a calm satisfied motion she gracefully placed the grilled cheese on a plate.\n\nJosh however, dashed back and forth from the refrigerator to the stove, adding and making adjustments here and there. He had been breathing a bit heavy and Sara, who just finished her dish, watched Josh with a beaming grin.\n\n\"Why are you rushing so fast for? I already finished mine. Trying to make it quick like that may mess it up.\"\n\nJosh huffed, \"I know what I am doing, Sara. You just wait. A chef needs to be reliable and fast.\"\n\n\"Ok, if you say so.\" Sara then pulled out her cell phone from her back pocket. \"I will just play a game on my phone until you're done.\" \n\n\"How did you finish so fast with yours? You did not use much other than the original ingredients I see.\" Josh glanced at Sara's grilled cheese laying on her plate.\n\n\"I cooked something with it that you would not expect. You might even be surprised.\" Sara looked up from her phone at Josh and winked.\n\n\"Better not have used mayaniose. You know I hate that stuff.\" Josh eyed Sara's grilled cheese in disgust.\n\n\"Don't worry.\" Sara waved her hand in the air at Josh, not looking away from her phone. \"It'll be fine.\"\n\nA few minutes later, Josh finished his dish with his chest bulging out and he said in a triumphant voice.\n\n\"It is finished!\"\n\nSara brushed off Josh's proud moment and quickly pushed her plate towards Josh, placing her phone on the kitchen counter.\n\n\"Good, I am starving. Now hurry, give me yours.\" Sara said with her arms stretched out towards Josh's plate. Staring at his grilled cheese with hungry eyes.\n\nOnce plates were exchanged, Sara and Josh tried each other's grilled cheese. Josh nodded his head yes each time, after taking a bite of Sara's dish, trying to figure out what she put in it. Sara took small bites of Josh's and gave wide eyes. She suddenly could not control herself and started to devour his grilled cheese in pleasure moans.\n\n\"Oh my gosh! Umm. This is fantastic, Josh. Wow, it is like the butter is squeezing into my mouth when I take a bite. But there is something else I can not identify. What all did you use?\"\n\nJosh smiled a really big smile. \"Yes I used butter, but that is not the butter that has that great taste. It is something else.\"\n\n\"Come on. It must be the butter. Tell me, what did you use, Josh?\"\n\n\"Nope, I can not tell you. I swore a chef oath, and I can't break it.\"\n\nSara threw a napkin at Josh. \"Stop joking around. Tell me! What is it?\"\n\n\"Ok, I'll tell you. You already know I used cheese. Well, I toasted the bread first before I put the bread into the pan filled with butter. Then I fried an egg to use with sliced sandwich turkey meat. After, I sprinkled Taco seasoning onto the egg.\"\n\nThen he leaned in closer to Sara. Looked around to make sure no one else could hear him. Sara looked around also confused because it was just her and Josh there.\n\n\"That is it. That's all I used.\" Sara hit Josh's arm. \" What? I really do not know what could possibly be used for the world's best grilled cheese.\"\n\n\"Here I thought you really had some special ingredient for the grilled cheese. You tricked me.\" Sara frowned.\n\nJosh went back to eating the rest of Sara's grilled cheese. \"You know yours wasn't too bad either. I like it.\"\n\n\"You like it? You figured out what I used yet?\" Sara cocked her head to one side.\n\n\"No, not yet. But there seems to be something I can not pinpoint.\" Josh took another bite. \"It is good for sure though. Might be better than mine.\"\n\nSara became happy Josh liked her grilled cheese. She knew if Josh liked her dish then she must have cooked the best grilled cheese in the world. The best in the world for someone she wanted to be with and that was good enough for her." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Traveler Wife\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1702\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about change." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I miss her; I imagine she misses me worse. It’ll be years until I hear back, and years until she hears me, and I’ll be listening to a recording already years old and the real her will be on Earth alone. I keep myself sane with math; I send her how long she’ll have to wait with each message. You’ll hear from me again in six years. I love her.\nWhen I left we were both twenty-six. It was insane; a lottery win. To a distant moon. She never understood any of it, no matter how many times I showed her charts or graphs or playful drawings of where I was going. This is Butler, I said, and this is Butler’s moon, Lilith. There’s evidence of life there. I explained exact numerical constructs for oxygen, plant growth, bacterial organisms, even before I thought there was a chance I might go.\nAnd she was never really for it. She thought I wouldn’t get picked; she let me sign up because she figured I’d never get in. And I did plan to stick around, with those odds. Stacking boxes in the shop and doing the financial work. The sound of her calling me from the beat-up computer at the front desk—Can you figure this out? Her laugh. You’re the one with the head for numbers. Even when I applied, even when I trained, I never thought I would be the one they’d want to go up. I never thought I’d really go. \nIf I had a head for numbers, she had a head for ethics. Always knew where everything came from and how much workers were paid and what stances the CEOs held. She made all the purchases, all the marketing, all the thinking; I spent most of my time arranging things. Dreaming. Maybe she thought I didn’t like it—I loved it. A shop and a turtle and a girl with her afro up in a curly brown puff, a scrunchie in her hair to keep it fixed. I didn’t run away. I ran toward. \nSpace, and space-time. So you’ll be younger than me? she said, and I said, Sort of. And she waited while I explained special relativity, and lines of simultaneity, and here were two charts showing the same thing, and just look at the numbers and don’t think about what it really means. And she sat through it all and said, I don’t get it. And neither did I. I got the numbers and the data and the predictions and all of the expectations, but I didn’t get it. What it would be like to be up there.\nI said, For you, when it’s been five years, I’ll be four years older than I was when I left. And she said Okay, and I said, But for me, when it’s been four years, you’ll be only three years older than when I left. And she had to think about that for a moment. And when she’d considered it, she said, So which one is true? And I said, Both. Neither. And I went over how we’d both see the other as traveling and therefore getting younger not to mention how long it would take for the messages to travel back and forth but then I would stop and it would all suddenly catch up and I would end up younger after all. Only by a few years. \nI don’t get it, she said, again. How does it look like I’m traveling away from you? I’m not going anywhere. And I heard it: I’m not the one going anywhere. I knew what she wanted to say. I was glad she didn’t say it. And I said: Do you know that we’re traveling around the universe right now? At incredible speeds. We’re traveling, too; we just feel like we’re not because we live here.\nAnd she looked up at me from the couch and she said, Okay, come travel with me. And I did. She knew she couldn’t keep me. Nobody could keep me; my mother couldn’t keep me in our house with the incense burning and my grandpa couldn’t keep me in town with the old willow tree and she couldn’t keep me on Earth. \nBut we’re not finished with this planet. She used to say that all the time, even before I applied to go up. Our favorite fight. You’re going to leave us all behind? Make a new home up there because the one down here’s not working? We need your help to fix this place.\nMaybe she was right. Probably she was right. I used to sneak up behind her while she was in the zone and go, You’re painting right now? Hey, I could use your help right here. When the trash overflowed. When it was time to feed James—the turtle. Hey, I need your help right now. You’re going in there, leaving me behind? Where are you going? Tickling her until she collapsed in my arms. Where are you going? \nWhen I left, I said the one rule was don’t argue with me and don’t make me want to argue with you. I don’t have time for that in space. I can’t be thinking about fighting you when I can’t even hold you. I don’t care if it’s funny. I can’t do it. I told her and so far she’s never brought any of it up and I haven’t either. And it doesn’t feel real.\nYou’re a pawn, she said once. Just another piece in the big game of America versus everyone else. Like it hasn’t been centuries since we thought we ‘won’. She scoffed. Back to the space race. Imperialism never changes. Scrubbing her paintbrush clean against the palm of her hand. And I said How does it feel to assimilate to the neo-capitalist cisheteronormative white supremacist construct of being married, and she laughed like she always did when she thought I had a point but not a good enough one to be right. And I said, Do you want any help? and she told me no because I never knew a thing about how to clean her supplies properly and the harder I tried the worse I did. So I called her a housewife, too.\nDoes she remember my face? The broad nose she said she loved; the chin only men had in my family until me. I told her when I shaved my head after having locs for years; space called for simpler hair. I wanted her to picture me right. It took two years for her to get the message and I thought every day about how she was imagining a me that didn’t exist anymore. I want to remember her right: her wide hands and her hooded eyes and the lipstick she never got very good at putting on. I hope I remember her face even as it changes.\nAnd it’s not my body aging; it’s my mind learning how to live in the big lagoon of space. I imagine she thinks I’m totally out of touch with her, figuring out mortgages on Earth, and she’s right. If I ever get back, I don’t know how I’ll do everything normally again. I don’t know how I’ll ever understand it. I don’t know how I’ll live knowing I was up here and she was down there and what could I do to help her. What could I do to fix the planet I used to live on. I told her before I left if you meet someone else I’ll understand and she said don’t make me fight you right now.\nSometimes I fall asleep to nightmares that they’re ending the program. I wake up and my shirt is soaked and I can’t catch my breath and the sky outside of the window isn’t dark enough to go back to sleep to. I close my eyes and I see it: We’ve got to concentrate on our own problems here on Earth. We don’t have the resources to get you back. I understand it better than I do the reasons for sending me up. Every time I want to send her a message, say I wish I never left, I wish I didn’t go. I wanted to go somewhere but I never wanted to leave you. You’ve never been someone I had to get away from. Don’t you get it? I want it all, I want everything and I want the moon, too. I want you in my arms when I step out of the shuttle. I want my feet on the ground and I want my head in the stars. I won’t leave you to fix the world on your own.\nI don’t want to die, but I’m not afraid of it, either. It’s a chance that I’ve gotten used to living with. Like a stray I’ve tamed, up here. I would understand if everything changed. It’s been long enough to.\nI scratch out a million messages because I don’t want her to think about it and I don’t want to think about it, either. I don’t want to think about coming down and seeing her look different; I don’t want to think about never coming down.\nI imagine interviews; people asking me what comes next. Do we take this moon for our country and what does it mean for the military. Is this the final frontier. Are we aliens. Is Earth unlivable. Will we be the first to build a settlement on Lilith. \nSure, I’ll say. For me and my wife. And we’ll build our house in the sand and the mud, and we’ll bring our turtle on up, and we’ll live together whatever age we’re at and fight every day if we want to. We’ll bring her scrunchies and my sweaters and enough sustainable jeans for the both of us, and I’ll write a letter to my mom every morning. I’ll break down the spaceship and we’ll stay up there until we die, the first to live up there and the last. This moon will be our place, our land, our house and nobody else’s. Ours, and nobody else’s, ours, and no others’. Me and my wife’s. For me and my wife." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Roger Reads the Menu\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1105\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking at a restaurant menu." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Do not order the salmon.\nI know it sounds good, Aurelia, but it’s not. It’s not good. Nothing here is good. Some things are bad and some are unspeakable. Order something bad. I can’t promise you good. I wish I could, but no good. No good. None of it is good.\nThe salmon, however, is unforgivable.\nWe wouldn’t even be here if not for family obligations. My brother insists he’s a chef. I disagree, but I do so privately. That’s how I was raised. When you’re brought up in a monastery by monks operating under the oath of silence, you learn to keep your opinions to yourself. To this day, I’ve never heard my father’s voice or been able to ask him who my mother was, although I have my suspicions. The girl who would care for the turkeys always bore a striking resemblance to Josiah and I. I assume he goes by Chef Josiah now.\nHeavens, heavens.\nI do not begrudge my brother having a passion. We all must have passion in life. That being said, please cast your eyes to page three of this…menu. On it, you will find a duck entree. Believe me, Aurelia, this man does things to a duck that a priest wouldn’t do during an exorcism. The first time I ordered it, the waiter gave me a look that I now know was a suggestion to flee. The plate arrived at the table appearing as though it had just been sent through a spin cycle on an old washing machine. I picked at it as best I could, but there was no salvaging it--let alone consuming it. Josiah came out to the table to ask how I was enjoying my meal and I lied to his face. I said I had come down with a sudden case of botulism and would need to leave. Truthfully I’d rather die than eat something out of a can, but it was all I could think of at that moment. Aurelia, you have no idea the hellish situation you find yourself in when your path in life has led you to writing about food and your brother--your dear, sweet, lovely brother who is incapable of so much as boiling an egg properly--decides to become a chef.\nThank goodness it would be a conflict of interest for me to review this place or I’d have to give up my profession entirely. I’d rather set my career on fire than hurt my brother. When we were younger, I was always protecting him from bullies. He was a very tender child. Tender--unlike the chicken you’ll find on page four. He would chase after butterflies and sing songs and when the monks sent us to school in the village over the hill, he was the apple of every teacher’s eye. Unfortunately, that made him a target. Soon, I was knocking knuckles with anyone who dared even utter a cruel word at my precious Josiah. He was never even aware of how much I sheltered him. Perhaps that’s why now he thinks he can run down whichever terrifying road he wishes and not a single car will come his way.\nThis is my doing, Aurelia. You’re going to have to order the steak frites and suffer through them simply because your fool of a new boyfriend never wanted to let his little brother grow up. Don’t believe the menu when it says the frites are divine. They are the furthest thing from Heaven short of the sweat of Dante’s big toe. If you like, I can ask for extra napkins that we can hide our meat in before storing it away in your purse. I’d say we could feed it to the dogs when we return home, but even canines don’t deserve to dine on poorly seasoned cuisine.\nWhen Josiah comes out here, as he always does, you must smile at him and tell him the food is delicious. Take a small morsel from your plate--only half a forkful--and plop it right in your mouth. Do not chew it. If you release any of its flavor, you will gag immediately. I once made the mistake of chewing on the lamb you see midway down page five and--for a brief instance--I did not believe I would ever know joy again. Such was the darkness of its inadequacy. It didn’t belong on a plate, it belonged on the gallows.\nThis is not to say Josiah is totally bereft of talent. Years ago, when I was ill from a cold I caught whilst traipsing home from a delightful four-course evening at Le Canard Royal, Josiah came to check up on me. I assured him that I could fend off a simple ailment, but he insisted on making me something to buoy my spirits.\nDear Lord, I thought, I’m mildly ill now, but after some of his cooking, I’ll most likely need an ambulance and a stomach pump.\nJosiah surprised me. He made me chicken soup--the same kind the monks used to make us when we were boys. I nearly laughed at the simplicity of it all. When he brought me the bowl on a small serving tray, I was so…touched. The concern he had for me. The way he clasped his hands as he handed over the soup--clearly praying it would do some good.\nAurelia, that soup…\nIt was the most disgusting thing I’d ever put in my mouth. That includes the raw yak meat I ate during my trip to Siberia.\nBut, you see, when I said Josiah isn’t entirely lacking, I wasn’t speaking about his food. I was speaking about his heart. For there are many chefs who cook with expert precision, but their food is soulless just as they are. My brother’s food is not like that. It has the same passion that he does. Perhaps too much passion. Passion is like paprika--a little goes a long way. Eventually, I hope, he’ll become more skilled. He’ll fail and try again. He’ll have to--I can no longer shield him from life’s tribulations.\nI just hope that any creative gains do not result in integral losses. I would take him as he is right now forever and ever--even if it meant I had to eat every single despicable item on this menu.\nYou’ll love him too, Aurelia, I’m sure you will. Tonight will be the test we all face if we’re lucky enough to love someone. We will choose to overlook the gristle and celebrate the grace.\nThat being said, in the event that one of tonight’s specials is the lobster roll--\nBeware.\nThere is absolutely nothing special about it." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Penny\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2999\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts by establishing its setting in a different time period — without explicitly stating what that period is." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Penny could no longer rely on her tank tops and jeans to cover her growing belly. She could not wear the pretty floral mini-skirts her friends back home wore; her clumsy nature would not allow her to even try low platform heels, much less four-inch ones that some of her favorite pop stars wore.\nThere was a lot she could no longer do. She couldn’t eat ice cream, oddly, she couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t focus. She could, however, burp and fart loudly. Most importantly, though, she could no longer hold her head high since becoming pregnant. Bad enough she was just 19 and unmarried; the way in which she got herself in this situation, along with the choice of father, or as she now called him, the “sperm donor”, were greatly embarrassing.\nShe chose to run away from her uncaring family and all the colorful flower power and peace-loving crowds of her home town, to a place where people did not know her.\nLiving alone on the streets of New York City’s Greenwich Village might not be smart, but she could hide her history, her roots, and even her belly if she could find a big enough midi dress in a local thrift shop. She also intended on dying her red hair, just in case someone came looking for her; she didn’t want to stand out like a sore, copper thumb.\nPenny stepped off the train at West Fourth Street, walking up the stairs and into the crowds, amidst traffic and the noise of street vendors selling flowers and joy, Hare Krishnas touting their religion; on the other side of the street, people shouted that their god was better and would come back to save them. War protestors abounded, and flower children decorated every street corner. Beggars asked for change. She gave one of them some money. She didn’t have much, but she felt sorry for him. Soon, she might need to share a tent or a box with someone.\nThe most fascinating thing about Greenwich Village, Penny thought, was the cacophony of sounds, beautiful, all of them, the singers, the radios, turned up so loud that the old people walking by pressed their hands over their ears. The familiarity of church bells, except the music seemed to fade away in the crisp breeze. She knew churches no longer used actual bells, at least hers back home did not. But the sound was pleasant nonetheless.\nPenny followed the live music she could hear from blocks away. She made her way to Washington Square Park, where jazz, bluegrass, blues, pop and rock tunes permeated as people jumped in and out of the fountain.\nOne person standing near the fountain caught her eye. He was not tall, but he was quite cute despite being a bit chubby. His thick, long hair was brown with a hint of vermillion. His eyebrows were like giant caterpillars attacking his eyes, which she couldn’t see as they were obscured by his big, embellished sunglasses. He wore multi-colored bell-bottom pants that seemed too tight on his muscular thighs, and a lace shirt and a pink patterned crochet vest over it. He wore a multi-colored knit golf cap that matched the vest. On his feet were shoes with the tallest platform on which she’d ever laid eyes. She loved his look, and moreover, his music, dulcet tones, covers of Bob Dylan, The Temptations, The Byrds and The Beatles.\nIn front of him on a flimsy homemade stand sat a keyboard whose keys he hammered with a purpose as he jumped around to the music. She heard him say the next tune was his original. Penny stopped to listen, putting one of her three bags on the ground so she could sit comfortably. She rested her chin in her hands and admired this stranger who appeared to possess only his keyboard and a bucket, in which many people placed money. Not just change, like her donation to the beggar, but dollar bills! He deserved this money, as his music was intriguing, uplifting and beguiling. And his tenor voice, so sweet like molasses and tender like well-cooked steak.\nFor a moment she forgot who she was, her troubles, the life she left behind, her family, friends, neighbors, and the priest who convinced her he loved her enough for her to trust him.\nThe musician finished his song and received the most applause thus far. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” His speaking voice was interesting. Penny thought about the accent and quickly ascertained he must be English. She recognized the accent from watching TV interviews with the Beatles. This man could give John, Paul, George and Ringo a run for their money, especially since they’d recently broken up.\n“I’m Randy,” he told the audience. “I got my first gig at the Singing Siren this coming Friday. There’s no cover, so make sure you’re there.”\n“We love you, Randy!” shouted a man in the audience. “Whoo!”\nRandy laughed. “Thanks. Here’s your twenty dollars.” He waved a twenty as the audience laughed. He slipped the bill back into his pants pocket.\nHe was not only talented and cute, but also funny.\n“I got one more original tune for you before I take a break,” Randy said, noticing a trio of police officers wander into the park. “The po-lice aren’t always kind. The man hassles us. ‘Are you licensed to perform?’ they ask. But I’m only licensed to make you smile. This one’s called ‘The Unknown Woman’.”\nHow appropriate, Penny thought.\n“She ran away, far away, from the world she knew too well. She wanted a new life, a new life, no strife. Running away from what she knew,” he began. “What she knew was blue. A world unkind that was untrue.”\nPenny blushed, feeling he was looking right through her, talking to her soul. He looked her way, removed his sunglasses and nodded, smiling at her. She waved at him and smiled, looking around at the people who sat entranced, hardly noticing her though she felt they did. It was just her paranoia. No one here knew her. She was safe. After this, she thought, it’s the local drug store for hair dye. She urged her wavy hair way from her eyes.\nEveryone clapped along as Randy encouraged them to do. What a personality on this character! The song was upbeat and not at all what she’d anticipated. It culminated with the girl finding love and happiness in her new town and returning to her old one to show off.\nNot what she was intending, but that was just fine.\n“Be back in a few if the pigs let me,” he said, his very British pronunciation shining through every syllable.\n“’ello, lass,” he said, walking up to her immediately.\n“H-hi.” She felt electricity between them as they shook hands.\n“Wot’s your name then, lass?” He removed his cap, revealing a slight bald spot. He rubbed his head, sweaty from his performance in the hot sun.\n“Oh, it’s Penny. What’s yours?” Recalling he’d announced his name, she blushed and threw up her hands. “Never mind.”\nHe laughed. Penny thought he was looking at her belly, but again, probably just her paranoia.\n“Are you here alone, dear?” he asked her, wiping his brow and sticking his sunglasses in his vest pocket.\n“Um. No. Not really.” She had to lie to protect herself. She’d learned the hard way not to trust every smiling face. In fact, there was a song about that topic with which she was familiar. And another, a new one she’d just heard.\n“Are you sure? Because you look alone.”\nTalented, cute, funny and astute, Penny thought.\n“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.\n“Corny.”\n“’eard it before, eh?”\nShe nodded.\n“I’m not gonna be Randy for much longer,” he started. “See, I’m changing my name. It’s Randy Wilson now. Who wants to ‘ear pop and rock by a bloke named Randy Wilson?”\n“I do.”\n“No offense, dear, but one fan don’t build a career.”\nShe looked around. “One of a million, Randy. These people love you.”\n“Hey!” Randy shouted at a man who snuck up, attempting to steal the money from his bucket. Randy jogged up to the basket and grabbed it, giving the man a dirty look. The man threw up his hands and walked away. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said.\n“Sure. You’ve got bollocks the size of London.”\n“Is that where you’re from?” Penny asked him when he returned to her.\n“What say, lass? Oh, no. Me? I’m from Middlesex, England.”\n“I’m from New Rochelle. But don’t tell anyone.”\n“Why? It embarrass you?” His eyes pierced through her again. “Oh, sorry, lass. Got to get back on stage straightaway before the acrobats jump in. Hah. I've made a funny. Wait for me, yeah?”\n“Oh, yes.” She smiled. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”\n“Gee, thanks a bloody lot!” He stroked her arm.\nShe shook her head, laughed and put her head down.\n“This next set is dedicated to my folks back home in Middlesex, England,” he started.\n“Set? You think you’re on a real stage, man?” a heckler shouted.\n“Ya. I actually am, friend,” Randy replied. “I hope you enjoy my tunes.”\nThe man waved his hand and scoffed.\n“You know, no one’s putting a gun to your head,” Penny told the heckler.\n“What?”\n“He’s really good. Give him a chance.” She moved her legs into a yoga pose. “Just give him a chance,” she whispered. “He’s gonna be at the Singing Siren.” The man scoffed and walked away.\nRandy finished another two originals interspersed with more covers including one by the Supremes, which he attempted to sing in soprano as a joke. He took his final bows, grabbed his keyboard, stand and bucket and made room for the mime juggler who was waiting on deck.\n“He’s good too,” he told Penny as he walked up to her.\n“You don’t sound too sure,” she answered.\n“Ya, I’m actually not.” He giggled. “But let ‘im fight with the po-lice.”\nThey both laughed.\n“Where you ‘eaded?” he asked her.\n“Oh. I’m actually not sure either,” she chuckled.\nHe put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, lass. I’m a good guy. Despite what you might hear about me in the tabloids one day.”\n“Oh, you’re funny.”\n“Thank you. Would you enjoy some candyfloss?”\n“What?”\n“Oh, you Americans call it cotton candy. I forgot. Sorry. There’s a vendor right over there. I’ll fetch you one.” Before she could say he should not bother as it might make her ill, he jogged over and got her some. He waltzed back with a bounce in his step.\n“How do you run in those shoes?”\n“Oh, not very well, to be perfectly honest with you. I have to walk around the flat to get used to them.”\n“Flat?”\n“Yeah, where I live.”\n“Oh. Apartment.”\n“Yeah. I live there with me mate. We write songs together.”\n“Oh. What’s her name?”\n“Oh, no. Me mate’s a man. I mean, we’re chums.”\n“I see.”\n“Where’s your flat?”\n“I…” Penny didn’t know what to say.\n“You don’t ‘ave one, do ya?”\nShe put her head down and shook it.\nHe put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not the only one. Truth? Everyone lacks something. Listen, I told you I’m a sort you can trust. I meant it.” He placed his other hand on her other shoulder and looked her square in the eye, his beautiful hazel globes penetrating her green ones. “You’re coming ‘ome with me.”\n“I’m pregnant.”\n“Oh, I know.”\n“What? How?”\n“I’m psychic.” He laughed. “Joshing. Just ultra-sensitive I suppose. A product of who I am.”\n“Who are you?”\n“Never mind. I’ve enough dough for us to fetch a cab and a bit of supper.”\n“No, you don’t have to…”\n“I want to. But first let me toss this ridiculous stand I made in the dust bin over here.”\n“I can help you make a new one.”\n“Much obliged, kind Penny. You know, I don’t want you to worry, love. I won’t make a pass at you. Not that you’re not pretty. You’re very beautiful,” Randy said hailing a cab.\n“Thank you.” He opened the taxi door with a playful flourish, waving her in first.\n“Three-forty West Fourth Street, mate,” he said. They arrived at his apartment quickly. Randy put money in the compartment in front of him. “Keep the change, mate.”\n“Wow. You live real close to Washington Square.”\n“I suppose you wonder why we didn’t walk?”\n“Yeah.”\nRandy lifted up one of his shoes. “See? The cost of fashion.”\nShe laughed. He removed both shoes and handed them to her. “You’ll see.”\n“Whoa. They weight a ton, man! What do you mean?” She gave them back to him.\n“I’m gonna make you try them on!”\nShe protested. “No, no, no way! I’ll fall and break my neck.”\n“Don’t worry. My flat mate will ‘elp pick you up. Actually, you must watch out for him. He might fancy you.”\n“Oh, really?”\n“He’s a gentleman, though. A pussycat. Don’t worry.”\nThey walked up the three flights and as Randy jiggled the keys trying to find the right one, the door opened. “Hey, mate. ‘ow was your gig?”\n“Good. Good.”\n“Who we got here?”\n“Penny. This is Penny. She’s a new friend.”\n“’ello, Penny, new friend. I’m Andrew. His flatmate.”\n“And you’re British too?”\n“’ow’d you guess, lass?” Andrew said with a hint of sarcasm.\nRandy walked in, tossed his shoes on the floor and leaned his keyboard against the kitchen wall. “Go on, then, Penny. Model the shoes for us, won’t you?”\n“No, thank you.”\n“If you try them on, then, we might let you stay here tonight.”\nAndrew looked at him. “What?”\n“She’s ‘asn’t got a place of her own. Methinks she’s running from something.” Randy sighed. “’e’s a bit cautious, this one.”\nPenny grew silent and looked away.\n“And the poor lass ‘as got herself in trouble, too.”\n“Trouble?” Andrew asked.\n“I’m pregnant.”\n“Wot are you running from then?” Andrew asked, holding out a chair for her.\n“My family. My friends. The baby’s father.”\n“Does he know…?” Randy asked, opening a bag of sandwiches he picked up between Washington Square and the taxi.\n“I don’t think so.”\n“Your family knows?” Andrew asked.\n“Yes. My friends know too.”\n“Why don’t you talk to the father?” Randy asked, handing her a tuna salad on rye.\n“He’s…” She sat down and sighed. “I can’t tell him.”\n“Why not?” Randy asked, munching on a roast beef and cheese.\nAndrew sat down and grabbed some napkins. “Tell, us, lass.”\n“He’s…he’s a…he’s a…p-priest.”\nRandy and Andrew looked at each other silently, chewing slowly, their eyes falling to the floor before meeting Penny’s, Andrew’s bright ceruleans were sad.\n“Love, that’s tough,” Randy said. “A Catholic priest? I’m so sorry.”\n“You poor gal,” Andrew said, wiping away a tear. “But what do you want from us, then?”\n“Andrew! She’s got no place to live! How far along are you, then?” Randy asked.\n“Six months.”\nThere was silence in the room. They could hear the sirens and shouts outside the window, common for their neighborhood. And they could hear one another chewing. After what seemed like forever, Randy spoke up.\n“I’ll marry you, then,” Randy said.\n“What?” said both Penny and Andrew in unison.\n“Penny, the bloke’s ‘omosexual.” Andrew shook his head.\n“What? Who?”\nRandy pointed to himself, crossing his legs. “I am. Me. I like blokes.”\nPenny was at a loss for words. “So why would you want to marry me?”\n“You’re being barmy, mate! Why don’t you shut it and stop teasing this poor gal, then?”\n“A poor attempt at being funny. I’m sorry, love. I don’t know wot else to say. I ‘aven’t got any explanation.” He got up and stroked her cheek. “But I want to ‘elp you.”\n“How? What if you find a bloke you want to be with?” she asked.\nRandy stroked her hair. “A bloke. You’re learning! I don’t expect I’d be allowed to walk ‘and-in-‘and with him down the street. I might fall for a bloke.” He shrugged. “I might not.” He sighed and sat down. “I want to ‘elp you, Penny.”\nPenny rubbed her forehead. “I-I don’t know what to say. You’re too generous.”\n“If you ask me, love, this bloke ‘as lost his mind.”\nRandy laid his keyboard on the kitchen table and started playing a tune.\n“’e’s got talent. Just no common sense. But wouldn’t she get in the way, mate?” Andrew said. “’e’s gonna make it soon. A record deal, touring and the like.”\nRandy began compiling a melody, humming and singing, “Mmmm, good bloke. ‘e’d give her a good life. A good life she deserved. Finally, a good life.”\nShe ran over to Randy and kissed him full on the lips.\n“Wow!” Randy chuckled.\nPenny smiled. “We share some kind of connection. I know it seems insane. We just met…”\n“Okay, you crazy love birds can ‘ave your honeymoon at the Siren this Friday. I’ll toss ya a bouquet!” Andrew shook his head and scoffed.\n“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew! Always jesting!” Randy walked over to his friend. “Will you be my best man, mate?”\n“Cut the charade, mate.”\n“All right, then, Penny, will you please try on the shoes?”\nShe picked them up, sliding them on. “What is your obsession with these shoes?”\n“Well, you’ll ‘ave lots of time, love, to practice walking in them in this flat. Yours now, too, if you’ll ‘ave it,” Randy said. “Right, mate?”\n“You always do wot you want, don’t you?” Andrew shook his head.\n“They fit pretty well,” Penny beamed as she tried walking from the kitchen to the living room. “Can I borrow them?”\nRandy walked over to her and gave her a hug.\n“I’ll stay overnight. No promises.”\n“But we’ll be friends, yeah?” Randy asked her, appearing very serious.\n“Yes. We’re friends.”\nPenny had never felt she belonged more than this in her life. Perhaps this place was home." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: I Love You Too\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2124\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone finds comfort in an unexpected event, place, or person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Redundant?” Harry asked. He melted into the plastic chair that had replaced the usual metal one, in front of the boss’s desk.\n “Yes, Harry. I’m very sorry. The company is cutting back. The decision was made based on sales. It’s nothing personal.” The man brought in to give the news wore a plain white shirt and a soft smile. “You’ll receive a year and a half of your salary in the redundancy package. The company will provide you with a glowing reference. This action is not taken maliciously. It is simply to cut costs, now that the firm is in administration.”\n “I see.” Sweat patches had formed under Harry’s armpits.\n “You will be expected to clean out your desk within the hour and leave the building. If you could leave your key card at the front desk or post it in later.”\n “Alright.” Wind whistled between Harry’s pink ears. A hot flush of embarrassment had overcome him. “A year and a half of my salary?”\n “Yes.” The man leaned over the desk. “Eighteen months of pay to help you find a new job. It’s a generous package.” Leaning over the desk, the deliberately bland man held out a hand for Harry to shake. “Good luck Harry.”\n “Thank you.” Harry looked at the floor. He wanted to stand, but his legs were led weights. “Are there many people being made redundant?”\n “There are others moving on from the company,” said the man with a voice that was soft as wilting daisies on a hot day.\n “You mean fired,” Harry said.\n “No. Someone who is fired does not receive redundancy.” There was a warning note in the man’s voice. Harry knew it was time to go.\nWeight lifted from Harry’s stomach. Light poured in through the shades of the fifth-floor window. Possibilities whispered to him. Hope returned.\n Adrenaline lifted Harry to his feet. He held out his hand. “Thank you.”\n “Huh?” The administrator’s face was a question mark.\n “I’ve been dreaming of quitting this job for three years. Now I don’t have to. Thank you very much,” Harry said with the same enthusiasm he’d given the boss ten years before when he’d been hired.\n “You’re welcome,” said the bland man, brow furrowing. “I don’t get a lot of people saying thank you in my line of work. Have a good day, Harry.”\n “I will,” said the unemployed cubicle drone.\nAs his foot stepped across the threshold of the door, Harry entered a world of new possibilities. Tension in his shoulders relaxed. Lower back pain was forgotten. A new ache in his cheeks told him he was smiling from ear to ear.\n “They’re keeping you?” Asked Gregg, who Harry had always wanted to throw down an elevator shaft.\n “No, I’m redundant.”\n “Then what do you look so happy about?” Gregg stood in his own sweaty suit, sharper cut that Harry’s, dark grey with a silky blue shirt and a maroon tie.\n A burly man stood over him at the desk. The badge on the man’s barrelled chest said SECURITY.\n Harry looked at the ‘Hang in There’ motivational poster of a rock climber suspended from a cliff. It summed up how he’d felt for years except the man in the photo was smiling. He peeled it off, rolled it up and handed it to Gregg. “You need this more than me now.”\n “I don’t want that.” The sneer worthy of Draco Malfoy brought back the impulse to punch the man’s teeth out, but Harry was too happy.\n “If you say so.” Dropping the poster in a bucket with scrap paper, he retrieved a photograph of his wife smiling and left.\n “You don’t want anything else?” Asked the security guard.\n “No. Here’s the key card, you’re walking me out right?” He handed it to the man.\n “Yes.” The guard looked at him in confusion.\nThe sky was brighter. Air hit his tongue sweeter than it had forever. He walked across the road to the convenience store and used the printer app on his phone. With ten copies of his CV, he tipped the cashier ten dollars and bought himself a family sized bar of chocolate.\n Chomping on the blueberry filled confectionary, Harry rubbed his aching cheeks.\n A woman with blue eyes and dazzling teeth smiled at him as he passed, both turning as they walked by. His heartbeat quickened. No. He touched the pocket of his shirt, feeling the photo of Pamela.\n Seeing a sign in a restaurant for STAFF WANTED, he walked on by. He’d worked as a waiter during university. He wasn’t going through that abuse again.\n A sign in a toy store caught his eye. DELIVERY STAFF WANTED, must have own car. He didn’t have a car. He did have a licence and could rent or buy one. He pushed through the door, a bell ringing above him.\n A grey-haired woman in a red and pink shirt smiled as he approached. Her teeth were white and grey, she looked like everyone’s grandmother. A photo of her and a man of similar age hung on the wall behind her.\n “I’d like to apply for the job. I don’t have a car, but I can rent one immediately.”\n “You don’t have a car, but you can rent one?” She smiled and turned her head to look at someone who wasn’t there. A smile was born and died on her lips in a moment.\n “Can I see your licence?” She reached out a hand covered in liver spots.\n He handed it over and stood, blissfully happy, watching her inspection.\n “No points?” She asked.\n “One, for a parking violation a few years ago.”\n “Uh huh. What’s in your pocket?” A veiny finger with a varnished nail pointed to his pocket.\n “My wife, a photo of her I mean.” He handed her the picture.\n “Cute, you’re a lucky man.” She handed it back.\n “I am. Thank you.”\n “There’s a rental place down the road. Rent something with a big boot, bring me the receipt to show you’ve got it for the week, and I’ll give you the job.”\n “Really?” He grinned; this was his day.\n “I need someone immediately. You’re well dressed, you’ve got the smile and you’re the first person to apply who doesn’t have teenage acne.”\n “Thank you very much. I’ll be right back with the rental receipt.”\nThat was it, he hired the car. He signed a contract and was given a uniform. He spent the next six hours delivering doll houses, action figures and bicycles around the city.\n He parked the car in the empty driveway in front of his house. He’d not called Pamela, but the lights were on.\n “Hey, I’m back.”\n “Harry?”\n “Yeah, sorry I’m late. I was all over the city today.” He hung up the now unnecessary suit jacket on a hook and removed the shoes he wanted to swap for sneakers.\nPamela was sitting at the table in the kitchen. Makeup smeared down her face. His pills lay in their bottles across the table.\n “When were you going to tell me about this?” She looked down at enough painkillers to put down an elephant.\n “Pamela.”\n “You know I use the computer as well Harry? You didn’t think I would see what you were searching on the internet?” She ran a hand through her straw-coloured hair.\n “You know about that?” The joy that had filled him like helium in a balloon since he’d left the offices left him in a rush.\n “What’s the least painful way to commit suicide?” She stared at him. Rage spelled itself out in the red veins of her crying eyes. “Yes, I read it, Harry. Two weeks ago.”\n “Two weeks?” He sat down at the table opposite her. “You didn’t tell me.”\n “How was I supposed to tell you?” She sobbed. Snot dribbled from her button nose. She grabbed handfuls of tissues to wipe it away. “How do you ask your husband if he’s going to kill himself? You never told me you were thinking about things like that. I found these pills in the garage when I searched the house. You were going to leave me? To kill yourself?”\n “No. Well-” Harry ran scratched the grey hair in his black mane. Shame settled down on his shoulders, taking the place of the depression that had been there for years.\n “I thought you loved me. How could you do this?” She stood up, throwing a bottle of pills at him. “What are you wearing?”\n “That’s what I wanted to tell you,” he said. He tugged at the polo shirt he wore. “I have a new job.”\n “New job?” The shock had snapped her out of sobbing.\n “I was made redundant today.”\n “What?”\n “The company is in administration. It was making huge losses for the last five years. My sales weren’t high enough, so they’ve given me a year and a half of my salary. I applied for a delivery job at a toy store, and they gave me it. I worked my first shift.”\n Pamela’s jaw hung open. Her eyes blinked with a blank look of incomprehension.\n “I’m sorry about this,” he picked up one of the pill bottles. “I’ve been hiding how I felt from you. That wasn’t right.”\n “You weren’t hiding it, Harry. I could see how you were. We sleep in the same bed every night. I knew something was wrong. I haven’t seen you smile in God knows how long.”\n “I was smiling today. As soon as I realised I wouldn’t have to go back to the office. I’ve hated it for so long. I wanted to quit but we needed the money for the mortgage.”\n “And now,” Pamela frowned, “you work in a toy store?”\n “Not exactly. I took a job doing deliveries. I rented a car. I’m going to buy something cheap when I get the first pay check. It was nice, just driving, having the radio on. I feel free.”\n “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Pamela nodded to a pharmacy’s worth of pills.\n “I was… Lost I guess is the word. I felt stuck. I didn’t want to tell you how I felt. I was ashamed that I couldn’t do well at work. I felt trapped and I didn’t know how to get out. This seemed like the easy option.”\n “Killing yourself? Harry. For God’s sake.” Tears dripped down her ruddy cheeks.\n “I know.” He stood and kneeled by her side, wrapping his arms around her. “I’m sorry. Let’s flush them all. I don’t want them anymore. I was desperate. I know I should have talked to you.” His blue eyes twitched as he began crying as well.\n Her arm pulled his head to her chest. They sobbed together.\n “You’re not going to do it are you? Kill yourself?” She asked.\n “No. I promise. I feel happy now. I’ll find another job while I’m working the delivery thing. We can do things at the weekends like we used to. I’m so sorry for not telling you about everything,” he said.\n “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you as well. I was scared that you might be pushed to do it if I mentioned it. I was worried you’d jump off the building at work.”\n “I know. I know.” He felt the fabric on her chest soaked with their tears.\n He kissed her, lips pressed to hers. Her arms pulled him up towards her. They locked together, still sobbing.\n “I love you, Pam,” he said as he pulled away.\n “I love you, Harry.” She kissed his hands. “I want to flush these things right now.”\n “OK. Let’s do it. Then I can show you the car.”\n “I can’t believe we have a car,” she laughed. The humour was dampened by her pain, but it sweetened as she looked at his shirt. “Pink?” She asked with a hint of mockery.\n “I know, it’s cheesy but I really liked working today. Travelling. Talking to people who I’m not ripping off.” He grabbed handfuls of pill bottles. “Let’s get rid of these.”\n Bottle after bottle rattled as pills spilled into the toilet bowl. They spun as the water swirled, down and away.\n “Let’s go for a drive,” Harry said. “I want to buy you dinner.”\n “Like this?” Pamela asked. “I look like a clown in the rain.”\n “Then let’s have a shower together. Remember we used to do that?”\n “I remember.” She took his hand and led him up the stairs.\n Throwing off their clothes, they squeezed into the shower and kissed beneath the hot flowing water. Washing each other lovingly with the soap, they forgot about going out.\n Dinner was frozen pizza and ice cream. Dessert was sex on the floor of the kitchen.\n “I love you, Pam.”\n “I love you too.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Revelations at the Communion Rail\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2072\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that starts with a character-revealing something unusual about themselves." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As an artist, not a writer, I ask that you please bear with me as I tell you this story from my far flung past. And if you think that's the big reveal in this story... Guess again.\n\nI was twelve, almost thirteen, that fateful day in 1982. Yes, the year of E.T., the Eye of the Tiger song, and the War in the Falklands. It was a sunny Sunday in June, when my Dad, Sal, my older brother, Alden, and I, all attended mid-morning mass at St. John Sebastian's Catholic Church in Toms River, New Jersey.\n\nNow before you get the idea we aren't typical Catholics, be it known we all had our Catholic, named after a Saint names, and our middle names, after everything from old relatives to the doctors who delivered us, that we actually used. So it was officially: James Salvador Manion, John Alden Manion, and me, Matthew Garrity Manion.\n\nMy Mom, Francis Jean (Sal always called her Jeanie), had stayed home with my younger sisters, who had been up vomiting all night from a bad batch of lemon chicken from the sketchy Chinese restaurant Sal insisted we try. Why? Because you got two entrees, rice and lo mein for $2.99 (remember, 1982 prices), to go only. I guess because they didn't want you there to heave in their bathrooms.\n\nAnyway, since Francis had been holding Amy and Brittany's (real first names: Mary and Joan) hair back all night as they rode the porcelain bus, they got a pass for having to come with us that morning.\n\nThe sermon had been like a double dose of Valium, and Alden had to elbow me in the ribs more than once when I started to nod off. The elbows went both ways as Sal had actually started in on the deep, guttural snore that Francis always complained about. She adapted by using earplugs, after Brittany started sleeping through the night. She had been told that rolling Sal over would do the trick, but since Sal dressed out at six foot, four inches and two-hundred eighty five pounds, it was like trying to flip a killer whale, so Francis saved herself a hernia and bought the earplugs.\n\nFather Pagucci had finally come to the end of his long sermon about the sins of the flesh, the kind of sinning I had been wanting to do since I turned eleven, and finally learned how to do (at least solo with the aid of tons of hand lotion) about six months earlier. It was time to bend the knees, hit the rail, eat the wafer and (my favorite part, since back then they used real Mogen David) take a shot of wine.\n\nFather Pagucci, with the Host, and Altar Boy Patrick, with the alcoholic blood of Christ, were proceeding slowly down the line, but they really hit a snag at ninety-three year old Mrs. Conception Gonzalez, or Cha-Cha to her friends, which there weren't many of any more. Also since last year's second broken hip, her cha-chaing days were over.\n\n“What the hell is taking so long?” Sal muttered, but we, and the people around us, could hear him easily.\n\n“Oh, it's just old Mrs. Gonzalez choking on the wafer again.” Alden said as he craned his neck to look down the line.\n\n“Aw, that rotten Mexican! First she blocks half the aisle with her stupid walker, now this?!” Sal retorted loudly. I mean he was still whispering, but the outburst caused Mrs. Morales and Mrs. Trevino to cross themselves and move further down the rail away from us.\n\n“Great, Dad!” I offered, still whispering of course. “The Mexicans serve the food at the Meet and Greet later. The word's gonna get around and we're gonna get screwed on the portion size.”\n\n“Is that all you ever think about? Food? Sal whisper bellowed.\n\nI didn't like to stand up to Sal because he was a bit free with his hands, especially when one was connecting to the back of my head, but I managed to blurt out: “No!” in response.\n\n“Oh, that's for sure, and he's got the hairy palms to prove it.” Alden said, snickering.\n\nAt that, Mr. and Mrs. O'Doyle, the septuagenarian couple on the other side of us, that went to DAILY Mass, got up and moved further down the communion rail from us. We now had two huge gaps on our left and our right. The three of us looked like the island of Guam. But that's when the fun really started as Sal and Alden began a little sotto voce back and forth that took an interesting turn.\n\n“Oh, God, they're still whacking her on the back!” Sal said, as he looked down the line at Mrs. Gonzalez.\n\n“And they really shouldn't. Cha-Cha's got osteoporosis.” Alden said, sympathetically.\n\n“Hey, that reminds me, Alden, don't forget to light a candle for Jenny's Mom on our way out. She's got that plumbing thing that she's going to the doctor about on Monday, right?” Sal said.\n\n“Well, she had a pap smear that came out a little weird.”\n\nAt that, the large family with the small children to our left gap and the young couple to our right gap, nudged further away from us.\n\n“Don't say pap smear while we're kneeling here!” Sal was loud at first, then brought it down.\n\n“Sorry. Look, I'll light the candle, but Jenny and me... We sorta... Broke up, Dad.”\n\n“Why? Jenny seemed like a fine, young lady.”\n\n“And better yet, I heard she let everybody get to second base.” I chipped in.\n\n“Shut-up, Jergens!” Alden snapped back.\n\n“So, what happened with Jenny?” Sal said. “Did you meet somebody cuter? Smarter?”\n\nAlden hesitated. I saw a bead of sweat trickle down his right side burn (the side I was on). Something was up.\n\n“Cuter? Smarter? To me, yeah.”\n\nAlden's voice was tight, like when he had to tell Mom he flunked a test or got detention. Something was Major League up.\n\n“So who is she?” Sal prodded. “I haven't seen any new girls around the house. Just that study partner of yours, Joey what's his name.”\n\n“Uh... Yeah, Dad... About him...”\n\nSomething was so up it was in the stratosphere!\n\n“So who is she?”\n\nYeah, who is...She?” I added, already sensing the bomb Alden was about to drop. I mean he played with dolls till he was eight, and had tea parties with Mom till he was ten.\n\n“She's a he! Dad, I'm Gay.”\n\n“GAY!”\n\nIt was at that very moment Pagucci and Patrick snuck up on us as they jumped the gap on our left side and was right smack in front of my poor, shocked, bewildered Dad. Father Pagucci, his eyes peeled open so wide I thought he was about to have a stroke, simply offered Sal the wafer.\n\nSal, ever the pragmatist, simply cupped his hands and said: “Body of Christ.”\n\nThen Patrick, with shaky hands, offered Sal the Community Cup.\n\nSal took it. Said: “Blood of Christ” Then drank from it.\n\nPagucci offered Alden two wafers as if to tell him he REALLY needed the Host today. Alden dutifully took them both, crossed himself, and crunched.\n\nPatrick, forgetting to wipe off the Community Cup with the Community Rag, offered it to Alden, with his arms stretched out so far I thought he was Reed Richards.\n\nThen Pagucci got to me. I took the wafer and surreptitiously dropped it down behind me as I wanted to get to that wine. I snatched the cup out of Patrick's shaky, sweaty mitts and gulped down so much of what was left in the Community Cup, Patrick had to turn to Joseph, the Altar Boy behind him with the Community Pitcher, to get a refill.\n\nWe left the communion rail silently. We drove halfway home silently. I thought that I might beat the odds and not have to hear any more about it, but no such luck.\n\n“How can you be Gay, Alden?!” Sal burst out. “You were Bi-District Wrestling Champ!”\n\nBoth Alden and I groaned in unison, then Alden offered: “Dad... Wrestling? Other muscular guys... Sweating and grabbing?”\n\n“Oh, it makes sense now.” Sal said, stunned at the realization.\n\n“What does?\n\n“Why I could never get you interested in baseball.”\n\nA few blocks of dead silence later...\n\n“But, Alden, how am I gonna tell your Mother about this?”\n\n“Mom already knows, Dad. I told her like two years ago, when I was sure. I kept dating girls cuz your blood pressure was a little high back then, and now that you're on that new pill and it seems more normal... Well, I figured it was time to come out.”\n\n“Out? Out where? The backyard?! Whaddya mean, OUT!?!”\n\nThat's when I chimed in: “He means he's gonna tell everybody he's a HOMO!” I admit, looking back at it, not the most delicate way of phrasing it, but my first thoughts, like any tween, almost teen, was about myself. I figured I was never going to live through the eighth grade! Toms River was loaded with Jersey Boys whose favorite game at recess was Smear Da Queer. It wouldn't be much of a stretch for those knuckle-draggers to extend it to Smear Da Queer's Little Brother.\n\n“Tell everybody? Oh, NO, you're NOT!”\n\n“But, Dad...”\n\n“No, Alden, in my day homosexuality stayed where it belonged. In the CLOSET!”\n\n“Been there. Done that. Dad, how can I be myself around people, if they don't know what's in my heart?”\n\n“Heart? Heart?! Alden, you're almost a man. You're about to enter polite Catholic Society. When you do that you give up what's in your heart!”\n\nAlden and I gave out a deeper and longer groan.\n\n“That didn't come out right, son.”\n\n“No kidding? Look, Dad, Joey wants to come out too. Be open about our relationship.”\n\n“Wait a minute! Study buddy, Joey is...?”\n\n“Butt buddy, Joey!”\n\n“Shut-up, Garrity!” Alden seethed, not pleased with my input.\n\n“Oh, my God!” Sal said, as he absently crossed himself. “And you two were alone in your bedroom so much.”\n\n“It's not like that. Joey and me... We haven't gone that far yet.”\n\nSal looked insanely relieved, then I stuck my foot in it again.\n\n“Still, my own brother lip-locking with Joey Rabinowitz.”\n\n“He's a Jew?!” Dad yelled, almost swerving into a mailbox as he said it.\n\n“I thought you'd be a little more upset that he's a guy?!”\n\n“Don't tell me what to be upset about! How are you gonna raise the kids?! Why am I asking that?”\n\nSal stopped the car. He pulled over in front of the park Alden and I had both played in when we were younger. There was the jungle gym, the swing set, the teeter-totter and the big shade tree to rest under when we were spent.\n\n“Alden... I'm sorry. But when you have a son... You want him to be safe. To have a life easier than the way you had it. You don't want him... Hurt or hated... For being too honest with the world.”\n\nIt was about as profound as my Dad, Sal, ever got. And even from the back seat I could see the tears welling in his eyes, the kind of big cow tears a good Jersey Man would never let flow, but they were there. Alden could see them too.\n\n“I know you're worried, but I've got to do this. Unless you're gonna tell me that you're one of those people who would hate me or hurt me because of who I am?”\n\nSal looked at Alden. Put his huge hand on my brother's shoulder, and gave it a couple of gentle pats. Then he started the car, and said simply...\n\n“I got your back, kid.”\n\nI couldn't believe as the years went by it took Sal longer to get over the Jew thing than the Gay thing, but eventually he got over both. He proudly walked Alden down the aisle to marry Joey some thirty-one years later when it finally became legal in New Jersey.\n\nTo me he was the brother that defended me when I wanted to go to college to study art instead of what my parents called: something useful. To my kids, Alden and Joey were always their fave, fab, uncles that they'd always go to for advice and fashion tips.\n\nAnd it all started in that brave moment of revelation at that communion rail in 1982." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Into the Crawlspace\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 2892\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who discovers a mysterious object in their home." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“You—what?”\nQuentin sighed and readjusted his grip on the tree branch. “For the last time, I found a giant stone fox statue in the crawlspace behind my closet and I don’t know how to get it out on my own and I can’t fall asleep with it there because there’s a hole in my closet from that time that we locked Quade in there back in seventh grade.”\n“So? There’s still a door for the crawlspace, right? Ergo, no problem,” Alexander slurred. He rubbed his eyes and looked up to where the stars would be if it wasn’t for all the light pollution. It was far too early for this. “It’s way too early for this. If it bugs you so much, just sleep in Quade’s room. Or get one of your sisters to do it. Isn’t Susanne home for the summer?”\n“San’s still out.”\n“Okay, then sleep in Quade’s room. He won’t care.” The balmy summer air invaded Alexander’s lovely air-conditioning.\nQuentin looked at him beseechingly. “I can’t sleep in Quade’s room, he’s got a bunk and I can’t sleep in a bunk because last time—”\n“I know, I know, you fell out and broke your wrist.” Alexander sighed and pressed his forehead against the window screen. He couldn’t say no to Quentin, even if it was two in the morning. His stupid, ridiculous, big, brown puppy eyes were too persuasive. “Fine, I’ll help you move the stupid—what did you say it was?”\n“A giant stone fox,” Quentin repeated. Working in silent tandem, they quickly removed the screen and Alexander set it gently next to his window.\n“Like, as in Stone Fox? Like the book?” Alexander managed to wedge his shoulders out of the window. If they got any broader, he wouldn’t be able to get out anymore.\n“No, you moron.” Quentin grabbed Alexander’s forearm to help him onto the limb and Alexander felt the blood rush to his face. Hopefully it was too dark to see. “Like a fox. A fox fox. Vulpes Vulpes. But big and stone and in my crawl space.”\n“Don’t say moron like your situation is any more likely.” Together, they clambered down the old oak tree, the way they’d done for the past twelve years. Skirting Mrs. Watson’s yard even though her snappy pinscher was long gone, they snuck through the side door Quentin had left cracked.\nEven though Alexander had just heard confirmation that the house was empty, he still tried to keep as quiet as possible and winced when Quentin turned on the lights. “Where are Quade and your folks again?”\n“Katharine’s flight leaves at four, so they’re staying with her at the airport to see her off.” Quentin lead Alexander up to the second floor of their house.\n“You’re being a bad brother.”\n“Hey, at least Susanne’s being a bad sister with me.” Quentin shrugged. “Plus, Mom doesn’t like to leave the house completely empty. She’s afraid of burglars.”\n“Oh yeah, like you’d be any help if someone tried to break in. Here, give me a second.” Alexander walked past Quentin’s room and slowly opened the door to Quade’s room. He popped his head in, making completely sure that Quade truly wasn’t home.\nQuentin pushed his back, paying no mind to the respect that Alexander was trying to show. “Why do you want in here?” he asked, flicking on the light aggressively and looking around his twin’s pristine room disdainfully. “Gonna pay a prank or something?”\n“No, no, of course not. I just wanted to see Sir Beans.” Alexander watched the gerbil affectionately as it ran on its wheel and ignored him completely.\nQuentin shrugged. “Just as well. I already put glitter on his fan blades.”\n“Dude, that’s brutal.” Blowing a kiss at the gerbil once he was sure Quentin wasn’t looking anymore, Alexander followed Quentin into his room, carefully picking over the clothes that littered his floor. “Alright. Now, are you going to show me that… stone wolf, or whatever? I wanna go back to sleep.”\n“It’s a fox. And yeah, come this way.” Quentin opened the door to his closet and beckoned Alexander in. Once Quentin closed the door, they were only a few inches apart.\n“We’re almost too big to both stand in here,” Quentin remarked nonchalantly.\n“Yes,” said Alexander, very chalantly. To make things less shaded and close, Alexander clicked on his phone.\nQuentin scowled and snatched it from his hand. “Really? Still?!”\n“What?” Alexander smiled. His lock screen was still the picture he’d taken last summer when their families had gone to an amusement park and he and Quade had made Quentin go on a roller coaster even though he couldn’t stand heights. Quentin hadn’t let them officially buy the photo, but Alexander had snuck a stealthy shot while Quade had distracted the booth employee and Quentin’s terrified grimace had forever been captured on Alexander’s phone. “It’s hilarious.” And adorable. Alexander grabbed his phone back and turned on the flashlight.\n“It’s embarrassing,” Quentin whined. “It wouldn’t be so bad except you sent it to Quade and he made prints. Who even has print photos anymore?”\nTogether, they swung up the hatch that lead to the crawl space. It wasn’t as tight a squeeze as his window was, but it still was a considerable effort for both boys to clamber into the crawl space.\nAlexander propped the hatch open with the provided peg. “So, where’s this…”\n“Stone fox,” Quentin finished, pointing slightly to the right.\nAlexander shined his flashlight passed Quentin’s finger and the light fell upon a large, grey fox statue, just as Quentin had said. Its soulless black eyeholes bore into Alexander. Unsettling.\n“Woah. I kinda thought you were just kidding around.” Making sure to keep on the boards that kept him from crashing through the ceiling, Alexander crept towards the statue, stopping a few feet away to avoid running into Quentin. “I was expecting something… smaller.” The darkness seemed all consuming, all but that fox. Alexander shivered. The crawl space seemed colder somehow than the rest of the house.\nQuentin shrugged. With only the light still coming in from the hatch and Alexander’s flashlight beam, his face was almost consumed in long, severe shadow. “I don’t know what to tell you. Freaky though, isn’t it?”\n“What were you doing in your closet at one in the morning anyway?” Alexander edged forwards, towards the fox. It stared at him, both coaxing him forwards and forcing him to shy away.\n“Looking for my DS. One of Ada’s kids got into Pokémon recently and I wanted to show my niece how a real gamer does things.” Quentin crouched. “Now, how do you think we’re going to get it out?”\n“I’m more interested in how it got here in the first place.” Alexander tried to keep his balance while looking over the top of Quentin’s head. “Maybe we should switch places.”\n“Good idea.” Quentin straightened as best he could and straddled a nearby board. “Can you get around?”\n“I don’t think so, I don’t want to fall through. Maybe we should get out and come back in again?”\nQuentin grimaced. “Sure, fine. You first.”\nAlexander edged backwards as well as he could, keeping along the board, but as he swiveled his torso to reach for the hatch, it suddenly swung shut, plunging the crawl space into complete darkness. Alexander jumped in fright and almost fell off the beam—Quentin caught his arm in time.\n“Woah, that was spooky.” Alexander couldn’t tell if Quentin’s face was paler than normal or if it was just the abrasive light of the flashlight.\n“Yeah. Can’t say I liked that too much.”\n“Open it back up.”\nGingerly, Alexander pried back open the hatch and slipped back out of it into the closet, holding the hatch open so Quentin could come back through as well.\n“Huh. I don’t feel any drafts. And that peg‘s never fallen like that before.”\n“Maybe you propped it up wrong,” Quentin teased. “Get in.”\nAlexander lead the way this time. Looking at the fox was weirder without Quentin as a buffer. “Turn on your flashlight too, that way it won’t just be mine.”\n“My phone’s downstairs.”\n“Why’s your phone downstairs?”\n“Why’re you so worried about it?” Quentin countered. “Scared?”\n“Of course not.” Alexander edged towards the fox. “Besides, you’re the fraidy cat. Just look at my lock screen.”\nQuentin bopped the screen with his palm, causing the flashlight beam to shake terribly. “You can’t blame me for that. You put me in a situation where you knew I’d be terrified and they just happened to take that picture and then Quade just happened to show it to everyone on the team.”\nAlexander ignored this comment. “Man, this thing is creepy. How do you think we’re going to get it out of here?”\n“I don’t know. Try grabbing it maybe?”\nThat was the last thing Alexander wanted to do, but if Quentin asked, he would oblige. Besides, his energy was waning again and he wanted to crawl back into his bed.\n“Here, take my phone, shine the light so I can see.” With Quentin holding the light behind him rather unhelpfully, Alexander reached towards the fox and awkwardly began to put his arms around it.\nHowever, just as he touched the fox, he found the surface warm and as he jumped back into Quentin, the hatch slammed shut again. \n“What was that for? You jostled the peg.” Quentin put his hands on Alexander’s shoulders, helping him back to his feet.\n“The—the fox is hot,” Alexander said, aware of how stupid it sounded.\n“What are you talking about?”\n“The fox. It’s warm.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the fox and its heavy, coal black eyeholes.\n“That’s ridiculous. Here, take your phone.” Quentin handed Alexander the phone and then scooted backwards. “Hmm. That’s funny.”\nAlexander tore his gaze back towards Quentin. “What’s strange?”\n“The hatch. It won’t open back up.”\n“What do you mean it won’t open?”\n“It won’t open. It’s like it’s locked or something.”\n“You can’t lock a hatch door.”\n“I don’t know what to tell you!”\n“Here, let me try. Hold this.” Alexander handed Quentin his phone and edged along the board with him until they were almost nose to nose. Alexander quickly turned towards the hatch.\n“You’re right.” No matter how Alexander pressed into it, it wouldn’t open. His heart began to beat a little faster. “We’re stuck in here.”\nQuentin began to breathe heavily. “Can’t you open it? Try ramming it.” He aimed the flashlight at the hatch.\nKeeping his balance on the board, Alexander screwed his eyes closed and knocked into the hatch over and over, but it refused to budge.\n“Alexander.”\n“What? I’m trying to—”\n“Alexander!”\nAlexander turned back to Quentin, who still had the flashlight aimed at the hatch. “What? What is it?”\nQuentin didn’t say anything, so Alexander followed his gaze to the fox, whose eyeholes were no longer coal black and now blazed red.\nAlexander felt the breath leave his lungs. “It’s—”\n“Shh!” Quentin clapped a hand over Alexander’s mouth. “Do you hear that?”\nAlexander held what breath he had left, but he couldn’t hear anything. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered nonetheless.\n“Exactly. Doesn’t it sound… a little too silent?”\nQuentin was right, Alexander realized. Something was missing. “Maybe the furnace went off?”\n“Why would the furnace be on in the summer?”\n“I don’t know,” Alexander hissed, “I’m just—”\n“Alexander!”\n“What?”\n“What is that?” Quentin aimed his light at the fox, whose eyes were still glowing red. Then Alexander saw what he meant—something from under the fox was leaking over the floorboards, spreading over the boards closer to them.\n“What… what is that?” Alexander repeated, inching backwards toward the hatch that wouldn’t open.\n“That’s what I’m asking!”\nThe thick liquid reached Quentin’s feet, and he leapt backwards, dropping Alexander’s phone. It pointed up, casting long and heavy shadows around the room “Do you think its—”\nAlexander didn’t answer, but when he aimed the flashlight at the fox, he saw what Quentin meant. The liquid was red, staining the boards a deep crimson that stuck to Quentin’s hand as he reached into it.\n“Blood.”\n“Yes,” Alexander squeaked. He pressed his palm to his neck, feeling his heartbeat thrum faster. “Blood. There’s a bunch of blood coming out of that fox, I—”\nBefore Alexander could finish his sentence, he and Quentin watched in horror as blood began to seep from the fox’s red eyeholes, pouring down its muzzle to drip on the ground.\n“Quentin—” started Alexander, but before he could say anything else, he and Quentin whipped their heads to the left, startled by a terrible, distant wail.\nQuentin was trembling when the wail died down. “What—what was that? It didn’t sound human.”\nAlexander’s breathing quickened. Before he could respond, the cry came again, louder this time.\n“Is it in the house?” Quentin hissed.\n“No, I don’t, I don’t think—”\nThump. Something pounded on the hatch, causing it to shake.\nAlexander spun towards the hatch, clutching Quentin’s shoulders. Thump.\n“There’s something out there,” Quentin breathed in his ear. “It’s in my room.”\n“Shhh!” Thump.\nThe cry sounded again, from right outside the hatch, barely muffled by the violent pounding of Alexander’s heart in his ears. Thump. Alexander started shaking.\n“It’s right outside the door.”\nThe cry started up, right beyond the hatch, mixed with the thumping on the hatch.\nAlexander’s hands went cold. He was about to die.\n“It’s right outside,” Quentin whispered urgently. “It’s coming. It’s coming!”\n“Quentin,” Alexander blurted suddenly, dizzy with fear. “I like you, a lot. Like, not as a friend, and I couldn’t die without—”\nSuddenly, the cry and thumping stopped and Quentin straightened his back, a differently startled look on his face.\n“Uh.”\n“Sorry, but I—”\n“No, wait,” said Quentin, and with all of his previous fear gone, he crept over to the hatch and, surprisingly, opened it without problem. Behind the hatch stood Quade and Susanne, both with gaped open mouths. Susanne held a camera in her hands.\nAlexander felt the blood return to his face. “What’s going on?”\nQuade and Susanne stepped back so that Alexander and Quentin could leave the crawl space. They gathered in Quentin’s room.\n“Uh,” said Susanne, exchanging glances with her younger brothers. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna go make a grilled cheese, if anyone, uh—”\nAwkwardly setting the camera down on Quentin’s bed, Susanne left.\nAlexander looked at Quentin and Quade. “What’s going on here?”\nQuade pursed his lips. “Well, we—”\n“It was a prank,” Quentin said quickly. His wide brown eyes met Alexander’s and for the first time in twelve years, Alexander couldn’t read them. “To… to make up for the time on the roller coaster.”\n“And when you two locked me in the closet,” Quade added.\n“We just… we figured you needed a time to be… to be… Quade, could you give us a moment?”\nQuentin’s twin looked back and forth between the two for a moment before leaving the room.\nAlexander’s face was burning. “It was… it was all a prank?”\n“Uh… yeah. Quade and San were in on it, they held the hatch and played the sounds. We found a trapdoor leading out to a crawl space when we were cleaning out Katharine’s room and that’s when we put the statue up there. It’s hollowed out, so we put water balloons in it and filled them with fake blood so it’d leak out.”\nAlexander nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose… I suppose I deserved that, after showing that picture to the team.”\n“I didn’t know that you—”\n“Forget it.” Alexander bit his lip. He’d ruined everything with his best friend. “Forget it. Forget I said anything, please. Please, I don’t want to—”\n“I like you too.”\n“Forg—what?”\n“I like you too. Like, not a friend.” Quentin’s face pinkened.\n“Oh.” Alexander stared at him. Suddenly, every flicker of adrenaline and energy bled from his body and Alexander almost fainted from pure exhaustion. “Oh. You, uh, you do?”\n“Yeah. I just didn’t want to tell you because I thought you were straight and I…”\n“Didn’t want to ruin our friendship?”\n“Yeah.”\nFor a second, they both looked down at the floor.\n“Should we…” Quentin pursed his lips. “Should we talk about it?”\n“Could we not? I mean, until later, I guess.” Quentin looked put out, so Alexander continued. “I’m just… really tired, and that was such a roller coaster of emotions.”\n“Oh. Well, do you… do you want to go back home and go to bed?”\nInstinctively, Alexander shook his head. “No, I don’t… I don’t think so.”\n“Okay…”\nAlexander shuffled his feet. “I could… I could go for a grilled cheese, if Susanne was making them.”\nQuentin nodded slowly. “You know, I always kinda thought you had a crush on her.”\n“Yeah, no, uh, no.”\n“Yeah, I got that.”\nSlowly, carefully, silently, they made their way downstairs, where Susanne had already made one of her patented three-in-the-morning grilled cheeses. While she was making her second, the two stood in the living room, quietly.\n“Do you,” started Quentin, speaking far slower than normal, “do you, uh, do you want to watch Spaceballs?”\n“Sure,” said Alexander. “Yeah, that’d be… that’d be fun.”\nThe two sat down on the couch, and when Susanne walked in ten minutes later to give them their sandwiches, she gracefully pretended not to notice Quentin’s hand intertwined with Alexander’s." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Walking to a Special Place\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1157\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where someone finds comfort in an unexpected event, place, or person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Bob, A New Employee Asks a Question\n “Where is the boss going? I just saw him rush out the front door of the building, and head down the road somewhere.”\n “You’re new here, aren’t you, Bob? You don’t know about the boss’ walks to his special place. He goes there whenever he has a hard time resolving some problem or other. He will come back when it is resolved. It seems to work every time. He comes back with a smile. Don’t worry”. \nThe Boss’s Thoughts as He Walks\n ‘I cannot resolve this mess without ‘the place’ helping me get through it. I know that. It has never failed me before. And on a cold day like this I am certain that the ideas and the confidence will both flow. Ah, here I am. The magic will soon begin.’\nAn Onlooker from an Office Window\n ‘There he goes again, the poor guy. I wonder whether he is homeless. I’m not sure as his clothes don’t look tattered. He must have got first pick at the shelter. It is too bad he doesn’t have anything warmer to wear. His feet are going to freeze. I should get an old pair from my closet and give it to him the next time I see him’.\nThe Boss Again After A Long Time at ‘the Place’\n ‘Fantastic. The ideas have come to me like warmth on frozen feet. The employees won’t have to worry about my making job cuts or even lowering their pay. These ideas could lead to raises and more hires. All it took was a little confidence on my part. The place has eased my soul again, and enabled me to think clearly.’\nA Week Later\nThe Onlooker Tries to Help the Boss\n There he is again. I am ready for him this time. I’ve got some warm shoes and a decent coat for him to wear. I’ll head out there right now\nBob Follows the Boss\n Bob feels a little bewildered by his new job. It is his first full-time job. The people he is working with are fine, but he is confused by more than just a few things that he has to do. He doesn’t want to ask too many questions, as his workmates might think him stupid.\n It is his break, and he is looking out the window, and drinking a coffee. That sometimes helps. It isn’t long before he sees the boss going for one of his walks. He feels an impulse that he should follow him, and try to do so unnoticed. He just has to maintain a certain distance behind the man. Maybe if he finds the boss’s comfort place, it might work for him too once the boss has left.\nBob Slips Out of the Office\n Bob slips out of the office, and onto the sidewalk. He hopes that he wasn’t noticed. He soon spots the boss walking not too far ahead of him. Then the boss stops. A stranger approaches him, carrying a pair of shoes or boots and a coat.. Bob moves quickly behind a nearby truck. In that way he can see but not be seen.\n He has to laugh. The stranger is trying to give him the boots and the coat. He believes that the boss is homeless, and is just wandering about. Maybe it has something to do with his destination, his ‘special place.’\n The boss laughs, and so, soon afterwards, does the stranger. The stranger heads back to the nearest building. The boss moves on. Bob follows, maintaining a constant distance so he won’t be seen.\n Then the boss stops walking. He stands still, not moving. Bob takes a look at the place and cannot believe where the boss is standing. That can’t be a place where anyone would want to stand for any long period of time.\n His curiosity gets the better of him. Bob has to ask the boss what he is doing. Doesn’t he know what will happen if he stands there too long?\nThe Boss Tells His Story\n Hi Bob. I thought that might be you that was following me. I reckon that you want to know why I came here. Stand right here now. My story goes like this. It was a cold day in January in my last semester in high school. I had been thinking a lot about what I wanted to do with my adult life and getting nowhere. My parents and buddies had asked me, but I did not have any kind of answer to give them. I went for a walk just to escape both my lonely room and the possibility of parental advice. It was a long walk, I soon discovered that it was colder outside than I had thought that it was. I hadn’t thought of the weather when I left, just my need to escape. I also felt like I think that Bob Dylan did when he wrote “Like a Rolling Stone”. I was feeling that I had “no direction home” at this stage of my life. I wasn’t where I had been for years, and I didn’t know where I was headed.\n After about an hour’s walk I had another feeling come over me, more physical but also emotional. My feet were freezing. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they were frost bit. If I turned around and tried to head back home, that would certainly happen. I wouldn’t be able to run fast enough to rescue my feet. I felt in that moment at the peak of my purposelessness. Then, quite by accident, I found a solution. I was standing over a sewer. I stood there because I felt a little warmth seeping up to my feet. Maybe it would delay the frostbite. Standing on the sewer, I came to realize that it was doing more than that. It was warming my feet to such an extent that I knew they would not freeze. Physical comfort soon came, and with it an accompanying calm, and clarity of mind”.\n “So there was no scary sewer clown like in Stephen King’s “It,” no Pennywise to grab you by the leg.”\n “Nope, and no Pound Foolish either.”\n Bob looked a little stunned by that remark but had to ask a question.\n “Now I feel a little nervous asking this of you as my boss, but could I use this place too? I’m having a harder time than I would have imagined, getting accustomed to the job. Don’t get me wrong. It is a good job, and I like it, but I am often confused..\n “Go right ahead, I don’t have exclusive rights to the place. But I will give you one bit of advice. Are you married, Bob?”\n “Yes, I am.”\n “Well I would advise you to take a shower and change your clothes before you sit down to dinner with your wife. I had to learn to do that.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Brittle Trombone\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1317\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone learning how to play an instrument." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Did you want me to dust around the mantelpiece too?\" said the thin, pale teenager with the unruly hair.\n\n\"No, I really want the mantelpiece to stay dirty. And it would fill me with joy for you to accommodate me on that one.\" answered the crusty, old curmudgeon seated on the black leather recliner.\n\nNow, high school sophomore Lindsey Garrett was only there because the court mandated that he serve 60 hours of community service for his fun but unauthorized ride around the golf course in a doctor's golf cart.\n\nIt was officially grand theft since the doctor's very expensive golf clubs were still in the back of the cart as Lindsey drove it around and his fun jaunt quickly turned into a not so fun stay in juvenile hall, then an appearance before a judge that made the snippy old fart he was currently dusting for seem like a sweetheart in comparison.\n\nAs for Martin Azzo, he was in the middle of a 2 week staycation when he fell and broke his hip at a drug store. Oddly enough he was there to buy more ibuprofen for his aching back, which always seemed to act up when it was about to rain.\n\nSure enough the night he laid in a hospital bed in terrible pain from the fall that was the result of overzealous waxing of the pharmacy floor, it was pouring rain.\n\nThe next day his surgery went well, or as well as could be expected. The rehab in the noisy, dirty facility they sent him to for 2 weeks was painful, but all his insurance would cover.\n\nMartin looked forlornly at the walker he'd been using since he came home 2 days ago and popped another pain pill. He wasn't at all sure if he was popping it from the pain in his hip or the fact that he was getting a headache watching what passed for \"work\" by this bag of bones teenager.\n\nLindsey finally looked up from his constant texting back and forth to see... IT! It was a gleaming brass trombone mounted on a huge oak plaque. He tried to get closer to read the lettering on the small silver plate underneath the trombone but the chime of another text stopped him.\n\n\"So what's his name?\" Martin said responding to hearing yet another beep from Lindsey's phone.\n\n\"Him? Is it that obvious?\"\n\n\"Don't worry, kid, you're not exactly flitting around my apartment.\"\n\n\"But you noticed.\"\n\n\"Son, I've been able to spot that since I was 9 years old and my confirmed bachelor uncle got drunk at my sister's wedding and ended up dancing the night away in one of the bridesmaid's dresses. It became a combination wedding and coming out party, so to speak. Of course all us kids always knew something was up with Uncle Morty.\"\n\n\"That was brave. Even today... Well, trust me, your Uncle Morty had guts,\"\n\n\"Yeah, he had guts and according to my bone scan I got osteoporosis. Which is why this hip broke on a linoleum floor falling from a standing position.\"\n\n\"How did you know it was...?\"\n\n\"From the way you'd text and smile with that far away twinkle in your eye, I knew you weren't texting a fellow science geek about your chemistry homework.\"\n\n\"Does that show too?!\"\n\n\"Educated guess on the geek part, but the texts you were receiving and sending definitely had romance written all over them. That goo-goo eyed love that only a teenager in high school could possibly feel.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me you actually get jaded as you get older?\" he said trying to match Martin's sarcasm.\n\n\"I was pretty cynical even when I was 12, but yes, it happens. The more the world craps on you, the more you're apt to be a touch suspicious of it.\"\n\n\"A touch?\"\n\n\"Okay, in my case it's a grope, but I wouldn't lie to you. So do you like him a lot and does he share in your eye twinkle?\"\n\nLindsey had moved over to the wall and read off the engraving on the silver plate under the slide of the trombone.\n\n\"To Martin Azzo. The Best in Brass and Double in Class.\" Lindsey read off the small plate.\n\n\"Yeah, they just put it that way cuz it rhymed. I never had any class.\"\n\n\"But you were a musician?\"\n\n\"Yup. They used to call me the Bodacious Trombone. Now I guess they can call me the Brittle Trombone.\"\n\n\"Did you always love music?\"\n\n\"Nope. I loved getting laid. And chics dig the guys in the band. Even if it's the trombone player.\"\n\n\"What's wrong with the trombone player?\"\n\n\"You ever hear any Big Band instrumentals with a nice trombone solo? It's a back up instrument, made to be part of an ensemble. Try to play Moon River on that thing? It sounds like Pop Goes the Weasel.\"\n\n\"Can you teach me?\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\nThe phone beeped again. Lindsay checked it and smiled his dopey in love smile, then displayed the phone to Martin with a wry grin.\n\n\"Frederick's a musician. Concert band at school. And they never have enough trombone players, so even if I can just get a little good by the end of the summer. I might be able to make it in when fall semester begins.\"\n\n\"If I teach you, crap-head, you won't just be getting a little good. You'll be getting...\"\n\n\"Bodacious?\"\n\n\"I get the feeling Frederick might say you're already that.\"\n\n\"Can I get it down from the wall?\"\n\n\"Are you kidding? That one is welded to that mounting. Open the closet behind you and grab the one I occasionally play.\"\n\nLindsey opened the closet door and there, out of its case, was a gleaming trombone.\n\n\"You must use it a lot. You keep it awfully shiny.\"\n\n\"Yup. It's got my spit in it and everything.\"\n\n\"Uh... Your brittle bone stuff isn't contagious is it?\"\n\n\"You'd better hope not. Pick it up. Put it to your mouth, and see what kind of sound you can make.\"\n\nLindsey tried it, and made one of the worst sounding noises he'd ever heard.\n\n\"Does it always sound like that?\"\n\n\"Give it here.\"\n\nLindsey passed Martin the trombone. Martin proceeded to issue forth a rousing little riff utilizing the slide like an expert.\n\n\"You'll be doing that by next week.\"\n\n\"Are you kidding?\"\n\n\"Nope. Just depends on how often you come over. Cuz my insurance doesn't pay for a nurse and your city mandated servitude is only for 2 hours every other day to clean up. But if your skinny ass can help me get to the toilet, maybe crack the whip on me about doing my daily physical therapy... Well, you might make it worth my while teaching you.\"\n\nMartin tossed the trombone back to Lindsey as he fumbled to catch it and not let go of his ever beeping cell phone.\n\n\"Try it again,\" Martin said flatly.\n\n\"Uh... I really have to help you poop?\"\n\n\"No, Dork-a-riffic, you have to help me get on and off the toilet. I can crap on my own. Was potty trained when I was 2.\"\n\n\"Are you this much of a dick when you're teaching?\"\n\n\"More so, but that's why you're gonna get good, kid. That's why you're gonna get good.\"\n\n\"Uh... Well...\"\n\nLindsey looked at the phone then at the trombone.\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"I'm just wondering if Frederick's worth it.\"\n\n\"You'd better decide. I feel a turd coming on.\"\n\nAnd that day a bond was forged in teenage lust, middle aged need, and musical revelry. For years after Frederick was a bitter sweet memory of a first love and Lindsey gave a moving, tear filled eulogy at Martin's funeral... Lindsey Garrett would still be playing his trombone, Martin's old trombone, in the band that he formed fresh out of college. The name of that band was of course: The Brittle Trombone." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Wally's Water World\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1100\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character whose job is to bring water to people." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: Swearing\n\n\"I know it's your first day on the job and all, but don't worry, man. You're gonna do great. Trust me. We're happy to have you here at Wally's Water World.\"\n\n\"Thanks. I'm happy to be here.\"\n\n\"Great!\"\n\n\"I gotta tell you the truth, though. I only applied because my mom told me she would kick me out if I didn't get a job. She said thirty-five is too old to be unemployed.\"\n\n\"That's great too. Exactly the type of can-do, highly motivated, problem-solving attitude we're looking for at Wally's Water World. Glad to have another member of the family joining us.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm glad to be of help. Even if I didn't think you guys were a real business. I mean, a restaurant that serves only water? Never heard of that before. That's different.\"\n\n\"Mmm. Well, I can assure you we're quite real. All flesh and blood here. You can feel my hat if you don't believe me.\"\n\n\"That's okay. I believe you.\"\n\n\"No, go on. It's not as wet as it looks, I promise. I soaked it in mineral water hours ago, so it's practically dry now. Can't be a manager without dressing the part, right?\"\n\n\"I guess so.\"\n\n\"See? Not as wet as you thought, right? That's what's so great about sombreros.\"\n\n\"I guess.\"\n\n\"Stay here long enough and you just might work your way up to one of these bad boys someday instead of that fedora. That'd be cool, right? Less neckbeardish.\"\n\n\"Sure.\"\n\n\"Cool. Well, it's almost nine o'clock. The customers should be lining up any minute now. I already told you what to say, right?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Shit, really? My bad, I'm a little hungover. Anyway, it's real easy, man. Just toggle your headset and greet the customer and say, 'Welcome to Wally's Water World! Water you in the mood for today?'\"\n\n\"Okay, I think I can do that.\"\n\n\"Let's see you give it a try.\"\n\n\"Welcome to Wally's Water World. What are you in the mood for today?\"\n\n\"No, man. Water.\"\n\n\"Huh?\"\n\n\"Water you in the mood for. Get it? It's a pun. Like, water. Like, the thing that we sell here? Get it?\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Yeah, don't worry. It took me a while too. You wanna try again?\"\n\n\"Welcome to Wally's Water World. Water you in the mood for?\"\n\n\"Today.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"We need to know what the customer wants now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Today. One more time.\"\n\n\"Okay. Welcome to Wally's Water World. Water you in the mood for today?\"\n\n\"Uh oh! Look out, Leonardo DiCaprio! Keith's coming for your Academy Award.\"\n\n\"Thanks.\"\n\n\"That's all you've got to do, really. Just say that and after they order, wait for one of us to make the stuff. Then you take their money and hand them their drink. Bada bing, bada boom. Rinse and repeat.\"\n\n\"Okay. That sounds easy enough.\"\n\n\"Oh, and word of advice: Watch out for Mrs. Dressler.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dressler. You'll probably meet her today. She's a regular here. Sweet woman. Great tipper. Face like a sneezing pit bull.\"\n\n\"Hmm.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you'll know her when you see her. Trust me. Drives through here every Monday. She likes to order the Spring Cleaning—that's spring water with a hint of cucumber and lemon.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"It's #7 on the menu. See it up there on the board, in between #6—Terrific Tap—and #8—Alkaline Laxative Surprise?\"\n\n\"I think I see it, yes.\"\n\n\"Right. So, look. If Mrs. Dressler stops by and orders the #7, make sure you go in the back and get some water from the toilet in the employee bathroom.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Yeah, man. Trust me. Ever since Vince—you've met Vince, right? Short guy with the man bun and the plaid shirt and the L. Ron Hubbard neck tattoo.\"\n\n\"I don't—\"\n\n\"You know, the one who's in charge of microwaving the water so people can drink their tea.\"\n\n\"We sell tea here?\"\n\n\"Man, what? Look down. What does your apron say? Wally's Water World, not Tommy's Tea Terrain. It's even got the dancing rain cloud and everything. You ever seen a damn cloud make tea?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Exactly. This is a health food shop. We're in the business of water here. If people want tea, they can go across the street to Tommy's Tea Terrain.\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Well, long story short, Mrs. Dressler stopped by here a few months ago and complained about beard hair in her cup of Distilled Delight—as you can see, that's #4 on the board: one cup distilled water and two cups brown sugar, seventeen seconds in the microwave. Of course, Vince is the only one here with a beard, but a good manager doesn't point fingers. You don't get to wear this sombrero by blaming others, right?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I only have a fedora.\"\n\n\"Ha ha. Good one. Anyway, Vince offered her a complimentary cup of Spring Cleaning in exchange for not calling the health inspector on us. Only, instead of using spring water, he scooped up a cup of the stuff from the back bathroom toilet. You can hardly tell the difference.\"\n\n\"I don't think I can—\"\n\n\"Don't be like that. We clean that toilet twice a month, if that's what you're worried about. Besides, she loved it. Trust me. She's been back every week since. A loyal customer. You can't argue with repeat business, right?\"\n\n\"I guess not.\"\n\n\"Exac—Look alive! Customer incoming. Hey, remember what I told you about the water pun. It's half the reason why people come here. And try to plug the Distilled Delight if you can—the brown sugar's about to go bad.\"\n\n\"Hello and welcome to Wally's Water World! Water you in the mood for today? A #2 and a #8, you say? A small Wally's Well Water and a large Alkaline Lax—Okay. An excellent choi—Okay. And might I interest you in a #4? It's our signature, award-winning—Oh. Okay. Sure. All right, just the #2 and the #8 then. Thank you. Your total is $21.67. It'll be ready at the window.\"\n\n\"Hmm. Not bad, man. Adding 'hello' was a nice touch. And 'award-winning,' too. I should've thought of that shit months ago. Pretty good for your first go.\"\n\n\"It wasn't easy. She kept trying to cut me off when I was talking. And that shrill voice. It was like speaking to a banshee. Is every customer here a total bitch?\"\n\n\"Well, that's just—oh shit.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Your headset's blinking, man. You didn't untoggle. Your mic's still on.\"\n\n\"Oh.\"\n\n\"Yeah. Here she comes. Think fast.\"\n\n\"Hello, ma'am. Thank you for choosing Wally's Water World today. Might I interest you in a complimentary cup of Spring Cleaning?\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: You Can Walk In the Sun, I'll Dance In the Rain\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2129\n\nPrompt:\n\nEnd your story with someone dancing in the rain." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Erin Flaherty was a normal young woman.\nNormal in the sense that she was like 65% of the women out there.\nShe wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but she had a cute smile. She didn’t have the charisma of a social media super-star, but she could come up with a snappy comeback once in a while. She wasn’t the picture of perfect health, but she could make some really yummy cupcakes for friends on special occasions.\nErin was purposefully pleasant towards service staff, she was particularly efficient at minimizing trash, and she put smiley faces and heart emojis in most of her correspondence. She constantly felt the impulse to be a ray of sunshine in the world.\nBut, like most other women her age, she was also hiding an undercurrent of anxiety, frustration, grudges, and loneliness. While Erin was pretty good at keeping those negative feelings at bay, every once in a while she could feel herself becoming a bit overwhelmed by one or the other darker moods.\nOn one particular Tuesday, it was her anxiety that was riding high.\nShe was supposed to meet a guy “to have lunch together”. Not exactly an invitation to a date – but it was still sitting down with a guy over a meal. Such encounters made her palms sweat.\nTim was a good guy, a normal guy.\nAlthough he would never be cast in an aftershave commercial, he did have a full head of wavy light-brown hair above his glasses. He wasn’t a suave man of the world, but he was a guy who didn’t mind asking for directions. No Marvel superhero body, more likely to be described as “buoyant”.\nErin and Tim had met each other originally in a municipal teen chorale group. Although they never really talked then, they saw each other regularly at rehearsals and community concerts. That lasted for one year and then Tim disappeared.\nThe next time Erin saw him was during a service project in college, helping to set up homes for families who had been homeless. She and Tim did talk a little then, but they didn’t exchange phone numbers or anything.\nThen Erin started a job at a magazine publisher as a proofreader/receptionist. Erin had always loved reading, and thought it was a dream come true to work at a publishing house. Reviewing text for magazine and journal articles was not the perfect situation, but it got her in the door of the publishing world.\nThe new job was located in a 3-story office building that held nearly a dozen other businesses. Located in the charmless suburbs, where parking lots, franchise food joints and traffic signals dominated the landscape, it was a far cry from her vision of working in a cozy little publishing house, stacked floor to ceiling with old books, tucked away in a quiet corner of a bustling city.\nAs it turned out, Tim also held a job with a company somewhere in this office building. She didn’t know which one, but she had bumped into him in the central corridor one day, waiting for the elevator. They chatted briefly and agreed that lunch options were limited in the neighborhood. From out of the blue, Tim suggested that they should try a nearby café sometime. Erin agreed to that out of her practiced habit of being agreeable in conversations, before remembering that she usually felt exceptionally awkward in such situations.\nWhat harm could there be in having lunch in the middle of the workday one time with this guy, she thought.\nThe café had the usual – salads, sandwiches, and some trendy tidbits. All overpriced, of course. Erin chose a ham and cheese croissant while Tim picked a small salad and a cup of soup.\nThey agreed upon a table near a window.\n“Oh, man – it is good to be out of the office!” Tim exclaimed.\n“You got that right,” Erin agreed. It was a pleasant day and she was enjoying the sunshine. Before the conversation went too far, she decided that she needed to get clarification on his situation.\n“Which office do you work in?” she asked.\n“I’m with the Tierney Insurance agency,” he answered, nodding his head. “We mostly handle insurance for businesses. I work in the department that investigates possible fraudulent claims. You ever heard of ‘Johnny Dollar’?”\nErin confessed that she had no idea who that was. Was this a mascot she was supposed to have remembered from a commercial, she wondered.\n“He’s a character from an old radio show in the ‘50s. Kind of cool, actually. He was the ‘Agent with the action-packed expense account.’”\nErin couldn’t help but look at Tim blankly.\n“What? You don’t listen to old radio programs?” He replied with an expression of mock surprise. “Well, that’s it,” he said throwing down his napkin and raising his hands. “I can’t be seen with someone who doesn’t like the oldies.”\nShe snickered at his joke. At least she hoped he was joking.\nAs if reading her mind, he tucked his chin and looked at her over his glasses.\n“I’m just kidding. Even my friends think I’m kind of out there with some of the stuff I like.”\nThe conversation went smoothly after that. They talked mostly about their current jobs and touched on what they’ve each been up to since they last saw each other. When it was time for them to get back to their respective offices, they agreed that they still had more to catch up on. The usual “let’s do this again sometime” statements were made.\nErin returned to work happy that she had stepped out of her comfort zone. Her anxiety had lifted.\nIt only took one more encounter in the corporate corridor the following week for Tim to suggest that they have lunch again. As that turned into another pleasant encounter, it became a regular thing on their schedules.\nSince they were both naturally shy people, they talked only a little, but chatted a lot during these meals. One of their favorite things to do was to comment on people they could see around the shopping plaza where the café was located. Tim particularly enjoyed making up stories for the people, giving them ridiculous errands to be running. Erin delighted in providing dialogue between the people and the inanimate objects they were carrying or wearing.\nWhen a very athletic, tan young woman walked by Erin began to create a conversation between the woman and her headphones, but then Erin came up short. She suddenly felt very aware of her own less-than-ideal body.\nTim seemed to pick up on the subtle shift.\n“You know what?” he asked rhetorically. “I never quite understood what the big deal was about getting tan. I mean, everybody knows that decades of sun exposure is not a good thing. As fair-skinned as both of us are, we shouldn’t be out in the sun for very long anyway. I say let them get all tan and leathery. We’ll be pale and smooth-skinned well into our old age.”\n“That’s right,” Erin giggled, “Let them live their perfect little selfie lives for now. We’ll catch up to them and pass them by later on.”\n“Yes!” Tim agreed. He sat up straight and waved an arm towards the café window. “You can walk in the sun. We’d rather dance in the rain!”\nErin really liked that statement. Something about it conjured up a visual that made her smile.\nWeeks went by, holidays passed, seasons changed, and the bond between Erin and Tim knitted itself into a pleasant relationship. The kind of relationship where they could talk more freely about things deeper than silly observations and lists of favorite things. On an early spring day, Erin decided to give more of herself than she was usually comfortable with giving.\n“Sometimes I feel like I’m walking under a cloud,” Erin revealed as she pulled a soggy piece of lettuce off of her club sandwich.\nTim was a little surprised by the abrupt turn in the conversation. They had been brushing over some of the latest news of the day. Nothing about their personal lives.\n“Why do you say that?” he asked, trying not to sound overly concerned.\n“Well,” Erin continued, “it’s like – this stuff we’ve been talking about, stuff in the daily news. So much of it is upsetting, even when you’re just scrolling past headlines. And I know that it’s a marketing tool to get clicks or whatever. But the underlying stories tell the truth. There’s just so much hardship, and people who are dealing with things that I just can’t imagine being faced with.” She raised her sandwich to take a bite and hesitated. “So, like, I try to help, y’know? I still volunteer once in a while, like we did with that housing project back in college. I try to donate to charities, when by checkbook says I can.”\nTim chuckled and nodded. Erin continued describing how she felt.\n“But I just feel like I keep coming up short. No matter how much I do, it’s just not enough. There’s still so much pain and anger and bitterness out there. All I want to do is be happy and make other people happy, but I keep finding things that upset me. So then I feel like I’m under a cloud.”\nTim had put down his own sandwich and wiped his hands on his napkin.\n“I know exactly how you feel,” he began. “And whenever I start thinking that way, I just keep coming round to the realization that I’m doing all I can, and that’s all I’m responsible for. If I could make everyone happy, and still be happy myself, great! Unfortunately, no one put me in charge of the world, and if they did I would probably just make some really strange decisions for people.”\nTim laughed and Erin smiled a bit.\n“Like make everyone listen to old radio programs?” she joked as she took a bite of her sandwich.\n“Hey,” he responded, “I guarantee people would be happier if they listened to Jack Benny more often.”\nErin had to cover up her mouth as she laughed.\n“If all I can do is make the world a better place in little ways,” Tim continued, “then I’ve done what I’m supposed to do. It’s all any of us can do.”\nErin thoughtfully finished her bite.\n“Yeah,” she said. “I know what you’re saying. And you’re right, of course.”\nShe looked wistfully out the window. A cluster of little clouds were passing overhead.\n“I guess it’s foolish to think that I have to be happy and make everyone else happy all the time.”\n“Well, we all want to be happy,” Tim said. “And most of us want to make sure other people are happy, too. It’s just a tall order to try to make sure everyone is happy all the time.”\nErin smiled slightly before returning her gaze through the window.\nTim reached over and, for the first time, tenderly laid his hand on hers.\n“Hey, you’re a wonderful person, Erin. You’re so funny and caring and, to be honest, you have a cute face that’s nice to look at.” She felt herself blush, but didn’t pull away. “Just being yourself is bringing sunshine into the world. You don’t have to try that hard, really. And if you have a cloud over you once in a while, that’s okay. That’s natural. After all, clouds bring rain and rain brings flowers, right? And flowers… they bring the sunshine… wait.” Tim reflected for a moment. “Okay, maybe that metaphor walked away from me there.”\nThey both laughed at that.\n“What I’m trying to say is that, you do plenty to make this world a better place. A sunnier place. And if you have to walk under a cloud once in a while, don’t forget that it’s okay to dance in the rain.”\nTheir lunch break was over once again and they returned to work.\nAll that afternoon, Erin reflected on what Tim had said. She thought about him to the point of distraction. Refreshed with the notion that this was the guy for her, she left work that afternoon determined to call him and ask him out on an official date.\nA sprinkle had begun to fall as she crossed the parking lot to her car, even though the sun was still out. A genuine sunshower. Erin laughed at the ridiculous affairs of the weather. She giggled as people hurried by. Tim would have given these people really odd reasons why they couldn’t get wet.\nShe began skipping over puddles and swirling in the sun, in concert with the feelings that were bubbling up from inside.\nErin let herself dance in the sun and the rain that day." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ready\n\nGenre: gay\n\nWord Count: 1963\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character experiencing anxiety." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jaime couldn’t stop pacing. The waiting room was too small. Should it be taking this long? Something was going wrong. Something was going terribly wrong.\n“Nothing is wrong.” His husband, Eric, hadn’t moved from his chair, one leg up as if this was normal, as if they were at home and he was about to do a crossword. “Calm down.”\n“Something is definitely wrong,” he insisted. “It’s been hours.”\n“That’s normal,” Eric insisted. “Look, Julie knows what she’s doing. This is her fourth kid. It’ll be okay.”\n“But can’t births be hard on aging mothers?”\n“Hey.” Julie’s husband piped up from the corner, his gruff voice tinged with humor. “My wife is not old, thank you.”\n“And,” Eric added, “she’s in perfect health. She’s been checked every week; you know she’s alright. Everything is alright, my dear.”\nIt wasn’t alright. Jaime knew, even if the others couldn’t see it. It wasn’t right, not at all. He could sense something was wrong, it was in the air, it was in his skin, it was in the static he was creating as he paced back and forth.\n“Jaime, love, sit down. You’ll feel calmer.” His mother tilted her head in concern.\n“Can’t sit down, something’s gone wrong,” Jaime muttered. He could hear his heartbeat thrum in his ears and forehead. Was that normal? “If I sit down, I won’t be ready.”\n“Jaime.” Eric stood and went to put his arm around Jaime, but Jaime shrugged it off.\n“No, don’t—don’t touch me, don’t—”\nEric backed off, but Jaime didn’t stop pacing. His lungs had somehow become smaller in the last hour, and it was harder to take in breath, nevermind speak to his husband, explain that he hadn’t meant to throw off his arm like that. Nevertheless, he kept pacing, walking back and forth. He had to be ready. He had to be ready for this. Jaime’s head started to buzz—was his vision always like this, blurry and swaying? Something was going wrong, he could feel it. He was not okay, Julie was not okay, and their newborn daughter was definitely not going to be okay, and Jaime thought he would pass out if it were not for the sound of the door opening and the shock of being face to face with his father.\nThe air hung between them, as pregnant as Julie and just as heavy.\nFinally, Eric spluttered out “Mr. Daniels” at the same time that Jaime’s mother said “Frank.”\nFrank Daniels said nothing, at first, just looked at his son, who was still half a moment from passing out.\nEric stood up, paling considerably. “Hello, uh, sir, we’re, uh—”\nFrank glanced at him, pursing his lips, and said nothing. He’d recently shaved, making the angular cut of his jaw as he clenched his teeth even more prominent. Frank said nothing, just glanced back and forth between the four other people in the room. His gaze finally landed on his son, who had found that he could no longer feel his hands and feet.\n“Jaime,” Frank finally said. “A word?”\nJaime almost used the word ‘no’, but his tongue wouldn’t work. Instead, he gave a crisp nod, and followed his father out of the waiting room and into the hallway. Surprisingly, he didn’t stop there; Frank walked all the way outside the hospital, where the autumn air had become balmy after the hours.\n“Sit,” he said, pointing at a bench, and Jaime quickly obliged. “Hands up, over your head. Open your lungs up.”\nJaime took a deep breath and immediately heaved, spewing a mixture of yesterday’s lasagna and this morning’s coffee all over the sidewalk outside the hospital.\n“Sorry,” he croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, which he instantly regretted. Now his mouth and his hand were gross.\n“S’fine,” Frank grunted.\nOnce Jaime was done, he sat back up. “Sorry,” he repeated. “Gross.”\nFrank snorted. “With that attitude, you are not ready to be a father.”\nAnother wave of anxiety swept through Jaime. His father was dead right. He wasn’t ready.\nFrank did not seem to pick up on this. “You know, when you were about two, you got sick in the middle of the night. Lisa—she was only what, five or six at the time?—she heard you throwing up in your crib and went and got you so you didn’t choke to death on your own vomit.”\nThat was not, in Jaime’s opinion, a particularly good story for this time and place, but he politely said “You’ve never told me that before” instead of ‘who cares’.\n“Of course not.” Frank laced his hands. “Because after that, after Lisa came and got us and told us you were throwing up, I lifted you from your crib to get you into a bath, and when you saw me you smiled and—” Frank swallowed. “I fell apart. I stood in front of the sink, washing the vomit off you, and I cried until I couldn’t anymore.”\nJaime had never imagined his tough, ex-military father crying over anything. “You… you cried? Why?”\n“We didn’t hear you. You could have died that night, and I would have never been there for you. We could’ve lost you.”\nJaime looked at his dad out of the corner of his eye. Hearing that story, contrasted against the years of closeted pain, felt… wrong, as if this wasn’t his father at all.\n“I never told you,” Frank continued, “because I was worried it would make you think I was soft.”\nJaime snorted. “Don’t worry. I definitely would never have thought that.”\n“I know.” Frank looked down at his shoes. “Good to hear you’re feeling better.”\nJaime was about to ask what he meant, but then he realized he was breathing steadily and his head no longer buzzed with his own heartbeat. “Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”\n“Don’t mention it.” Frank leaned back on the bench, his mouth a thin line. Sharing had apparently taken a lot out of him.\n“Great day for a smoke.” Jaime had never seen his father last this long without a cigarette.\n“Would be, yeah.” Several seconds passed before Frank said “I quit. Six months ago on Thursday.”\n“Oh.” Jaime looked at his feet. “I didn’t know about that.”\n“Better for my health.”\n“Yeah.” Jaime’s sister Chloe was a nurse—he wondered if she’d pressured him into it.\nThe silence was less dry, but no less awkward on the bench than it had been in the waiting room.\n“Why did you come?” Jaime finally asked. “Not that I’m, I’m upset that you’re here. I’m happy you’re here. I just didn’t—I mean, Mom said—”\n“You always did talk too much for a boy.” Frank popped his neck and didn’t answer the question.\nThe silence returned, and for a while, Jaime watched the birds flit from tree to tree. Maybe they came here every autumn, on their way South. Or maybe these birds weren’t migratory. Eric would know. His dad might too, Jaime remembered—he’d loved bird watching while he was stationed in Montana. That was something they had in common.\nJaime checked his watch—ten minutes had passed—and the panic started to return, filling his lungs before he could fully stammer out “I should probably go back in.”\n“Why? You’re still panicking. This isn’t how you want to greet your child.” Frank had never acknowledged Jaime and Eric’s daughter before.\n“I know but—”\n“Sit here until you’re done. The child won’t come for a little while.”\nJaime supposed he should trust his father on this—the man had six kids, after all. “They’re probably worried about me.”\n“Of course they are.” Frank’s tone was disapproving. Jaime knew full well how his father felt about his panic attacks, and suddenly he was seventeen again, hiding letters in the shoebox under his bed and staying in the kitchen whenever the news was on. “Still.”\nEven now, Jaime felt he couldn’t disobey.\n“You’re going to make a good father,” Frank said, quite begrudgingly.\nThat, surprisingly, didn’t make Jaime feel any better. “I don’t know that. I don’t know if I’m ready.”\nFrank rolled his eyes. “Of course you’re not ready.”\n“But I—what?”\n“Of course you’re not ready. Nobody is.” Frank used the edge of his sleeve to wipe the last bit of vomit off Jaime’s hand. “You’re never going to be completely ready. I wasn’t. Ever. Any time. Your mother would hand me a baby and I’d just be… blown away. When you were two, I almost lost you because I wasn’t ready for that... contingency and that… that made me cry. You were our fifth, and I wasn’t ready for you. And I wasn’t ready again, when you grew up and you weren’t like our other boys, and when you brought home… him…” Jaime tensed, as he always did when his father talked about Eric. “And I wasn’t ready when your mother told me I was going to be a grandfather again, to your little girl. I’ll never be ready enough.”\nJaime’s tongue was made of lead, but somehow he managed to pry it up. “Then how do you get through it? How do you manage, knowing that you can’t… you can’t prepare for any of this?”\nThe corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. “I’ll let you know when I find that out myself.”\n“Oh.”\n“You try. You try your best to be your best. Sometimes you fail. Lots of times, you will fail. But then you learn. And you’re never done learning, Jaime. You’re never going to be done.”\nJaime almost cried, but he bit back the tears. “And it’s enough?”\nFrank didn’t answer. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to your wedding. I saw the pictures. Eric’s brother did an amazing job on the decorations.”\n“It’s Eric’s sister now. She transitioned.”\nA vein in Frank’s jaw popped out, but to his credit, he held his tongue. “I am still learning,” he repeated.\nThis time, when Jaime suggested they go inside, Frank agreed.\n“Your mother is probably getting antsy.”\n“She didn’t expect you to come.”\nFrank stood up. “I didn’t expect me to come. But… I am learning. And I am sorry, that I wasn’t… I wasn’t what you needed, when you were growing up. I can’t go back in time and change it. But I can move forward. And I will try to learn what it means to be a… a good father to you.”\n“Thanks, Dad.” Jaime stood up as well, looking disdainfully at the puddle of vomit that remained, staining the sidewalk.\n“And I’ll be a good Papa to your little girl too. Someone’s gotta teach her how to throw.”\nJaime laughed and it turned into sobs.\n“Jesus.” Frank rolled his eyes.\n“Sorry, sorry,” Jaime laugh-sobbed. He took a deep breath. “We can go in.”\nJaime stopped by the bathroom to wash his hands and mouth. When he came out, he was honestly rather surprised his father was still waiting for him.\n“What are you going to name her?”\n“Oh, uh. We were thinking Amoret. It means little love? It’s from Spenser’s The Faerie Queen.”\n“Of course it is.”\n“We were also thinking Violetta after Eric’s Aunt Violet.”\n“Hmm.” Frank didn’t seem to have an opinion for or against Violetta, which Jaime counted as a win.\nWhen they reentered the waiting room, Frank began to walk towards his wife before pausing and looking at Eric. “Hazel and Jack couldn’t make it?”\n“My—my parents?” Eric looked as shocked as Jaime felt that Frank was even talking to him. “They’re coming, their plane left at seven.”\n“Hmm.” Frank sat next to his wife as Jaime slid into the seat next to his very stunned husband.\n“You’ve been crying,” Eric whispered to Jaime. “What did he say? Are you okay?”\n“I’m okay,” Jaime said. “We’re going to make great dads, you know.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Oasis in the Sky\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2074\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone seeking an oasis in a desert — whether literally, or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Oasis in the Sky\n\n(Perhaps a bit crude in places.) Two-a-days. The dreaded curse of any young man who ever squeezed a football helmet down over his ears, high school through the pros. It’s hard work, the bone shaking “hamburger” drills, the mind-numbing repetition, the harsh scoldings for a misplaced footstep, and …the heat.\n\nIt’s like trying to explain parenthood to someone who never had children. If you haven’t spent two hours in the hot sun in full football garb, you may have trouble relating to this snapshot in time. Try thinking of spending an afternoon in a hot sauna wearing a hooded winter jacket and snow pants. That might get you there.\n\nD-2 kids try just as hard as the NFL bound elites at Alabama or Ohio State. They put their bodies through the same trials, the same hardships, the same sacrifices. They practice under the same sun. The sweat soaks their T-shirts and burns their eyes whether they are sixteen or twenty-one, whether they are in Georgia or Montana, whether they have aspirations to play on Sundays or play only for love of the game. Except for a deranged few who wallow in the glory of demonstrating just how tough they are by welcoming extreme hardship, the sun is the enemy. So it was one sweltering hot day in August in New Hampshire.\n\nThe 60’s, Medieval times in terms of coaching philosophies. “Water breaks are for sissies.” “Tape it and walk it off.” “We’ll find out who’s tough”. And so on, from the mouths of those who can’t do, so they teach.\n\nDespite what the southern half of the country thinks, it gets hot in New Hampshire in the summer, even above 90 degrees. Leather shoes, sweat socks, knee pads, briefs, pants, hip pads, a T-shirt, rib pads, shoulder pads, a heavy jersey and that God awful helmet built for protection and to keep the heat in. Add the burning rays of the sun, affectionately referred to as “bennies” by college students seeking a tan, but known as “the photon punishment” for those doing calisthenics in full football gear on a hot summer day.\n\n“Jesus Christ, Roger, it’s hot out here.”\n\n“Yeah, you got that right, Clark.”\n\n“You think the Bullet will shorten practice today?”\n\n“I doubt it. I hear the Coach is one tough son-of-a-bitch.”\n\n“Hey, guys, do you know what they call the coach’s goofy son?”\n\n“What’s that, Bull?”\n\n“The Blank.”\n\n“Ha, that’s pretty good.”\n\n“And do you know what they call his wife?”\n\n“I’m afraid to ask.”\n\n“The Bullet Hole.”\n\n“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”\n\nFreshman football. Show up for school two weeks early. A good way to make friends, especially if you’re a thousand miles from home. Roger and Clark were from the same metropolitan area, but they had never met before that first day of football practice. With some degree of notoriety in their hometowns, and with their names taped to their helmets, they quickly found each other. Bull hailed from the same state, and pushed his way in to make this a group of “homies”. His crude ways presented some discomfort for Clark and Roger as he made American Pie’s Stiffler look like John-Boy Walton. To say Bull was a pig was an insult to pigs.\n\n“Stretch it out!”\n\nSo they stretched. Then they ran in place. Then they did jumping jacks. All on cue, following the lead of the selected team leaders. From a distance, they may have looked like the first cuts at a Rockettes tryout, but they were getting “whipped into shape”. The sweat was already pouring down Roger’s face. His head felt like it was in an oven. And practice had just started.\n\n“Gentlemen, take a lap!”\n\nThe practice field was huge, more than enough space for two football fields. Roger, a running back, and Clark, a cornerback, set a nice pace for the conditions. Movement brought a welcome hint of breeze, a touch of wind, weaving its way inside their helmets and bringing a cooling touch to their faces. Bull, an offensive lineman, struggled, but he survived.\n\n“Alright, on your backs!”\n\nAnd down they all went. The ground was hard as a rock. Roger had never felt hot grass before.\n\n“Sit-ups! Twenty-five sit-ups! One…two…three…”\n\nThis wouldn’t have been hard for Roger as he had worked out all summer, but the heat was making it a challenge. The hot sun was bearing down on him like a hot iron on a pair of pants. Staring straight up, he could only see blue sky and the glare of the sun. For a moment he thought he could actually see the heat.\n\nAnd then something caught the corner of his eye. White, puffy, and big. A cloud. A huge, billowing cloud had just appeared on the horizon. A cloud, the one thing besides Persian arrows that could blot out the sun. A cloud, the creator of shade, the promise of relief, if ever so slight, if ever so brief. And it was heading their way.\n\n“Clark! Bull! A cloud!”\n\nA starving man would welcome the tiniest morsel, a man dying of thirst, a drop of water, a football player lying on his back baking in the sun, a cloud. It was an oasis of hope, a respite from the unbearable, oppressive heat.\n\n“Oh my God, Clark, it’s huge. It’s coming this way.”\n\n“Leg lifts! Get those legs up!”\n\nNew sweat pouring onto old sweat. The players were drenched in it.\n\n“The damn thing looks like it’s parked itself. It ain’t moving!”\n\n“It’s moving, Bull. It’ll get here.”\n\n“It’s not even close, Roger. That cloud won’t get anywhere near the sun.”\n\n“That cloud is going to save us, Clark. Trust me. Somehow, someway, that cloud will give us a little shade.”\n\nThe sun seemed to sense Roger’s optimism, his hope, and it turned up the heat.\n\n“I think my face is on fire.”\n\n“Just think, the soccer guys are running around in short pants and T-shirts.”\n\n“Thanks for reminding me.”\n\n“Sit ups! Twenty-five!”\n\n“That thing looks like a big bowl of ice cream.”\n\n“Nope, it’s cotton candy, big wads of fluffy cotton candy.”\n\n“Wrong. What’s with you guys? Those are two big boobs in the sky, coming right to me, and bigger than Karen Johnson’s.”\n\n“Oh for Christ’s sake, Bull. Is that all you ever think about?”\n\n“Pretty much.”\n\n“Neck exercises! Pair up! One guy on your hands and knees, the other put your hands on his helmet. Push! Left, right, up and down! You need to strengthen those necks.”\n\n“Roger, what’s your cloud doing? I can’t see it from down here.”\n\n“It’s coming. The damn thing is slow, slower that Bull, but it will get here.”\n\n“Hey, I heard that!”\n\n“What are you guys talking about?”\n\n“The cloud, just over the gym, It’s coming our way. Roger here says we’ve got some shade coming.”\n\n“Alright, switch it up!”\n\nThe heat, the burning sun. Roger could feel his soaked T-shirt clinging to his body. The sweat was burning his eyes, and he had nothing to wipe his face with. That cloud couldn’t arrive soon enough.\n\nOthers picked up on Roger’s discovery. It was big news on the practice field that day as all the players were suffering the same plight. One would have thought Roger had discovered a new planet, or maybe there had been a sighting of a Good Time ice cream truck offering free treats and being driven by one of the Kardashians. Come on cloud, get here.\n\nThere had never been such a cloud. It wasn’t just that the cloud was needed. It was a spectacularly large cloud, long, wide, and billowing up to the heavens. And it was the only cloud that had crossed the sky that day, a lone traveler in a sea of blue. It almost took Roger’s mind off of his suffering as he was once again flat on his back with his feet a foot off the ground. \n\n“Roger, your stupid cloud isn’t moving.”\n\n“Oh ye of little faith, it’ll get here, Clark”\n\n“You are a false profit. We’re going to be like roasted marsh mellows before it gets it here.”\n\n“I like marsh mellows.”\n\n“Shut up, Bull.”\n\nAll the players were now aware of the huge, snow white mass in the sky. It became Roger’s cloud, so named for its discoverer. For these poor guys trying to exercise in sweat soaked uniforms in the blazing hot sun, it became a glass of ice cold lemonade, a cherry popsicle, a refreshing spray of water off a breaking wave at the ocean’s shore, and well, for one, a girl with really big boobs. Roger suddenly felt the pressure of the moment. The whole team was counting on this cloud, his cloud. He discovered it, he promised it.\n\n“Come on, super seer, where’s your freaking cloud?”\n\nOh my God, that was the senior star running back. The whole team would be making fun of Roger if that stupid cloud didn’t deliver. Why did he have see it in the first place? Then why did he have to open his big mouth?\n\n“His name is Roger, Roger Martin.\n\n“Shut up, Bull.”\n\nOver the centuries, people have marveled at the beauty and splendor of clouds reaching up to the heavens, or quaked in the ominous approach of darkened storm clouds, but never before in the history of the sometimes shaky science of weather forecasting has anyone prayed for the proper trajectory of one single solitary cloud.\n\nIt was getting closer, but it seemed to be veering off to the north. Or was it just the sweat in Roger’s eyes blurring his vision?\n\n“On your feet! Burpees! Machine guns and drop on the whistle!”\n\nRoger’s personal pain became secondary. He was still roasting, miserable, and in need of a few moments of shade. But now he wanted that cloud, needed that cloud, for it’s own sake- Ahab and the great white whale, Roger and the great white cloud.\n\nVisualization. He learned the technique from his high school coach. He closed his eyes and imagined that cloud enveloping the sun. He could feel the power.\n\n“It’s going to get here. I know it. That cloud will wipe out the sun!”\n\nA few muffled cheers, but mostly mockery grounded in hopeless surrender to the elements.\n\n“Running in place, knees up high.”\n\nThe players were moving on autopilot, none wishing to be the first to falter.\n\n“Ok, take a break. five minutes.”\n\nThe entire team dropped to the ground as one. They were all spent, flat on their backs, taking deep breaths, resting, but still baking in the hot sun. That star running back was the first to notice.\n\n“Hey, Roger’s cloud is getting there!”\n\nAn exhausted Roger looked skyward and saw that great big, beautiful cloud zeroing in on the sun. He seemed to control it with his eyes. He first thought it had a chance, not the one in a million kind, but a good chance. For a moment, it seemed locked in place, stuck in a blue glue, but then the great white cloud teased the sun around its edges, sending flickering moments of relief to the suffering below. Roger would later tell his grandchildren that the cloud made a 90 degree turn and obliterated the sun. A dark shadow slowly moved across the practice field eliciting thunderous cheers along its path as, row by row, the players welcomed the arrival of shade, sweet, wondrous shade. The coaches could only wonder what the heck was going on.\n\nCollege kids thrive on humorous imagination and exaggeration. They also love to affix labels and nicknames to people, places and things. Roger one day would become the team’s star running back, a real Big Man on Campus, but he would best be known for a variety of nicknames that attached that day- “Shady”, “The Weatherman\", “Sky Gazer”, and Roger’s personal favorite, “The Shadow”.\n\nThe legend of Roger predicting and steering the Great White Cloud grew with the passage of time. There have been other memorable predictions in sports history- The Babe pointing to the center field bleachers at Wrigley before knocking one out of the park, Ali taking out Archie Moore in four. But for this football team, on this small New England campus, nothing rivals Roger beckoning the Great White Cloud.\n\n The bookmarks of one’s life are not always the result of careful planning or intentional acts. Sometimes they just fall out of the sky." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Multiple Choice\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1056\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Okay class! Pop quiz. If you've been doing the readings, this should be a piece of cake. Remember to fill out both sides of this paper. You have the whole class period to finish. Good luck.\n\n1. Christopher Columbus first traveled to the Americas using which means of transportation?\n\nA) A cargo ship\nB) A steam locomotive\nC) A Boeing 747 airliner \nD) A vintage red 1985 Camaro with a crack in the middle of the windshield and no heated seats\n\n\n2. What is the term for the pilgrims leaving England to journey to America?\n\nA) Immigration\nB) Emigration\nC) Migration\nD) A breakup\n\n\n3. What is the name of the people who were already living in America before the arrival of the Mayflower?\n\nA) Indigenous Peoples\nB) New Yorkers\nC) Canadians\nD) A fiancée\n\n\n4. Founded in the early 1600s, Thanksgiving best symbolizes which of the following?\n\nA) Eating a Tofurky dinner alone in a home that smells like pumpkin pie and the leftover bottle of aftershave you found under the bathroom sink and summarily poured down the drain\nB) A celebration of the harvest and a means of giving thanks for other such blessings of the year\nC) Your five-year-old son choosing to spend the holiday at his father's new apartment\nD) Both A and C\n\n\n5. Salem, Massachusetts, was famous for its witch trials, wherein a number of men and women were accused of performing acts of dark magic and sentenced to death. Now, imagine a woman named, say, Sally. Which of the following is something a guilty woman like Sally might reasonably have been accused of?\n\nA) Sneaking off with another woman's fiancé during your springtime PTA meetings\nB) Luring a woman's son to Thanksgiving dinner with the promise of cooking a real turkey\nC) Driving a vintage red 1985 Camaro that doesn't belong to her to the Safeway in your neighborhood, despite her apartment, which she now shares with the car's owner, being on the other side of town, twenty-five minutes away.\nD) All of the above\n\n\n6. Please select the adjective you think best describes Sally from the previous example.\n\nA) Caring\nB) Considerate\nC) Thoughtful\nD) None of the above\n\n\n7. Please select the adjective (or phrase!) you think best describes the nameless fiancé from question 5.\n\nA) Ignorant\nB) Hedonistic\nC) Confused\nD) Doesn't understand he's letting a good thing go by choosing Sally instead of the superior PTA woman.\n\n\n8. What is the definition of a \"pilgrim\"?\n\nA) A person who journeys, especially a long distance, to some sacred place.\nB) A person who journeys, especially twenty-five minutes away, to an apartment in the gutter of Bismarck, North Dakota.\nC) A person who journeys, especially twenty-five minutes away, to a supermarket in the heartland of Bismarck, North Dakota, with the intent of running into people on the PTA so she can \"accidentally\" display her new engagement ring, the same sapphire ring that fit on someone else's finger not too long ago.\nD) A woman who shares joint custody of her turkey-bribed son, a woman who tucks him in and reads him a bedtime story every night and kisses him on the forehead, then spends the next thirty minutes scrolling through her ex-fiancé's social media posts in the hopes that she'll see her name pop up.\n\n\n9. What is the name for someone who invades a foreign state or nation with the intent to dominate or gain control over its settlers?\n\nA) Homewrecker\nB) Adulterer\nC) Sally\nD) Colonialist\n\n\n10. What was the reason the pilgrims left their first home and strayed to America?\n\nA) They said their needs weren't being met with England.\nB) They wanted to break away from the Protestant Church and start their own religious community.\nC) They said they hadn't been truly happy in a long, long time.\nD) They said the only reason they hung in there as long as they did was because of the five year old.\n\n\n11. Which of the following statements is true, pertaining to question 10?\n\nA) England watched the pilgrims sail away to America, watched them drift toward the horizon until they were nothing but a speck in the sunset, knowing there was nothing they could do.\nB) England waited for days, weeks, months, hoping the pilgrims would come back, checking every starlit night for a sign of their return. \nC) England would still take them back with open arms, even after they chose another place and another life, if they only chose to come back.\nD) All of the above\n\n\n12. Do you think the pilgrims ever thought about returning to England when they were off with their homewreckers/adulterers/Sallys/colonialists?\n\nA) Yes, definitely\nB) Maybe once in a while\nC) Every other weekend, when the joint custody kicked in\nD) No (briefly explain your reasoning in the space below, if chosen)\n\n\n13. How quickly things change. Not even 200 years after the arrival of the pilgrims to America, the founding fathers spearheaded the American Revolution, instituted the presidential system, and even created the Declaration of Independence. Which of the following is a line from that famous document?\n\nA) \"We need to talk.\"\nB) \"Look, Lainey, this just isn't working out anymore. It's not you, it's me. Please don't bring Sally into this.\"\nC) \"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.\"\nD) \"Daddy said you can come to his wedding with me, Mommy. Why are you crying? He said you can come too.\"\n\n\nExtra credit bonus question: You finish your quiz early. When you walk up to the front to turn it in, you notice your teacher is at her desk, silently weeping into her thermos of lukewarm first-period coffee. What should you do?\n\nA) Turn in your paper, say nothing, and return to your desk—chances are that if she scheduled a quiz for the entire class period, she probably needs some time to herself.\nB) Turn in your paper, say nothing, and return to your desk—chances are that your teacher is like England when they were waiting for the pilgrims to return, and with enough time, she'll understand the truth.\nC) Turn in your paper, say nothing, and return to your desk—chances are that you could end up like her someday, because history repeats itself.\nD) All of the above." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Burn Damage\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2121\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who goes to extreme lengths to get themselves to a tropical island." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Beth sauntered toward the sound of crashing water, the twinkling dance of a shoal marker providing promise that she was getting close. She felt the unfamiliar tickle of sand beneath her feet as the chilled grains molded together under the weight of each determined step. As if suddenly passing through a barrier, what had once looked like an endless ether of uninhabited space now abruptly registered as the reflective surface of the ocean, lazily mimicking the night sky as if it were swaying to a gentle serenade. She was sure that she had arrived at another planet. For if places like this existed on earth, what in the world was keeping everyone she had ever known in the lowlands of rural Kentucky?\n*\nBeth was raised in an outdated clergy house, the sententious steeple of the church always visible as a reminder that the almighty was always watching. Being the daughter of a Baptist pastor meant she was tasked with the constant responsibility of representing the church, a crushing weight bestowed upon her since childhood. She was never as proficient at this job she was expected to be, once slapping a girl in grade school who pulled at her ebony braid before calling her a bible pusher. Later that day, as she rolled the peas around on her plate, her mother asked her if she would like to be slapped so that she knew what it felt like.\n“We are called to love our neighbors, Bethany. That was an opportunity to teach your classmate about what it is we believe so that she may see the path to salvation as well.”\nBeth closed her eyes, gripping the fork so that it left a mark along her palm as she took a steady breath. She opened her eyes to retort but instead saw sister blinking at her from across the table, a silent plea to behave emphasized by the “v” between her eyebrows. How the same mixture of DNA could create two girls of such opposing characters was a mystery to all. While Beth still lacked a basic understanding of obedience, Hannah was three years her junior and had already demonstrated a seasoned aptitude towards the skills of housekeeping which Beth found too mundane to bother with. So as the years drifted by, she watched Hannah blossom into a caretaker just as her mother had done before her. Her soft laugh would float along the pews before Sunday sermon as she chatted with her friends and attracted cautious glances from the suite of soon to be gentleman callers. \nHer parents loved her undeniably, their strict principles meant to instill values in a world that seemed to be tumbling towards increasing chaos. But Beth was woven from a different fabric, one that seemed more inflexible with each external attempt to manipulate. When she was in junior high, she started cutting the legs off of her jeans and hiding the cutoffs under the cover of her skirt. She was tall for her age, and the new debut of flesh caught the attention of the star lacrosse player, who walked her home one day and kissed her by her mailbox. Disappointing in most aspects, his teeth clattered with her own as he impatiently forced entry into her mouth. Beth remembered thinking she could do with less saliva as she nervously giggled and looked down at her feet, waiting for him to walk away. Whatever she had expected, that certainly wasn’t it. It most definitely was not worth the look on her mother’s face as she turned around to see her gaze locked on her from behind the kitchen window. Apparently Hannah’s ballet practice had been cancelled this afternoon and they were both home early.\nThey enrolled her in private school the very next year where she developed a quick companionship with Clara, another new student who had recently moved across the country when her father was relocated for work. Together they passed notes in class and Beth listened to Clara talk about her latest crushes. \n“How come you never tell me who you like?” Clara asked one day from across the cafeteria table. “I’m always spilling my guts and you never give me anything.”\nBeth watched mesmerized as Clara scrunched her nose with a giggle, her freckles peppering her rosy cheeks beneath blonde bangs. She whipped out a tube of strawberry lip-gloss and applied it liberally while awaiting Beth’s reply. She wondered whether those lips would be any nicer to kiss than her past experience, silently concluding that the answer was obvious. “I don’t know, I guess I don’t like the boys at this school that much.” She attempted to sound nonchalant.\n“How about I set us up on a double date? Cory asked me out this morning and I told him I’d think about it. Why don’t I tell him I’ll go if he brings a friend for you?”\n“I don’t know, Clara, my mom will kill me if she finds out.” Beth stared down at her pizza, unwilling to meet Clara’s gaze. She noticed too late when Clara stood up from the table and started walking over to Cory Longacre as he sat with his football buddies a few tables over. Beth watched as Clara’s plaid skirt swayed gracefully with each step. Feeling like she wanted to vomit, she deposited her forehead in her palms and focused on her breathing. A few minutes later she felt a playful poke on her right temple.\n“Stop being so dramatic. Come stay at my place this Friday. Cory said he’ll bring Dylan and pick us up at 8.” Beth didn’t bother to pick up her head, but nodded her agreement anyways, trying to look as dramatic as possible to hear another giggle. It worked.\nBeth’s first date with Dylan was uninteresting, filled with movie theatre popcorn and an instantly forgettable film. But Beth agreed to a second, and a third, and a fourth, because each one ended with a night with Clara where Beth would watch her gleefully dance around her beach themed bedroom about the boy who gave her a kiss on the cheek. As the foursome grew closer with each passing weekend, she felt a growing companionship with Dylan. She liked ruffling his golden curls to gently annoy him, and proudly wore his football jacket on gameday. Still, the part of Beth that was frequently ignored was growing louder, screaming at the back of her brain that something was wrong, and so Beth designed a cage to keep her at bay.\n“Do you ever think about what your wedding will be like?” Clara asked one day. She was laying on Beth’s bed, propped up on her elbows to read her history book.\nBeth nearly spit her sparkling water out with laughter. “Hello, have we met? Not at all.” She swiveled her desk chair to face Clara so that she could nudge her leg with her toe. “I guess I think about the honeymoon though.” At this Clara sat up and raised an eyebrow, suddenly more interested than before. “Not like that,” Beth snorted, “I just think about where I would go. I’ve never been out of Kentucky, I don’t even know what that would be like.”\n“I went to Barbados with my family the summer before we moved here,” responded Clara. “It was beautiful. The sand was almost pink and the ocean was like bathwater. You should definitely go there when you and Dylan get married.”\nBeth was silent for a moment, picturing Clara splashing in the waves which she had only seen on TV. “Yeah, one day.”\nWhen Beth was 17 she finally introduced Dylan to her parents. He dressed in a button up shirt to make a good first impression and made sure to only kiss Beth on the forehead before wishing her family a goodnight. He was a perfect gentleman, someone who her parents readily approved of after he started accompanying them to church. Selfishly, Beth liked the comfort of his presence by her side, the stability of knowing that his shoulder was there to rest her head upon, and the look of approval it gave her parents to know that she would end up with a respectable suiter after all. \nShe foolishly thought that it could stay like that forever.\nUntil one fateful Friday, when they were both 21, she helped Dylan pack up his suitcase to return to his dorm. He was one year away from a bachelors in engineering from the University of Kentucky. She had been working full time at the local bakery, slowly gaining confidence in experimenting with concoctions that she would occasionally present to the owner. She loaded up the last of his shirts in his large duffel bag, zipped it shut, and turned around to see Dylan on one knee, diamond ring dazzling in his shaking palm. She watched as his mouth moved, making out words like “love” and “forever” but hearing nothing but a crescendoed ringing piercing her eardrums. His eyes were hopeful, full of the love that she couldn’t reciprocate in the way that was needed of her. She knew right then that she had stolen his teens by committing to an unspoken promise that she was about to break. She owed him an explanation and she would figure out how to do that one day. But for now, she needed to leave that room. She needed to leave that town.\n‘“I’m so sorry, Dylan. No.” She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes, focusing intently at the carpet as she walked out of his childhood bedroom. Clumsily, she sleepwalked her way home along the deserted, unpathed road and eventually collapsed back onto the inside of her front door with a tearful sigh. She caught the site of Hannah’s worried eyes peering out from over the top of a book from an armchair in the living room. As if controlled by someone else, she heard her voice travel through the otherwise empty house. “I need you to tell Mom and Dad that I'm okay and that I’ll be home soon.”\n*\nAs she stood on the beach, her thick braid draped between her shoulder blades and glistened in the moonlight. The memory of packing her bag, and booking her flight seemed like a memory shrouded in too much red wine, a feeling she once inflicted on herself after stealing the communion stash the day the rest of her classmates went to prom. Lukewarm ripples lapped at her feet, soaking the bottom of a long, black skirt that would embarrass her father by the way it clung to her hips. Why had she thought she couldn’t come here alone? Her own company was what had carried her through now anyway. She felt something inside her crack. Like a cage rusted by lack of maintenance, coming apart at the seams before crashing open to let free the part of Beth that had been waiting in isolation. \nThat Beth screamed. That Beth threw her head back and yelled to the heavens for the years that she had spent asleep. That Beth wanted to run, and that Beth got her wish. She was suddenly startled by the sensation of wind hitting her face as she pumped her legs and dashed parallel to the water’s edge. Damp sand sprayed up behind her with every forward leap, her arms pumping desperately to propel her forward. She passed a couple taking a midnight swim and clamped her lips between her teeth in the effort to suppress an apology that was already starting to form. Her heart hammered from beneath her chest and her vision began to blur as the ocean air brought tears to her eyes. She could have ran for hours, and perhaps she did, but her marathon came to an abrupt conclusion as she encountered a wave breaker blocking her path along the beach. Screeching to a halt, she stared at the pile of rocks in amusement, falling to her knees at the lack of momentum. \nShe allowed her head to fall back before involuntarily succumbing to exhaustion and collapsing atop the powder soft Barbados beach. Orion hung protectively overhead, more distinguished than the Kentucky sky allowed. As she lay there mesmerized, she began to catch her breath and allowed her eyes to slowly close. Her cheeks burned hot, she pictured what she must look like from the heavens. An overpassing own would surely see the heat radiating from her body, imprinting a scarlet figure, haloed in amber, and suspended atop a blanket of the cool expanse surrounding her. She allowed herself to burn brighter than she ever had before, deciding it was better to suffer a few burn marks than never having burned at all." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Primum Nil Nocere\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1994\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who has a superpower." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The big day had finally arrived at the School for Gifted Children, and the dean practically kowtowed from his own office.\nThe staff and a coterie of New York’s most influential parents were ecstatic to host their esteemed guest, the one and only Dr. Warren Albright. He looked as though he’d stepped out of the glossy author photo from one of his best-selling books. His hair was chestnut brown with frost touched temples and his voice had the nourishing warmth of a fireplace in winter. He used his power to diagnose latent super-abilities to set young people on the path to greatness. Dr. Albright was much more than a mentor.\nHe was a guidance counselor.\nHe could hear the children and their minders outside in the hallway, waiting for their date with destiny. They were all overachievers, but not all were from privileged backgrounds. The Albright Scholarship had scouted them from every walk of life. Born with rare conditions, they had beaten the odds to make it this far, and now they were hoping to win the lottery. Early assessment, career planning and connections were all key factors in the success of famous superheroes.\nDr. Albright set his pipe in the dean’s paper clip bin, adjusted the sleeves of his barleycorn tweed jacket, and then announced to the Headmistress, “Let us begin.”\nThe first candidate was ushered in. He was a chubby boy in a tight navy sport coat. If he was anxious, it didn’t show on his plump cheeks. He practically bounced into the room. Dr. Albright glanced down at the boy’s academic transcript.\n“Good morning, Oscar. It is so good to meet you.”\nOscar hopped into the chair opposite. “Yeah! You too.”\n“As I’m sure you’ve been told, I will be assessing your latent powers today. We will be discussing issues above and beyond the clinical baseline diagnosis. Are you ready?”\n“Um….”\n“It’s not painful, I promise.”\nOscar’s smile brightened and he shrugged. “Yeah! I’m ready.”\nDr. Albright leaned in and tented his fingers, absorbing information with his exquisitely refined power.\n“Teleportation.”\nOscar’s jaw dropped. “What? No way. Really?”\n“I have known a few teleporters in my day. It is a rare and incredible gift.”\nDr. Albright scanned through Oscar’s academic record.\n“How is your math? I see that you have performed well in most of your other subjects.”\n“I love learning languages, and I’m a total anthropology geek. I’m into history and art…I am just so pumped to start teleporting. I want to see the whole world!”\nDr. Albright reached for his pipe and then left it. He had cleaned and emptied it before arriving, as there was no smoking allowed in the school.\n“Seeing the world is certainly a laudable goal, Oscar. For earthbound people, like me, the world is terra firma, the one thing we can trust. If I close my eyes and fall backwards, I know that the earth will be there to catch me. When you begin traveling at advanced speeds, however, you encounter a harsh reality; the planet is always moving. As we speak, it is rotating at nearly one thousand miles per hour, while traveling around the sun at approximately sixty-seven thousand miles per hour.”\nOscar looked confused.\nDr. Albright continued. “The earth also moves at different speeds at different latitudes, so if you were to teleport to the wrong place, at the wrong angle, you would hit the earth incredibly fast and hard, or else miss it entirely. If you found yourself too high up in the atmosphere, or god forbid, in outer space, you might succumb to decompression sickness, hypoxia, and hypothermia before you could reorient yourself well enough to teleport home.”\n“Wait…are you saying that teleportation is impossible?”\n“Of course not! It is even relatively safe, so long as you have a perfect grasp of angular velocity, navigation, orbital mechanics, and so on. Once you have absolute confidence in your calculations, I would still advise that you stay close to the surface, however. Most of the world is covered in water, so if you don’t mind getting wet every now and then, you’ll be fine. Needless to say, the rest of the planet is covered with mountains, trees, buildings, people…perhaps it would be prudent to limit travel to your direct line of sight. And take care not to startle anyone; you never know who may have a heart condition that will drop dead from surprise.”\nOscar’s buoyant cheeks deflated.\n“Chin up, son. There are plenty of other ways to see the world. You could be a pilot,” He paused to double-check Oscar’s grades, “…or possibly a flight attendant.”\nOscar shuffled to the opposite door, carefully placing one foot in front of the other.\nThe next candidate strode in. He was the oldest of the group, a young man with a burgundy button down and a gold silk bow tie. He extended a firm handshake. “I’m Marcus Hill. It is an honor to meet you, Dr. Albright.”\nHe sat tall on the edge of his chair.\nDr. Albright opened his file.\n“It seems like you’re ready, Marcus.”\nMarcus’s knees bounced and he clasped his hands. “Yes sir. I was born ready.”\nDr. Albright closed his eyes and nodded.\n“Pyrogenesis.”\nMarcus leaned back and covered his mouth. “Fire powers? For real?” He grinned and brought his hands back together. “Okay, okay. That’s what’s up.”\nDr. Albright absentmindedly touched his pipe again.\n“I understand that fire can be a very alluring force, but it must command your respect. As an exercise, I would like to present you with some of the most common scenarios that require heroes. Earthquakes, plane crashes, industrial accidents, terrorism, riots…do any of those situations seem like they would be improved with fire?”\nThe teenager’s face tightened. “I’ll be a solution, not a problem. I’ll train until I’m world class.”\n“I’m sure you would, Marcus, but there is a reason why police officers and doctors don’t carry flamethrowers. The military no longer uses them either. Not because they are cruel and indiscriminate, which of course they are, but because they are not deemed particularly effective.”\n“With all due respect, Dr. Albright, I wouldn’t be a random guy lugging a heavy flame thrower, spraying fire everywhere. If this power is a part of me I would have total control. I would use it intelligently.”\n“Intelligence and control are not words usually associated with fire. Do you remember the Tulare Complex Fire? I suppose it was before your time. It was one of the worst wildfires in this hemisphere. Thousands of homes, a hundred civilians, dozens of firefighters, countless animals…reduced to ash, all by a kid with a lighter. Fire season gets longer and deadlier every year, Marcus. By the time your power manifests, it may even be year round.”\nMarcus threw his hands up. “So what am I supposed to do?”\n“Don’t worry. There is a place for you. There are shipping vessels in the arctic that still have to contend with the shifting ice pack. I have no doubt that they would be thrilled to have someone like you aboard.”\nMarcus nodded and slunk out through the other door.\nThe next candidate, a lanky girl with dirty blond hair and large green eyes, waved as she entered. “Hi! I’m Allison.”\nShe had a refreshingly open face and an aroma of fresh cut grass. Dr. Albright wouldn’t be surprised if she had grass stains on her jeans. She sat down and swung her legs.\n“So?” She dragged the word out with a wily smile, as though she’d caught him holding a present behind his back.\n“Yes, let me get right to it.”\nHe extended his palm and pursed his lips.\n“You have the latent ability to speak with animals.”\nAlison squealed and jumped out of her chair. “Ohmygodohmygod! I knew it! Best power ever!”\nHe gestured for her to sit down. She bounced in her chair as if it were a jeep on safari.\n“Tell me, Alison…are you a vegetarian?”\nShe cocked her head to one side. “I like vegetables.”\n“Yes, but do you only like vegetables?”\n“I love animals, if that’s what you mean.”\nDr. Albright put his palms on the desk. “Do you eat meat?”\n“Only chicken and bacon. And fish. Oh, I guess I like turkey, but not like, all the time.”\n“I see. That will probably change once your power becomes active. I would strongly recommend that you move as far as possible from any industrial farms, slaughter houses, or animal shelters before that time.”\n“Does this mean I can be an animal doctor?”\n“As long as you keep your grades up, I am confident that you will make a fine veterinarian.”\nShe bounced from the room, eager to tell everyone about her exciting future. Dr. Albright closed her file.\n“Please send in the next candidate.”\nA slim boy efficiently crossed the room and sat down. He stared at Dr. Albright through his square glasses.\n“Good morning, David.” He tapped the boy’s transcript. “I must say, your academic achievements are outstanding.”\nDavid blinked and adjusted his glasses. The light shimmered off his dark hair, which had nearly been combed and gelled into a helmet.\n“Feel free to talk or ask questions.”\nThe boy waited quietly.\nDr. Albright moved on with his assessment. He repressed a shiver.\n“Mr. Kwan, you have the latent ability to project energy from your eyes.”\nThe boy paused, about to readjust his glasses.\n“This will be hard to hear, so I will deal with the facts plainly. Your eyes are weapons. If you decide to use your powers in war time, to uphold the law, or even in self-defense, you will have to look directly at your enemies. There will be no fog of war. You will witness exactly what you have done, and it will not be pretty.”\nThe boy nodded slowly for him to continue.\n“The world needs soldiers and protectors, I won’t deny that. Your skills will be highly valued, and if you choose that life, I know you will perform admirably.” Dr. Albright’s eyes flicked away. “The larger issue here is with civilian life. Once people learn of your ability, it is unlikely that they will ever make eye contact with you again. They may not even go near you, for fear that you may sneeze or get startled and unleash a sudden bolt of lethal energy. Beyond the risks of the battlefield and almost guaranteed PTSD, you will return to a life of alienation and loneliness.”\nDavid’s face remained neutral, but strands of his black hair broke free from their orderly shell and his glasses had begun to fog up.\n“I am terribly sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, David, but there are…options.”\nAfter decades of research and great expense, The Albright Foundation had developed a treatment that permanently sent superpowers into complete remission. They provided this service freely for those with dangerous or unwanted abilities.\nDavid Kwan rose wearily, like a prisoner yoked with a great weight.\n“Thank you for your honesty, Doctor.”\nHe left without looking back and stepped into the hall, where his severe looking parents waited expectantly.\nDr. Albright watched him leave with a twinge of relief. He slid David’s folder to a separate pile and then signaled to the dean that he needed a break.\nHe took his pipe outside to the rose garden. The parents and administrators watched him pack his pipe. They were nervous and eager for answers, but they had the decorum not to impose upon his solitude.\nHe struck a match and sipped the stem of his pipe until the sweet tobacco smoldered. He considered all of the kids that he never had a chance to counsel, those ignorant, reckless youths that had grown to become infamous criminals; Commodore Chaos, Laughing Skull, King Psycho, Pain Eater. He puffed and exhaled a smoky sigh of deep satisfaction.\nNone of them had snuffed out as many superheroes as Dr. Albright." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Traders\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2972\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story in a world where the currency isn’t money — or at least not money as we understand it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Josh Einsley stood on the basement’s concrete floor as he adjusted flow rates on the control board for the Switzer Universal Toner System while Jinjo checked the tank. “Ah, there. The microbes just needed a little more protein.”\n“Yep. She’s runnin’ good now, boss.”\nThis system was the best for generating pure toner for six of his 3-D printers upstairs. It was pretty good for the other 16. Josh looked up at the ceiling. All the feeder lines running up to the first floor were clean. No leaks. But with two printers down and three getting creaky, he was more worried than he let on.\nThis system was worth every single one of the copies of the 459 CADs he swapped for it three months ago. He heard it was now going for over 2,000 distinct advanced CADs on the tech market.\nHe patted the board and walked up the creaky stairs of the old warehouse he shared with 5 other maker businesses. In exchange for favors, he let each tap into his toner system. Good, but not good enough to sustain a business after the currency economy had died last year.\nJosh sat down in the six-foot square office he had carved out of the first floor when he’d opened his printer shop. A bare-bones office. No papers piled up. No pictures on the wall. Just an office chair, a large table with six monitors positioned towards the chair, and a keyboard.\nHe opened his CAD-building program and began tweaking CADs for the last Toolbuilder printer he had acquired. Two months old and already obsolete. He shook his head. At least the local contractors still came in regularly to build specialized precision tools on it.\n“There. Good.” He had optimized the CADs performance to his satisfaction.\nHe updated the drivers for the Toolbuilder and ran a virtual test. Should be working good now.\nTime for a short respite. He turned on Musico, his favorite app for old-time rock music. “I need cheering up. Let’s try the Stones.” \nThe beginning of this particular song always amused him. It led off with, of all things, a boys’ choir. When they sang, “No, you can’t always get what you want,” Josh replied softly, “Ain’t it the truth.”\nWhile the song played, Josh pondered the nature of CAD inflation. It seemed to be proceeding apace, even speeding up. He shook his head and scowled. The song was not cheering him up.\nHe went into his spreadsheet and adjusted some figures, assuming inflation would continue for at least another month. Yes. Dammit. To get the latest Sondegaard printer he had his heart set on, the printer that would set his shop apart from all others, he had to gather and copy over a thousand unique Computer Aided Designs for the swap.\nMost of the CADs in his shop’s collection had become far too common to attract a trade. Techs would disdain them. The Sondegaards wouldn’t even bother scanning them.\nHe could just imagine: “Nope, sorry.” And the affected yawn. This has happened too many times to him already in the past month.\nJosh stopped typing and listened. Mick had just gotten to the third verse, the one where he tells of his famous encounter at the Chelsea Drugstore with the mysterious Mister Jimmy. Josh started singing along. This part always made him smile.\nHis dad told him a story years ago about how the Rolling Stones came up with that verse in Minnesota after a performance at the old Excelsior Amusement Park. The park was long gone before Josh was born. Mick supposedly met the real-life Mister Jimmy at the Excelsior, not Chelsea, Drugstore on the west side of Lake Minnetonka near the park. And the two men had ordered cherry soft drinks. And Mister Jimmy had not liked Mick’s song.\nHe laughed at the memory. Ya sure, Dad. Yoobetcha. But. Maybe it was true. Josh had never been sure about Dad’s stories.\nHe tapped on the floor security monitor. It showed the control board on the north side of the floor. Jinjo was adjusting the flow rate to one of the printers. Josh watched as he tapped in SET and then ON. Simple. A kid could do it. But Jinjo had skills. He knew when equipment got balky and what to do about it. He was worth all the CADs Josh paid him. He turned off the monitor.\nThen he frowned as he tapped on his tablet’s screen to his Needed Work app. Damn. The building maintenance and repair guys were asking for too many CADs nowadays for their services. He shook his head and mumbled, “I need to do more swapping. Like yesterday.”\nHe smiled ruefully. He mumbled the words, “Nowadays. Things going to hell.” He shook his head. “My does time fly when tech accelerates.” He almost yearned for the good old days—way back when. As in, way back sometime last year.\nHe looked up when he heard the door squeak open. Kaig, the floor manager, stuck in his head. “You’ve got business up front, boss.”\nThe young man was smiling—very crookedly. His pencil-thin moustache seems to ride up the right side of his face all the way up to his ear. He winked.\nJosh scowled “Okay, Kaig. What’s up?”\n“You’ll see.” He laughed, opened the door wide, and bounded back out to the floor.\nJosh grumbled to himself while saving his work. He closed files, Musico, and tablet and followed Kaig out onto the floor. Everything seemed normal. It looked like about six customers were running their CADs on several different 3-D printers. They were all bundled up for today’s classic, damn cold, Minnesota December day.\nSix customers. He put on a pretend smile. Good. But not good enough.\nAn old contractor in bedraggled parka and boots already had a nice assortment of shiny new tools piled on the table next to the metal printer. A young man, probably his assistant, more likely his son, was fingering the crescent wrench. Yes. Maybe they traded him another three or four hundred CADs for use of the printer. He’d check later with Corey. Corey was a good haggler. Maybe some of the customers offered a few of the latest high-tech ones. Maybe.\nWho knows? He smiled at the man who hefted the wrench, who waved it and saluted in return.\nJinjo and Corey were checking out the three printers, the balky ones, the ones Josh planned to have techs fix—if he could lay hands on the required CADs. But if he could afford replacements, these old printers would go as scrap straight to the toner vat. Truly outdated. Last year’s models.\nCorey was as adept at maintenance as Jinjo and Kaig. They worked for every copy of every CAD Josh’s business could gather. How long would they continue to work for him? He was sure there were plenty of other small businesses, ones that were far better than him at raking in the CADs, ones that would be happy to pick up three more skilled assistants.\nHe looked out through the tough, plexal glass covering the east and south walls. He’d gotten it printed at, of all places, a sheet metal shop. It was hell to install, but it let in a lot of light, kept out most of the cold, and showed passersby that Einsley’s was a true printer shop. Well worth the hassle and the CADs.\nHe was barely able to see the half-plowed snow in the tiny parking lot through the frost. The sun’s glare was almost blinding. More CAD inflation, he grumbled silently. The local guy with the snowblower told him this morning he wanted ten more advanced CADs to finish the job. Damn.\n“In front of the counter, boss,” Kaig said.\nThere they were, a boy and girl, both just barely old enough to start virtual schooling, he guessed. No wonder he missed them. They were too short to see from behind the counter. Both were as blond as blond could be, round chubby faces, a pair of living, breathing stereotypes, Norwegian Minnesotans bred to the bone.\n“What the he-- heck?”\nKaig nodded towards the corner near the entrance. Just below the sign painted on the outside of the pane of plexel. “Einsley’s Printer Shop,” could be seen vaguely in reverse through the frost.\nThere she was—a true beauty. Her blond hair pulled back tightly in what Josh’s sister called a French fishtail. She was wearing huge, dark sunglasses. Probably because of snow glare. She was tapping on her tablet. She looked up, smiled briefly and nodded at him, and then went back to work.\n“The mother?”\n“Yup.”\nJosh nodded and walked back to the counter. He looked down at the children.\nThe girl spoke up. “We’d like to print some toys. Uh, please, Mister?” The boy nodded and giggled.\n“I’m the owner, Josh Einsley.” He smiled at them, feeling a bit silly. “What are your names?”\nThe girl answered. “I’m Clarissa Sondegaard. My brother is Brandon Sondegaard. I’m seven and he’s six.”\n“Almost six and a half!” Brandon grinned up at Josh.\nJosh opened his mouth, and then the name registered. Sondegaard? He gained some control and answered, “Right. Well, umm, let’s see what you’ve got to trade.”\nThe children fished in their jacket pockets and drew out identical flash drives. Josh took them and inserted Brandon’s into his reader. He set it on Read and Register. It registered only 8 CADs. A pittance, compared to that of his adult customers who would bring in hundreds. Clarissa’s drive held 17.\n“Well—”\nBrandon tapped his foot. “I know we don’t got much…”\n“Don’t have much,” his sister corrected him. She looked up at Josh with wide eyes.\nJosh felt awful. How could he turn down such cute kids. Then he got an idea. “Wait a second. Have the two of you ever considered trading with each other?”\nClarissa asked, “What? We can do that? We got CADs to print toys from Mom and Dad. I got some from my friends. But we didn’t trade—\" Clarissa looked at her brother in confusion. He looked back. Neither of them had a clue as to how swapping worked. Just that you printed stuff with flash drives.\n“Sure. If you want, you can use this register for free.”\nThey both nodded at Josh. Very tentatively.\n“That’s the thing with CADs, you know. Computer Aided Designs. You can copy them over to as many flash drives as you want.” The girl nodded. The boy still looked puzzled.\n“So, all you have to do is trade with each other for any copies of CADs you don’t have, but the other has. You keep collecting them. The neat thing is, when you trade them, you also get to keep them. Over time, you’ll have a lot of them. And you can print the designs the CADs specify at any time.”\n“Wow!” The kids grinned.\n“Let’s do it!” the boy said.\nJosh looked up and saw Kaig holding his hand over his mouth. He was damned close to laughing out loud. Josh frowned and shook his head slightly. Kaig grinned and nodded. He made the zipping the lips motion with his index finger and pointed to himself.\nTwo of the customers, as well as Jinjo and Corey, had stopped what they were doing to find out what would happen next. They were all grinning.\nJosh plugged in the flash drives again and reset the register to Scan. He then typed in “Copy” for both drives. The kids had three CADs in common beforehand, so when the copying ended, each had an identical 22 sets of CADs. The kids’ eyes grew wide when Josh showed them the readout.\n“Now, in the future, do this kind of trading with your friends. You can gather lots of CADs and so can your friends. Maybe in a few weeks you’ll have a hundred.” Josh chuckled.\n“Just do it on your mom or dad’s computer, with their permission, of course.” He looked at the mother who smiled and nodded at him. Josh was impressed that she was staying out of it. He wondered if she was treating this as some sort of learning experience, a field trip for her kids.\n“When you’re older, you’ll understand a certain saying.”\n“What’s that?” Clarissa asked.\n“There are no longer any more zero-sum games and never will be again.” Just as he finished saying those words, he had goosebumps. He didn’t know why.\n“Um, okay,” the girl responded.\n“Oh, by the way, concerning toys, I do believe we have enough here to cut a deal, don’t you?”\n“Really?” the boy asked.\n“Really. What do you say, print one toy for each of you in exchange for copying your 22 CADs?”\n“Sure!” the kids said in unison.\nJosh ran the Copy function of the register. The readout showed the shop receiving their copies of the kids’ CADs.\nHe watched as Kaig led the children to two of the smaller printers. Kaig gave Josh a smile and a big thumbs up. He showed each of them how to insert their flash drives and how to select the CADs for the toys they wanted printed.\nThose kids have a happy future in front of them, Josh thought. And then he thought more about the broader implications of the opposite sense he had of “zero-sum” and what he had felt. Yes, that thing, that thrill, just as he said those magic words. Something in them somehow seemed to apply to him and his business.\nThe next thing he knew, the mother was standing right in front of him, sans sunglasses. She smiled even more broadly than she had before.\nShe stuck out her hand. “I’m Saundra Sondegaard. I’m so impressed by how you handled my children.”\nJosh heard them giggling as the printers made that chukchukchuk sound. He shook her hand. “I’m glad to be of help. By the way, your name sounds more than familiar.”\nHer smile widened. “I had hoped you had heard of Sondegaard Printers.”\n“You’re—” Josh started to say.\n“Yes. My husband, Michael and I built the first general-purpose 3-D printer last year. I see you have one the newer models over in the corner.” She pointed to Josh’s right.\n“Unfortunately, I don’t have the CADs to get it repaired. It worked great until the intake sensors wore out.”\n“No need. Our latest one, it’s sixth generation, is far superior. We’re getting closer and closer to producing the first general-purpose replicator.”\n“Uh—Wow!”\n“When I learned you had an early Switzer toner system, I knew I had to find out more about you. Most shop owners I know wouldn’t have considered taking that step so early in the overall printer technology development process.”\n“Um. Process?”\n“The process of development that is leading to a fully enclosed production and recycling system. When you said what you said to my children, I knew you understood.”\n“Uh—”\nHer eyes were glowing. Her smile widened even more. “When our economy crashed, what replaced it?”\n“Trading. Swapping.” Josh slowly nodded as comprehension grew. “I’m a trader. Every time I trade, the distribution of CADs widens just that much. If I could trade with some major players, I could—ah, you?”\n“Exactly.”\n“So, the kids--?”\n“Yes. That was a test. For them and you. I brought them so they could learn more about printers, and I could learn more about you.”\n“Are you interested in cutting a deal?”\n“More. I want to tell you what our ultimate goal is. I want a printing system that can be fully copied just as we copy CADs today. A true replicator.” She opened her tablet and showed him an image of a mock-up. The printer was fully enclosed. It had one intake from a large vat.\nJosh’s eyes widened in surprise and sudden understanding.\n“I’m interested in a potential partnership with you. We could begin by creating more Switzer toner systems and offer them in trade paired with my printers.” She waved her right hand for emphasis toward Josh’s collection of printers on the floor.\n“With the help of your people and mine, the three of us can receive customer feedback and fine-tune the system until toner production and printer become one. At which point we fine-tune the precision. We then scan the entire system and create our first replicator CAD.”\nJosh’s eyes widened. Cascading images of what such a system could do filled his mind. But all he could think to say was, “Makes sense.”\n“We trade that first CAD for a LOT of first-rate advanced CADs. But as we improve the system and make printing the replicator more efficient, we create less expensive CADs. We offer to trade them for fewer and fewer CADs. We may be the ones to turn CAD inflation around. Imagine CAD deflation. This would result in a growing volume of business, thus far more CADs for us. And more CADs for everyone.”\n“Yes!”\n“Printer development will accelerate and accelerate. Around the world. Human life will never be the same again.”\nIt was as if a dark, gloomy valley, Josh’s life, was suddenly lit up by the sun. The clarity of the vision struck him with awe. There was nothing else to say, except…\n“Please step into to my office,” Josh pointed at the door. “I believe we have lots of interesting things to discuss. Kaig will make sure your kids don’t get into any trouble while we talk.”\nShe nodded at him, “I’m sure he will.” They both watched the kids for a moment as the printers built their toys.\nJosh smiled as he opened the door to the office. He finished the song in his soaring mind, “You can’t always get what you want—you get what you need.”\nMick’s promise. It turned out to be so true, so true." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Coraline Factor\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2510\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As Vikky walked down the paths leading to the school’s quadrangle, other students moved aside or stopped what they were doing to look at her. Her black hair bobbed, her skirt swished, but her footsteps seemed to glide. Laura and Faye trotted behind her.\n\nAs they approached where the blood-nosed boys wrestled each other with the ferocity of alligator lizards, Vikky let out a loud wolf whistle, making everyone else turn around. She raised her hands together and widened them out in a gesture demanding that the spectators move aside. They parted like the Red Sea. The boys still fought. One observer immediately brought up his phone to photograph what may happen next. As soon as the surrounding students made way for Vikky, she ran at the boys, leaped in the air, and kicked them both down, landing firmly on her feet. They lay sprawled, and she promptly went up and kicked them both where it hurt the most. After inflicting just enough pain to stun them, she turned away.\n“I have no intention of going to the prom with either of you, so please stop it.”\n\nThomas stopped clicking and viewed his shots. He grinned as he transferred a few choice ones to his Facebook profile and sent them to all his contacts and friends. The one with Vikky in the air about to knock over the boys showed her in fine form.\" He titled them, “Vikky says ‘No’ to going to the prom.” It put her actions way out of perspective.\nMany of the comments applauded her ‘girl power.’\nA few described the two boys as eggs or used derisive, even profane, language. \nOthers wondered why the boys would want to go to a prom with a girl like that.\nHer actions came across as using a bucket of water to put out a candle.\n\nLet’s back it up.\n\nVikky sat at a table in the library, perusing a book on Art History—one that could only be read in the library. She could have been pretending to be a nerdy, studious girl, but not Vikky. She transformed nerdom and study to meteoric levels.\n\nWhen she wore her school uniform, she did not blend in. She stood out as someone to reckon with. She commanded a presence from the razor-sharp cut of her long black bob to her crisply pleated miniskirt and knee-high socks down to her chunky, black patent, block-heeled Mary Jane platforms, complete with black bows. The shoes helped raise her diminutive stature. The rest resulted from a creepy charisma. She had many admirers and those who proactively assisted her, but she needed none of them. Her enrolment at high school wasn’t to help her grow up. She already exuded maturity.\n\nLaura and Faye, from her class, sidled into the library and quietly arrived at the table where she sat. “Vikky, you’ve gotta help. Grant and Mark are both scrapping in the quadrangle near the canteen.”\nGreen eyes flashed up at the two girls. “Is this my business?”\n“Please, Vikky. They’re fighting over who will take you to the prom.”\nVikky rolled her eyes. “I told both of them, ‘no, thanks.’”\n“We know you are polite. But the fight is because they don’t know you said ‘no’ to both.”\n“Idiots,” said Vikky, “as if I’d go with either of them.”\n“We know you can get them to stop before they murder each other.”\n“That wouldn’t be a loss,” she muttered as she snapped the book shut, and they left. \n\nOnce the boys had been dealt with, Vikky marched away to class. The photos went viral after Thomas’ friends sent them to their friends . . . Before too long, the teachers found out, and the World followed. The principal alerted the parents of the three students and called them all in for a meeting.\n“Let me handle it,” Vikky said to her Uncle and Aunt. They were astounded to hear that prim and proper Vikky had been involved in a three-way fight with two boys.\n\nTwo guardians, one father and another two parents, sat with Grant, Mark, and Vikky in the office of Principal Algernon Forbes. He glowered at the three.\nUncle Jack broke the ice by introducing himself and Aunty Ruth. The others reluctantly followed his lead.\nThe principal cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention, and, in fact, millions of others, about a forbidden fight on school grounds last Wednesday. You three are the culprits. You boys have a reputation for disruptive behavior, but you surprise me, Vikky. Would you like to say anything?”\n“Yes, please, Mr. Forbes, sir. I was not involved in the fight.”\nAll eyes turned to her in surprise. The only mother present spluttered. “We all saw you in Facebook. You really hurt poor Grant. Gave him a bleeding nose. You are a nasty piece of work.”\n“Both boys walked to class, no problem. I did not kick hard enough to do them damage. They fought over which of them would go to the prom with me. As I told both of them I wouldn’t, the fight had nothing to do with me.”\nThe boys looked at each other with eyes wide open at this revelation.\n“So why did you join in?” asked Mr. Forbes.\n“While studying in the library, I was asked to stop them fighting. So, I did. They’d both made each other’s noses bleed, and it didn’t look like they’d stop. I got there before a teacher did and prevented murder. I didn’t join in . . . Unfortunately, someone circulated some photos with no proper context.”\nThe boys looked sheepishly at their parents.\nUncle Jack shook his head in disbelief and looked at the principal. “It’s obvious that Vikky meant well.”\nTwo fathers and one mother protested until the principal yelled, “Silence! I feel the boys have been humiliated and punished enough; Vikky needs to remember to get a teacher, or prefect, to deal with such problems in the future. So, you three can get back to class. And if your parents have nothing more to say, they can leave too. Good day, folks.”\n\nThey had been dismissed before further ado.\n\nVikky’s Aunt and Uncle cautioned her to use her moves only for self-defense, not offense. They couldn’t help but laugh about the misunderstanding that had lead to the boy’s fight and Vikky’s intervention.\n“I only did what I believe Coraline would have done.”\nUncle Jack rolled his eyes.\n“You’ll be picked up at the end of the day, darling. See you at home later.” Her Aunt hugged her.\nVikky waved to them as she walked away.\n*\nAs they drove home, they discussed what had transpired and Vikky’s reference to Coraline.\n“Honestly, I thought she’d given up on Coraline. I’ve noticed she doesn’t dress like her anymore.”\n“Oh, you mean the orange skirt with red and black tights and the striped long-sleeved red shirt. And when she went out into the garden ‘exploring,’ she wanted that damn yellow raincoat and matching boots, and only a black cap would do. I had to knit her green and orange striped gloves for winter, or she wouldn’t wear them. The rest of the time, she loved those orange sneakers and that ugly blueish cardy. Thankfully, she literally grew out of all that. But she’s kept her shorter haircut. I preferred her lovely long hair. She still wears the bright blue boots she insisted I buy her. I ordered them too big. Now she only wears things in red, orange, pink, blue, and black, and she’s more color coordinated, thank goodness.”\n“It all started with that scary Coraline movie you took her to. Then she wanted the book. We got her a picture book, and when she outgrew it, she insisted on having the novel. Why on earth did she want to be Coraline? What’s wrong with a Disney princess or Barbie?”\n“I asked her the same thing. She was in a huff with me one day and came out with, ‘I don’t want your love. I don’t want anything from you.’ When I asked her why she’d say such a horrible thing, she said, ‘You are not my mother. I don’t want everything. Nobody does. What fun would it be if I got everything I ever wanted? It doesn’t mean anything.’ I cried over that. She hugged me and told me it’s what Coraline says and there is truth to it. I told her we love her and want to give her everything . . . I stopped doing that. She said it made life ‘more real’.”\nUncle Jack shook his head. “After her mother died, I worried about her being so withdrawn and sad all of the time. Becoming Coraline definitely helped her be confident. But as an alter ego, she’s not a great choice.”\n“I asked her why she wanted to be like Coraline, and her answer confused me. She told me she is Coraline because she comes from a different place, doesn’t belong here, but hasn’t figured out how to return.”\n“Everything is better with us. She had a chance to live with her father but refused to see him. I thought she liked living a luxurious life,” said Jack.\n“I don’t think she wants either life. I don’t believe the place she wants to be is one she can go back to.”\n“We got her that black kitten she wanted, remember. She called it Wuss-Puss, after Coraline’s cat. She still adores it . . . We do everything for her.” He sighed.\n“But we never ask her if it’s what she wants. Does she really see her life with us as a ‘trap’? Everybody needs someone trustworthy to help them.”\n“It’s like she’s already grown up and wants independence. I guess we need to gradually give her wings,” said Jack, shaking his head.\nI wish she’d be excited about things like the prom. I’d love to go shopping with her for a dress . . . She’s such a different sort of girl.” Ruth sighed.\n“She’s a passionately creative soul. A funny wee girl. She sees things differently to the rest of us.”\n\nAunty Ruth had pleaded with her to learn some sort of dancing, to no avail. They paid a tutor to come to the ranch and teach her basic dances so she knew the proper steps for when they held or attended functions. She also trained at home in the gym room Uncle Jack set up for her. He used it himself and had become fitter and more energetic. They regularly jogged together around the farm on a track he made for them. His philosophy is, “If we can’t talk her out of it, let’s join her.”\n\nVikky shrugged when anyone at school asked if she was the cool girl in the photos. It seemed a silly question as they captured the action perfectly, though she always kept her fight and self-defense training after school hours a secret. A leap and two kicks did not illustrate her abilities, even a fraction.\nBefore too long, it seemed that secret may become common knowledge.\n\nThomas walked past her one day and gave her a note. It said, “Roof, please, 12.30pm.”\nShe wondered what it was all about. Thomas had circulated the offending photos. Maybe he wanted to apologize.\n\nThe flat-roofed area of the main three-floored block had walls surrounding it, providing a panoramic view of the whole school. This was ideal for those who wanted private chats. \n\nWhen Vikky walked onto the rooftop terrace, Thomas waited for her. She folded her arms and looked at him with her head to one side.\n“I’m asking you to partner me to the prom,” he said.\n“Why would I do that?”\n“We make the perfect couple.”\n“I doubt it.”\nHe held out a photo for her to look at. The first photo showed Vikky entering the SEO Martial Arts Academy building, and the second showed her leaving, with a full view of her face. “I know you want to keep this a secret.”\n“Why did you stalk me and take them?”\n“Your moves against those two boys didn’t look like the full extent of your abilities. You avoid anything like cheerleading, gymnastics, or karate at school, even though you’d be brilliant at them. So, what’s the secret? I checked you out. The students who print the school paper would die to write an article about you and your skills. Reveal your secret to the whole school. You can get out of it by being my partner at the school prom.”\n“You’re pretty confident in your deviousness.”\n“So are you. As I said, we’ll make the perfect couple. You’d be a total danger to the other boys in the school, but I promise you we’ll be safe together.”\n“What makes you think you’re safe with me?”\nHe put his right arm out, she locked his wrist, and he deftly twisted himself free. Then he grabbed her wrist, and she twisted free. In a trice, he had her arm locked behind her back; her other arm flew up and around in a hit as she twisted free. She was about to assault him, but he caught her wrist--\n“Stop! Shall we stop? I’d rather take you to the prom to do dance moves than injure you in a fight.” He laughed.\n“You’ve made your point . . . Actually, my folks will be delighted if I go. I won’t tell them how you convinced me. But can I trust you?”\n“Like you, I wouldn’t have a problem going with someone else, and the article could have been printed already. I’ll gladly keep your secret safe if you come with me. I’ll return the photos afterward. Everybody needs someone to help them whom they can trust.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.\n“I guess I can oblige.”\n“By the way, what’s your deal? Aspirations to be a vigilante or assassin?”\nVikky had a deadpan face. “No. To protect myself from violent people.”\n“That’s a laugh. Your family, have you tailed by bodyguards.”\n“Where are they now? I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t take care of myself. I thought you met me here to apologize?”\n“I am sorry. . . for underestimating you. ‘My twitchy-witchy girl, I think you are so nice.’”\nVicky opened her mouth in surprise.\n**\nVikky walked into the house at the end of the day. “Hi, Aunt Ruth. A boy at school asked me to go to the prom, and I decided I’d go.”\nAunt Ruth clasped her hands together and rushed over to hug her. “How wonderful. You are going. I can’t wait to shop for your dress and shoes with you.”\n“I did think of you when I said ‘yes’.”\n“What made you change your mind?”\n“He had his ways of convincing me. He told me that everybody needs someone trustworthy, and I believe I can trust him.”\nAunt Ruth smiled ruefully. “I’d hate to be in his shoes if he proves otherwise.”\nVikky laughed. If only they knew.\nTHE END" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: State\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2457\n\nPrompt:\n\nMake a race an important element of your story." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A gunshot crackles through the air. You flinch. A wisp of smoke rises across the field. A blur of bodies bursts away from the gunman. Arms and legs swing furiously. You anxiously shift your weight back and forth. Your foot begins to shake. Breathe. The mass of sprinting bodies curves and hurtles towards you. You stare at the white tape on the ground in front of you. If you start too early or too late, you’ll never recover. Wait. The screaming and yelling swells. Wait. Your hearts pounding, your fight-or-flight instincts scream for release. Wait. A foot strikes the tape. Now!\nHours earlier, you’re nauseous, face pressed against the tinted window of a cramped van as it weaves its way through Saturday morning traffic. Your stomach gurgles, anxious and excited. The stadium falls into view, its large metal bleachers jutting from the surrounding playfields. “Yo, its go time!”, your teammate chants. You sit quietly, typically subdued. Your coach, the driver, pulls into the nearly empty stadium lot and coasts to a stop near some other vans. Your teammates excitedly spill out onto the parking lot. You follow, more slowly, cautiously. You squint your eyes in the morning sun, looking over at the stadium, a bit awestruck. It’s large, for a high school stadium, the largest you’ve seen. The sight strips away the lingering queasiness. A large white banner is flanked across the back of the stadium. WIAA High School Track and Field State Championships.\nYou sling your black duffel bag over your shoulder and walk calmly behind your excitable teammates, across the cracked pavement and towards the stadium’s concrete entrance-way. Your inner voice says what you’ve avoided acknowledging until now. You made it. In a few hours, you’ll race in this stadium as a member of your school’s 4x100 meter relay team. When it’s time, the four of you will take your places around the loop of the track, each running approximately 100 meters before passing a tubular metal “baton” to each other. It’s an odd race, and these hand-offs provide some of the most exciting and heartbreaking moments on a track. Later in life, you will read something about how it all originated, in ancient Greece, as a tradition of running couriers passing off \"message sticks\". This never crosses your mind. You haven't advanced to that stage yet, questioning why some things are. You're in high school, things just happen.\nYou walk through a concrete tunnel, emerging into the interior of the stadium. Beyond a waist high chain-link fence is a green sea of synthetic turf, surrounded by the blood-orange expanse of an eight-lane track. You get a small thrill by opening the gate door with a sign reading “Athletes and authorized personnel only”. You walk onto the field and sit on the fake grass, the sun warm on your back as you slip off your tennis shoes and put on your thin, paper-light running “spikes”. You bound onto the track, feeling the springiness of the grippy rubber material under your feet. You look around at the stadium. The stands are mostly empty this early in the day, but you imagine the packed crowds coming.\nA few weeks shy of graduating, you’re the only senior on the relay team. Depending on how today’s preliminary races go, it could be your last race. In fact, it could be your last high school sporting event ever. You haven’t thought about what it would be like, yet, without school sports. It’s all you’ve known. Since kindergarten, you’ve competed in at least three sports a year, always preparing for the next sport, the next season, the next year. It has been a comfort, the regularity of the seasons, the routine of practices. That will stop today. You gaze out across the stadium, squinting your eyes in the bright sun reflecting off the bleachers. Remember. You try to breathe it all in, to create a lasting memory, to appreciate this final opportunity to perform and showcase your athletic abilities. It slips, and you start to daydream. There’s only so much reverence an 18-year-old can muster at this stage in life.\nYour coach calls the team over to the far side of the field. He gives a heartfelt speech about today, about the opportunity to showcase all your hard work. In the moment, it’s profound, but years from now, the details will be gone, and just the feeling will linger. “Alright, now, let’s warm up!” He barks, cutting through the sentimentality of the moment. The team settles into its warmup routine. Jumping Jacks, bird-dogs, cariocas, all those mysterious names for different forms of moving your body. It works, like always. You feel limber, loose, ready to run through a wall.\nMost races require some form of pacing, a delicate interplay between strategy and strain, mind, and body. But not a 100-meter sprint, the shortest track racing distance. It’s all body, all strain. Your part of the race will be done in just over 12 seconds. That’s it. In the time it takes to recite the pledge of allegiance, you’ll start and finish the pinnacle of your athletic career. And in those twelve seconds, you’ll run as fast as you can, and then some. It takes training to get there, to realize that your body can move faster than you thought possible. You ignore the pleas from your body, and then you glide, daring your feet to keep up.\nWait. There’s a lot of that in a track meet. Waiting for the meet to start. Waiting for your event to be called for staging. Waiting to line up in race positions. You spend hours each meet with your teammates just sitting and passing the time, desperately redirecting your nervous energy until your event is called. The state championships track meet is especially long, lasting all day, so you watch and wait. You watch your fellow competitors go through the balletic competitions of each unique event. Running, jumping, throwing, it’s an impressive display of all the athletic prowess of the human body. These are athletes in their youthful prime. Some of them will compete in college, a few maybe even professionally. Most, like you, will soon transition into a life without athletics. With the sun high in the afternoon sky, you get the signal. “Yo, guys, lets jog it out!” Your teammate waves the baton in the air like a maestro. Finally.\nThe four of you jog slowly across the infield, exaggerating each step like it’s a performance. “Stick!” You playfully yell. Your teammate, jogging closely in front of you, swings their arm back, palm up. You quickly slap the baton down into their hand, releasing your grip just as they curl their fingers around it. Your teammate tosses the baton. “Heads up!” The teammate in the back snatches it out of the air, and the ritual repeats. To the uninitiated, this group warmup routine might seem out of place in a sport typically associated with solo efforts. But the relay is unique, a team coordinated effort. The best individual performances mean nothing if you don't manage the delicate act of handing off the baton to each other, running at full speed. This season, your team has cruised to easy victories, and been embarrassed by botched hand-offs and last place finishes. Despite it all, you’re here, together, for the first time, and for the last.\nThe announcer instructs the relay teams to gather at the finish line for staging. This is it. You make a last conscious effort to absorb the scene. It’s only the state championships, but for you, they may as well be the Olympics. The 5,000 people in the stands is greater than the population of your entire hometown. What do I feel? Numerous sports movies and reminiscent adults have drilled into you the importance of reverence and appreciation for what you’re about to do. But you don’t have hindsight, you haven’t lived a life beyond it yet. You can’t know how it will play in your mind forever.\n“Runners, to your positions!” The group breaks, and you jog alone towards the opposite corner of the track. You reach your spot, stopping to peel off your warmup clothes. The slight breeze slips around your smooth, newly shaved legs. You feel the stares of the other runners, even if only imagined. You're not supposed to be here. You're not a sprinter. Yet here you are. All throughout high school, you were predominantly a thrower. The shot put, discuss, heavy metal objects that you toss as far as you can. Your body matches those events better. Here, in sprinting events, shorter and leaner tend to dominate. I’ll show you what I can do. Your body has been shaped to the task. You’re a lean 175lbs, down from your bulky peak of 205lbs during football season. The caloric demands of the workouts took care of that on its own. You walk over to your assigned lane, half bounding and half jogging, desperate to shake off the pre-race jitters. You pull a roll of tape out of your pocket and carefully pace off the marking distance. 1, 2, 3… It took a full season of practicing to get this exact distance right. 20 steps. The distance it takes for you to get up to nearly full speed just before your teammate runs into you. You tear off a strip of the white athletic tape and carefully press it into the softly jagged texture of the track. “Runners, take your positions!” You jog on your way back to the starting spot. You take one last look at the nervous faces of your competitors. Breath. You take a deep, shuddering breath. Okay.\nPop! The starter gun goes off, shattering the dreadful silence. You listen for a second pop, signaling a heartbreaking end for one of the teams. Instead, it’s a clean start. The runners scream around the first corner of the track. The crowd roars to life. The first group of runner’s mesh into the second, a momentary chaos, and then the second group emerges. The first hand-off. The crowd noise escalates and slips into the background. You spot your teammate in the fury of flailing limbs. He’s in the middle of the pack. Uh-oh. You’ll have no room for error, needing to keep the pace to secure a decent finish. Wait. You wipe your sweaty hands on your mesh shorts. The group of runners’ flies toward you. Wait. You lock eyes with your teammate. His stare is focused, ferocious. You shift your weight nervously. Wait. You watch their feet, pattering furiously down the track. Wait. Smack! The foot strikes the tape.\nGo. You pivot, digging your left foot into the track. Your body twists, left arm flying back, then flying forward as you thrust your right leg ahead. Muscles contract, ligaments stretch, blood courses. Drive. You lean forward, so far that only your legs can catch you from falling. There’s a pattering of steps and explosion of breaths behind you. Your teammate is gaining on you. Wait. You strain to hear their voice among the shouting of the chaos. Did he say it? “Stick!” your teammate yells, voice cracking. You fling your arm back. Please be there. Smack! The baton slaps perfectly in the middle of your hand. You curl your fingers to grip it tight. You’ve got it, well before the end of the zone, a clean hand-off.\nRun.\nThe world blurs.\nTap, breath, tap, breath.\nTwo white lines, curving on blood orange.\nTap, breath, tap, breath.\nLegs, solid, flying.\nTap, breath, tap, breath.\nArms, pull, pump, pull, pump.\nTap, breath, tap, breath.\nWake up.\nThe world crashes back into focus. The last runners appear in the clearing fog. Your body screams for surrender. Focus. Your effort will be for nothing if you don’t complete the hand-off. Your teammate stares at you, wide eyed, waiting for you to cross his mark. Now. He turns, runs, you push to keep your pace, you’re almost on him. \"Stick!\" you scream, between gasps. His arm flings back. You lean forward, keeping your balance as you try to maintain speed. You slam the baton into his hand. In an instant, his hand closes around it as you release yours. Clean. The last runners accelerate, and the crowd roars back to life. Careful. You can’t lose focus, not now. You must slow down within the hand-off zone, taking care not to step into another lane and get disqualified. Your exhausted, adrenaline battling fatigue. You concentrate on your legs, pulling them under you, trying to stop without collapsing.\nYou gasp for air as you watch your teammate fly down the track. The crowd roars back into your reality. The runners burst across the finish line, but you can’t tell your teammates position from your vantage point. You jog slowly over to the finish line. You find your teammates and gather, arms draped over one another, gasping, and smiling. You look up at the screen to see the results. Fourth place. The top eight teams make the finals. You’ll have to wait until the other races finish to know your fate. You look at your teammates. You don’t say it, but you’re proud of them, of what you’ve just done. Perfect.\nYou watch the other preliminaries. You subdue your optimism. When the final results flash onto the screen, you’re ready. You look. It’s over.\nYour team misses the finals by one spot. The team will be better the next year, after you've graduated. They will make the finals and place in the top three, breaking the school record time in the process. You’re proud of them. You’ve had a year to adjust, to normalize into a life without school sports. You can hear the news of their success without bitterness. You never really belonged there, anyways.\nYou will never touch a baton again, never wear the spikes, the uniform, never feel that sensation of pushing your body to that extreme. Days after the race, you saw the footage shot on your parents bulky 80s camcorder. It all looked so ordinary. The lead up, the start, the hand-offs, the finish. In the footage, you see the effort on your face, but it doesn’t reflect what you felt. The memory creeps back, sometimes. The moments are sensationalized and altered from years of retrieval and re-writing. The closest you come to fully re-living it is when you go for a nighttime jog. Alone, in the dark, with only your breath and fatigue as company. Sometimes you’ll push yourself, when your breathing is labored, your legs tired, trying to recapture that feeling. It will always be there, in some form. But at 35, you've lived almost a full other life since that race. Was it real?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Redemption Time\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2211\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on New Year's Day." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I wasn’t praying.\n The thought had crossed my mind, but with some people, prayer just doesn’t work.\n “You’re destined to be one of the greats, glory to God.”\n Pops. Him and the same garbage he had poured into my head since I was old enough to pick up a basketball.\n “You will thank me later for all this. Just remember Proverbs.”\n Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.\n Mother effer.\n “Excuse me?” came his voice from what felt like high above, maybe heaven.\n “Nothing,” I replied, catching myself a bit too late, wondering if the octave of my whisper had been too high.\n “Nothing who?”\n “Nothing, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”\n Of course I did.\n There was no logical reason for this exercise. I never believed Pops was God’s agent to make a point to the world. \n He begged to differ.\n “When you reach the NBA, you can use that platform to spread the Word of God.”\n Here’s the deal: Once upon a time I was a high school basketball star, all-state my senior year, conference MVP, almost led my team to a state championship. Accolades galore.\n I was part of Pops’ master plan. He had me pegged as a global messiah figure, all because I could make shots with relative consistency. I think he found meaning in his life through that.\n But here’s the problem. While I was good, and really, really good sometimes, I wasn’t elite. Not in the way Pops saw me in his mind’s eye. Not in the way college coaches assess prospects.\n Of course, I never made it to the NBA. Hell, I never even made it to a high-major college gig, unless you consider East Beach State in the tiny Daytona Beach suburb of Lester, Florida, a destination program. That came after I put in two years at Southern Illini Junior College in the one-horse town of Prestonville, Illinois.\n I went there because I realized my talent, and my fair-to-midland grades, wouldn’t cut it at a high-major school. I figured, put in two years on the farm, then jump to a blue blood.\n Maybe.\n Pops never forgave me for that decision. In his mind’s eye, he saw me suiting up for Kansas straight out of high school, and in a perfect world, eventually for the Chicago Bulls. Anything less would be disrupting the Lord’s grand master plan for saving folks from the coming wrath.\n His belief was that I was the chosen one. His only son. \n Hence, why I was on my knees that New Year’s Day 2005, Saturday, January 1.\n The rule was simple. If I scored less than twenty points in a game, I had to do 10 pushups per point to make up the deficit. So do the math: If I scored seventeen points, I was responsible for thirty pushups.\n He called it redemption.\n My predicament: I only scored ten for Nelson Allgren High in a 47-45 win—yes, we won the game—for the title of the Chicago New Year’s Eve Classic, a who’s who tournament that was played at the massive United Center. I had nailed a dribble-drive jumper in the lane with 0:03.2 seconds to go that caused utter pandemonium, high school girls’ high-pitched screams that carried into the dark recesses of the facility’s upper deck.\n The funny thing was, I knew the ball was in once it left the tips of my fingers. I felt some otherworldly strength, even though I was so tired I could have collapsed on the Bulls logo at center court. Was it God? Despite the fact that I haven’t talked to Pops in years, not after what he called the Southern Illini JUCO debacle, I still like to think so.\n There was a loud rap at my bedroom door the next morning. I was absorbed in a dream about her, basking in the afterglow of fantasy worlds and parallel universes. At that age, I thought she was The One, like Pops thought I was The One.\n We were both wrong.\n “It’s time!” came a Chipper Charlie voice.\n Pops.\n “Redemption time!” he said with a freakish grin and bad teeth as he entered my room, standing next to an in-action poster of Kobe Bryant. Kobe’s partially squinted eyes appeared to stare him down and ask him just what the hell he thought he was trying to prove.\n Kobe wasn’t God, but on the court? Maybe. After he died back in 2020? Quite possibly. At least mythical in status.\n Come on, it’s New Year’s, I mumbled, the fleeting thoughts of her fading into the darkness.\n “Excuse me?”\n “I’ll be ready in a minute. Sir.”\n A-hole.\n I didn’t say a word as I drove us along Chicago’s narrow side streets to Allgren High, cluttered with cars and neighbors and a stray tabby cat. I had a key to the gym, thanks to my celebrated status as probably the best hoops player to come through the school in its history. That’s not really saying much, since Allgren had never been known as a true Chicago basketball dynasty, not in the sense of Simeon or Morgan Park or a few other Chicago Public League schools.\n That was the reason I went to Allgren, Pops once told me. The competition I needed was there, not at a rich kids’ private school on the north shore, several of which wanted me bad coming out of eighth grade. No, Allgren gave me opportunity to hone my skills against “the future NBA,” he had said when I was an eighth grader. I personally think he and Ma didn’t send me because they couldn’t afford it, even with financial aid. They believed strongly in tithes and offerings like any obedient fundamentalist church-goin’ people.\n Belief ran unbridled through the bedrooms and musty basement of my childhood bungalow, where four of us existed in a sort of fake serenity. If Pops and Ma only knew the shit my younger sister and I had pulled over the years…\n Preacher’s kids are the worst, always testing the limits for a means of escape. Pops wasn’t even a preacher, though he thought of himself as one.\n Redemption time was my time to do the pushups necessary to understand that my twenty points were a sort of tithe, my ten percent off the top that would guarantee favor from the Lord. Anything beyond that wasn’t gravy, but an offering.\n “You’re doing this for Him, not for me,” he would say.\n My tally for New Year’s Day was a hundred pushups, followed by two hundred jump shots, two hundred free throws, and then time in the weight room, before heading home for film study and to watch the Bulls-Magic game, my reward for all that hard work. Pops frowned on TV unless it was to watch basketball.\n One hundred pushups, I thought. You can do this, Jimmy. You’ve done it before. I knelt at center court, on top of the Allgren’s navy Fighting Stallions logo with red and white trim, charging into my consciousness like the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. \n The steed of Victory, with the ability to rise up and vanquish the enemy with a bombardment of three-pointers.\n “Before you begin,” Pops said, as he stood with his arms crossed, sporting his wire-rimmed glasses and an Allgren hoodie with the fifth horseman logo, khakis and Air Jordans, a basketball tucked under his right arm.\n “It is a New Year and you are shortly going to be eighteen, so I have decided to increase your pushup total from ten to fifteen. That said, your total this morning will be one hundred fifty pushups.”\n There was a moment of silence.\n Shee-it.\n “But…”\n “Ah, ah, ah! Remember your future. It is not just about you, son. Think of the souls that will be harvested because of your commitment to the Lord now.”\n A pause, and then he added, “You will balance out the heathen you will encounter in the NBA, both on and off the court.”\n Of course.\n I didn’t move. I just knelt there.\n “What are you waiting for? Get to work.”\n I considered standing and walking. I really did.\n But like any father and son, we had butted heads before and I knew that there was nothing in this world or the next that would find some semblance of compassion for the day, the year or my present physical state. \n “Do it,” he hissed.\n He’d always been a cold-hearted, aloof, command-and-control bastard.\n And yet, even now, I miss him on some level.\n I placed my hands on the cool, varnished hardwood, and stared into the eyes of the Fighting Stallion, which I now noticed had tiny crimson pinpricks for eyes.\n I imagined Pops with crimson eyes behind his bifocals, staring down at me.\n Math was never my strong suit, but I didn’t have to worry about losing count as I conquered my first pushup, then the second, the third.\n He counted for me. Out loud.\n “Fifteen,” he said. “That is one point. Keep going.”\n Nope. He wasn’t going to win. \n The beginnings of sweat were dampening my forehead and underarms as I made my way through twenty pushups. I was on my own count.\n By one hundred my pectorals and forearms were in agony, feeling as if I had a pair of shipyard cranes dangling from my torso, but I kept going like a trip hammer. At one-fifty, Pops stopped the count.\n I kept going, and I imagined him frowning. Mind over matter, baby.\n “What are you doing?” \n I didn’t even stop, the first drops of accumulated sweat from my swollen pores hitting the floor.\n He wants fifteen pushups per point?\n F him. I want twenty.\n So that’s what I did. He kept counting until we got to two hundred pushups. \n I would not show weakness.\n I concluded my experiment in some sort of rebellion by getting on my knees, my heart racing and my nose full of snot. A drop of sweat entered the corner of my mouth, and it tasted irony, like blood, not salty.\n I looked up and could tell he was doing mental math.\n Two hundred pushups, divided by ten points.\n “I’m impressed,” he said. “Twenty it will be going forward.”\n Great.\n Just dandy.\n “That should be proper motivation for you to put the ball in the hoop.”\n I always argued, lightly, that my ability to score was predicated on a lot of factors outside of my control. The defense, for example. A zone is traditionally tougher to break than a man defense. Teams constantly threw three-two zones us just to get the offense—me—off balance.\n “You shoot over a zone, praise God,” Pops said. “Your ability to shoot is your greatest asset. It will put bread on your table and the Lord in the hearts of millions.”\n I was averaging over thirty percent made from three-point land. That’s decent, but Pops always implored to shoot more, no matter the play that had been called.\n Then there was coach’s gameplan. It might be more efficient for him to use me as a decoy, thus opening up someone else to shoot, especially when I would get double- or even triple-teamed or trapped at half-court. In fact, that was the opposing coach’s plan in the waning seconds of the Chicago New Year’s Eve Classic title game, but the final play broke down and with seconds to go in a prestigious tournament, you know who’s getting the ball.\n “That there is the reason for the pushups,” he said, “so you have the upper-body strength to escape a double-team.”\n My shooting arm was an anchor, but I still did my two hundred jumpers and free throws, along with my weight-room work. I didn’t make any small talk as I drove us home, but Pops had a pronouncement.\n “Since it is New Year’s Day, and you were willing to go the extra mile with your pushups, I am willing to waive film study until this evening, after the Bulls game,” he said.\n My eyes widened, but I said zero.\n I had a whole afternoon to myself.\n “But we will reconvene after supper to shore up the mistakes you made yesterday. Is that clear?”\n “Yes sir.”\n I pulled up to the front of the house, but I didn’t cut the engine.\n “Going somewhere?” Pops said.\n “Over to one of the guys’ houses.”\n Pops almost rolled his eyes at my suggestion of frivolity. \n “I would have thought you would have decided to watch other NBA games this afternoon,” he replied. “The Knicks play the Nets.”\n His disappointed voice faded out, but he did add one thing.\n “Remember, be ready for film study after supper.”\n And then he was gone, disappearing into the front door of our cream-brick bungalow. I could see the teak-wood cross over the piano in the living room as he passed by. \n I pulled the car forward, avoided an errant cardboard box and a ditched Christmas tree, and drove about four miles.\n To her house.\n Emma. The dream girl.\n Pops didn’t know about her. He also didn’t know what we did together, the few chances we were alone. I was into her, so into her. I now wonder once in a while what happened to her.\n Pops never would have understood.\n Jezebel, he would have said." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: And life went on\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2626\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who is trying to become a better person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Elena wasn't very clear on the details. She could not fathom how quickly she had let go of her common sense for sheer, utter recklessness.\nIt could be blamed, she supposed, on the Ferris Wheel of thoughts her mind had become; receive the highest grades, get the best recommendations, gain this internship or that, look good, dress well; the same drivel running over and over in a slow torturous pace in her head. Breaking away from them, breaking away from that need for perfection and success, had been thrilling. Twenty years old and still living with her mother, Elena could not deny the thrill this one vice pushed through her bones and thumped down her veins. Pretty soon, that first curious sip had transformed into a glass for a week, then three, until finally, she had kept a stash ready in her closet for whenever she stumbled into her room after a long day at the university and simply could not take the barbs life threw at her anymore. \nOh, but Elena was intelligent. Cunning was in her blood though her mother had valued prudence to the point of naivety. Her intelligence and skill as a model student made her the perfect liar. She took enough to dull the edge without losing complete control. I did not receive the highest grades and a scholarship to university for nothing, she had once thought in an alcohol-induced haze of her own intellectual superiority. \nThus, she was often drunk, though never really a drunkard. \"Drunk\" was such an ugly word. Later, she would cringe when she heard it. The innocent mention of the word by the stranger would immediately bring into mind three things: her mother, loneliness, and loss. \nShe was an existential drunk, lying down on her bed after slaving away through numerous assignments gazing at the ceiling and revelling in the brief solitude of her mind. Using such moments to question, she often wondered about her place in life. She loved her major – Physics – and was incredibly good at it. She was bound to succeed in it. Yet even that love was fading fast, and she wondered how she could be so tired.\nShe knew exactly why. She did not know who she was. \nIt so happened that when her habit had reached the duration of over a month, her mother entered her room without knocking. It was a Sunday. As born and bred Catholics, Sunday was meant to be a day of rest. Yet as far as Elena could remember, Sunday had been just like any other grinding working day, typical of an ambitious student. 'Take what the universe gives you and use it'd been the motto passed down from her mother to Elena. \n\"How's the university?\" her mother asked. \nHer tongue still held the taste of the deep swig she had consumed. \"Still standing.\"\nHer mother frowned, \"I meant, how are your studies going?\"\nKeeping her face carefully blank, she subtly slipped her latest red-covered assignment under her sheets. \"Straight As.\" \n\"That's great. Keep it up.\"\nAs always, that was the extent of their conversation, an utterly professional exchange that had become their norm soon after Elena had entered university. As always, Elena should have let her mother shut the door and left her be, particularly since there was alcohol in her breath and a slight glaze in her eyes. An unprecedented modicum of boldness, however, prompted her to ask her mother a question she wasn't entirely sure why she asked. \n\"Who was my father?\" \nHer mother halted. \"He's dead.\" \nThe cliché answer is to get young children and teenagers to stop asking questions. \"That isn't what I asked.\"\n\"I don't remember. You know how you were born.\"\n\"I'm not stupid, mom.\"\nShe was an accident, Elena knew. She had come to accept that ages ago. Her eyes were her mother's brown but her hair, as straight as a board and darker than a sky at midnight, was so far removed from her mother's curls. Elena had never met a friend or colleague of her mother's that had her black hair or angular features.\n\"This isn't something you should be bothering about. Go back to your work.\"\n\"I'm twenty. Don't you think I should know?'\nBut her mother had already gone. \nA familiar sigh puffed out of her lips as she reached under her bed, enclosed her fingers around the extraordinary, grounding glass and took another sip. Why had she asked if she had made her peace with it? Her mother was overreacting - being unnecessarily secretive. If she had a father, shouldn't she know who he was? Did her father like Physics? Who was she?\nWho was she? Who was she? Who was she really? The question thrummed and throbbed in her head. \nFixing her gaze on the ceiling, Elena let the pleasant haze numb her senses. \n+ + +\nTwenty years old, still living with her locked treasure chest of secret mother and lying-in drunken hazes three nights out of seven, Elena was acutely aware that her name was a poor representation of herself. She was Elena, the Physics student. Elena, the future researcher. Elena, the scholarship holder. The one who enjoyed an occasional drink. That was it. Her name denoted nothing else, no other personality trait. What had begun as a curious sip to quell the throbbing in her head now allowed her to imagine another self, but just out of reach, beyond a hazy veil of alcohol.\nShe supposed that this must be what people who attempted to contact the supernatural must feel like. As an aspiring physicist, the scientific method was the working motto of her life. Now, with a mixture of turbulent emotions coursing through her system, she found that a determination to investigate her mother's words was taking place in her mind. Not tomorrow. Not later. But right now. When the liquid luck was still there, everything seemed like a fever dream.\nShe made her way into the little staircase that led up to a tiny storage space they had grandly called an attic. Elena had been up there before, of course. She had even rummaged through her mother's belongings when a raging curiosity about her parentage had grasped her fifteen-year-old senses. She knew exactly what she would find. Just little odds and ends. Yet she was like a desperate woman scrambling for a drop of water to quench her thirst in a stream that had already gone dry. She knew she would find nothing, but maybe, just maybe, the very act of doing another productive search would lessen the doubtful uncertainty she was going through. \nIt was as dusty and stuffy as always, boxes pillared around, casting long winding shadows around the dim flickering light. \nShe started with the usual box—a tiny red one roughly the size of a shoe box filled with her mother's polaroid. Once upon a time, they had hung up in a tapestry-like mass on her mother's bedroom walls. She had often explained the stories behind them to Elena with all the dramatics of a circus ringmaster showing off his captive animals. \n\"This one. Oh, he was a bright young man back in those days. Pre-med. I was on the verge of going out with him, but a poor boy. He absolutely lost himself to all that liquor.\"\n\"What is he now?\"\n\"A watchman on the night shift in a graveyard. They sent him to get help, alright, but it never worked on him. Some people are blind enough to ignore what the world gives them. Oh! I had forgotten about her! See that mass of curls? Cinderella, we used to call her.\"\n\"What about them?\"\n\"Bleached blonde. Straight out of the bottle. I had a gorgeous mane of black when I went to school with her. Some people, I tell you.\"\nWith each saintly shake of her head accompanying each saintly declaration, Elena's mother had shaken strands of her hair out of her eyes' way. The better to peer and remember my dear, Elena had mockingly thought.\nThe stories had faded out once she began university.\nAt that moment, in the attic, however, the polaroid looked as dull as her life and as meaningless as the distance between herself and her mother. Elena moved to the next box. She knew it contained her mother's old dresses and gowns, printed with brilliant white flowers and twisting bows of blossoming branches upon which birds rested. In the dim light and through the alcohol gaze, the once fascinating prints reeked of disuse, and the birds might as well have appeared as rickety skeletons in a haunted wood. \nElena let the box drop unceremoniously to the ground. Something shattered. A familiar, putrid smell permeated the air. \nHer mouth gaped open, and she stared at the box which now lay at her feet. She could almost see every molecule and particle and atom that made up invisible waves invading, wreaking havoc upon her senses.\nDear God, she had no right to be angry. Absolutely no right for the wrenching, colossal wave of white-hot anger to flood her brain. Yet it flooded because it wasn't supposed to be this way. It was a scenario Elena hadn't fathomed, yet so obvious that she cursed herself for not having seen it before.\nA mother's and a daughter's brains, apparently, did think alike. \nHer mother was quietly sitting in the living room when she stormed in, holding the offensive box in her arms. \n\"What is this?\" she demanded of her astonished and startled mother. \"What on earth were these doing up in the attic?\"\nJust a subtle widening of her mother's eyes. The slightest hint of lips parting in a shocked gasp. \n\"The cellar was already full. I merely needed someplace to store them in.\"\nLies. The cellar had plenty of space to store a few extra bottles. Hadn't Elena snuck down there enough times in the past month?\n\"This isn't from the cellar.\" She accused. \"All the liquor we own is either fancy wines from our friends or strong stuff that no one…,\" except for Elena herself, \"…ever uses. These? These are strong, and you have hidden them with your clothes. What is going on?\" \nHer mother was silent. She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. Elena noticed with some surprise that the roots were bleeding a light brown colour contrary to the usual blonde. There was a flush on her mother's cheeks. Dear God, had it really come to this state?\n\"You should be focusing on your studies. You should use what the world has given you to your advantage.\"\n\"Don't turn this on me. This is about you. Have you been drinking?\"\n\"Don't take that tone with me.\" Her mother snapped. \"As if I don't know about your habits either. Of all the things you could do. Jeopardizing your scholarship.\"\nShe stumbled through her excuses ignoring the shame that rose with her own hypocrisy. \"It's draining me! The scholarship, the work, the applications! I love physics, I'm good at it, I will succeed in it, but that's the only thing I know I am good at.\" \n\"Use what the….\"\n\"Stop avoiding the question! Are you drinking? Why are you drinking? And what on earth happened to abstinence and drinking weakens the body that the Lord has given us?\"\n\"Elena…\"\n\"I am twenty years old! Not a teenager!\"\nAnother silence.\nAnd then an epiphany. \nElena wasn't a teenager anymore. Her mother was not her mother but just another adult, a person she could address on equal terms. It was as if someone had stripped away the glitz and glamour of a Louvre painting to reveal the rough and harsh edges of the sketch beneath. Her mother, pregnant at twenty, unmarried, college down the drain, a soul-sucking job and nothing beyond that. Nothing else made up her identity. And what did Elena know about her mother beyond that identity? Nothing! \nTwenty years old, and Elena was already becoming her mother. Another caricature of a person. The situation would have made her laugh under any other circumstances. \n\"I really don't know who your father is.\" Her mother finally said with a resigned air. \"As far as I am concerned, he is dead to me.\"\nThe moment Elena was done with college, her mother would have nothing left. The bright and successful physicist daughter. Another part of her mother's identity. Another identity that never fully belonged to Elena, who would inevitably soon leave the nest. \nAn empty soul, Elena realized placing the box down on the sofa was far steadier than her own turbulent one. \n\"Why didn't you tell me.\" She asked. \"About the drinking?\"\n\"Why didn't you tell me?\"\n\"How would I have told you? I don't know how to. I barely have time to talk to anyone.\" \n\"Elena.\" Her mother said. \"If this is too much. The university. If you need time to find things out. That's okay.\"\n\"I have found things out. I know what I want. I just don't know anything beyond that.\" \nA pause.\n\"I feel the same.\"\n\"Oh.\"\n\"How did it come to this?\"\n\"I don't know.\" She said and then shook her head. \"No. I do know. We rushed into life too fast, didn't we? We tried to achieve some… some weird stereotype, and we lost ourselves along the way.\"\n\"Summer is just around the corner. Cancel your internships.\" Her mother said, \"I have enough vacation days saved up. You can get a summer job at the bookstore. You have always liked books.\"\n\"You need to stop drinking.\" Elena countered. \"And I need to too. We can go to a support group and get help. I don't know how I didn't notice it before.\"\n\"Don't blame yourself. I didn't notice yours until a week ago.\"\nElena barked out a bittersweet laugh. \"Aren't we a pair?\"\n\"Is your father really important to you? We can get a test done….\"\n\"No!\" she said quickly. \"No. It's not about my father. Not at all. I think I just need to focus on what I already have and what I can do before anything else.\" \nSomeday she would find out, but for now, it was time for Elena to bridge the painful, existential loneliness between herself and her mother instead of merely pondering on it.\n\"I guess we haven't been making much use of what the universe has given lately.\" Her mother said and placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder. The simple gesture told Elena all that she needed to know.\n\"Mom?\"\n\"Yes?\"\n\"How do you feel about the beach?\"\n+ + +\nThey tossed every single bottle wrapped up in garbage bags into the giant disposal that stood at the entrance to the beach. Everything went in one fell swoop as the sea-scented wind wafted and whipped its way through strands of their hair. Already Elena knew she would miss her little habit. Perhaps one day, she might be struck blind by a sudden craving. But the throbbing she had been trying to escape had dulled, and her mother was energetic in a way Elena had never witnessed before. They would be alright. \nHer mother found it a tad tiresome to wade across the sand, but soon they stood together, side by side, waves washing over their feet, shoes held in their hands. \n\"I've always loved the beach.\" Her mother said her hair tossed back brown roots all on display.\n\"Really? I never knew that.\" She spoke. \"I hate the beach, but the ocean blue water is calming. I would live underwater if I could.'\n\"I never knew that.\" Her mother smiled. \n\"Well,\" Elena shrugged, revelling in the calm in her head and the smile gazing upon her lips. \"Now we both do.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Coraline Factor\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2510\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As Vikky walked down the paths leading to the school’s quadrangle, other students moved aside or stopped what they were doing to look at her. Her black hair bobbed, her skirt swished, but her footsteps seemed to glide. Laura and Faye trotted behind her.\n\nAs they approached where the blood-nosed boys wrestled each other with the ferocity of alligator lizards, Vikky let out a loud wolf whistle, making everyone else turn around. She raised her hands together and widened them out in a gesture demanding that the spectators move aside. They parted like the Red Sea. The boys still fought. One observer immediately brought up his phone to photograph what may happen next. As soon as the surrounding students made way for Vikky, she ran at the boys, leaped in the air, and kicked them both down, landing firmly on her feet. They lay sprawled, and she promptly went up and kicked them both where it hurt the most. After inflicting just enough pain to stun them, she turned away.\n“I have no intention of going to the prom with either of you, so please stop it.”\n\nThomas stopped clicking and viewed his shots. He grinned as he transferred a few choice ones to his Facebook profile and sent them to all his contacts and friends. The one with Vikky in the air about to knock over the boys showed her in fine form.\" He titled them, “Vikky says ‘No’ to going to the prom.” It put her actions way out of perspective.\nMany of the comments applauded her ‘girl power.’\nA few described the two boys as eggs or used derisive, even profane, language. \nOthers wondered why the boys would want to go to a prom with a girl like that.\nHer actions came across as using a bucket of water to put out a candle.\n\nLet’s back it up.\n\nVikky sat at a table in the library, perusing a book on Art History—one that could only be read in the library. She could have been pretending to be a nerdy, studious girl, but not Vikky. She transformed nerdom and study to meteoric levels.\n\nWhen she wore her school uniform, she did not blend in. She stood out as someone to reckon with. She commanded a presence from the razor-sharp cut of her long black bob to her crisply pleated miniskirt and knee-high socks down to her chunky, black patent, block-heeled Mary Jane platforms, complete with black bows. The shoes helped raise her diminutive stature. The rest resulted from a creepy charisma. She had many admirers and those who proactively assisted her, but she needed none of them. Her enrolment at high school wasn’t to help her grow up. She already exuded maturity.\n\nLaura and Faye, from her class, sidled into the library and quietly arrived at the table where she sat. “Vikky, you’ve gotta help. Grant and Mark are both scrapping in the quadrangle near the canteen.”\nGreen eyes flashed up at the two girls. “Is this my business?”\n“Please, Vikky. They’re fighting over who will take you to the prom.”\nVikky rolled her eyes. “I told both of them, ‘no, thanks.’”\n“We know you are polite. But the fight is because they don’t know you said ‘no’ to both.”\n“Idiots,” said Vikky, “as if I’d go with either of them.”\n“We know you can get them to stop before they murder each other.”\n“That wouldn’t be a loss,” she muttered as she snapped the book shut, and they left. \n\nOnce the boys had been dealt with, Vikky marched away to class. The photos went viral after Thomas’ friends sent them to their friends . . . Before too long, the teachers found out, and the World followed. The principal alerted the parents of the three students and called them all in for a meeting.\n“Let me handle it,” Vikky said to her Uncle and Aunt. They were astounded to hear that prim and proper Vikky had been involved in a three-way fight with two boys.\n\nTwo guardians, one father and another two parents, sat with Grant, Mark, and Vikky in the office of Principal Algernon Forbes. He glowered at the three.\nUncle Jack broke the ice by introducing himself and Aunty Ruth. The others reluctantly followed his lead.\nThe principal cleared his throat. “It has been brought to my attention, and, in fact, millions of others, about a forbidden fight on school grounds last Wednesday. You three are the culprits. You boys have a reputation for disruptive behavior, but you surprise me, Vikky. Would you like to say anything?”\n“Yes, please, Mr. Forbes, sir. I was not involved in the fight.”\nAll eyes turned to her in surprise. The only mother present spluttered. “We all saw you in Facebook. You really hurt poor Grant. Gave him a bleeding nose. You are a nasty piece of work.”\n“Both boys walked to class, no problem. I did not kick hard enough to do them damage. They fought over which of them would go to the prom with me. As I told both of them I wouldn’t, the fight had nothing to do with me.”\nThe boys looked at each other with eyes wide open at this revelation.\n“So why did you join in?” asked Mr. Forbes.\n“While studying in the library, I was asked to stop them fighting. So, I did. They’d both made each other’s noses bleed, and it didn’t look like they’d stop. I got there before a teacher did and prevented murder. I didn’t join in . . . Unfortunately, someone circulated some photos with no proper context.”\nThe boys looked sheepishly at their parents.\nUncle Jack shook his head in disbelief and looked at the principal. “It’s obvious that Vikky meant well.”\nTwo fathers and one mother protested until the principal yelled, “Silence! I feel the boys have been humiliated and punished enough; Vikky needs to remember to get a teacher, or prefect, to deal with such problems in the future. So, you three can get back to class. And if your parents have nothing more to say, they can leave too. Good day, folks.”\n\nThey had been dismissed before further ado.\n\nVikky’s Aunt and Uncle cautioned her to use her moves only for self-defense, not offense. They couldn’t help but laugh about the misunderstanding that had lead to the boy’s fight and Vikky’s intervention.\n“I only did what I believe Coraline would have done.”\nUncle Jack rolled his eyes.\n“You’ll be picked up at the end of the day, darling. See you at home later.” Her Aunt hugged her.\nVikky waved to them as she walked away.\n*\nAs they drove home, they discussed what had transpired and Vikky’s reference to Coraline.\n“Honestly, I thought she’d given up on Coraline. I’ve noticed she doesn’t dress like her anymore.”\n“Oh, you mean the orange skirt with red and black tights and the striped long-sleeved red shirt. And when she went out into the garden ‘exploring,’ she wanted that damn yellow raincoat and matching boots, and only a black cap would do. I had to knit her green and orange striped gloves for winter, or she wouldn’t wear them. The rest of the time, she loved those orange sneakers and that ugly blueish cardy. Thankfully, she literally grew out of all that. But she’s kept her shorter haircut. I preferred her lovely long hair. She still wears the bright blue boots she insisted I buy her. I ordered them too big. Now she only wears things in red, orange, pink, blue, and black, and she’s more color coordinated, thank goodness.”\n“It all started with that scary Coraline movie you took her to. Then she wanted the book. We got her a picture book, and when she outgrew it, she insisted on having the novel. Why on earth did she want to be Coraline? What’s wrong with a Disney princess or Barbie?”\n“I asked her the same thing. She was in a huff with me one day and came out with, ‘I don’t want your love. I don’t want anything from you.’ When I asked her why she’d say such a horrible thing, she said, ‘You are not my mother. I don’t want everything. Nobody does. What fun would it be if I got everything I ever wanted? It doesn’t mean anything.’ I cried over that. She hugged me and told me it’s what Coraline says and there is truth to it. I told her we love her and want to give her everything . . . I stopped doing that. She said it made life ‘more real’.”\nUncle Jack shook his head. “After her mother died, I worried about her being so withdrawn and sad all of the time. Becoming Coraline definitely helped her be confident. But as an alter ego, she’s not a great choice.”\n“I asked her why she wanted to be like Coraline, and her answer confused me. She told me she is Coraline because she comes from a different place, doesn’t belong here, but hasn’t figured out how to return.”\n“Everything is better with us. She had a chance to live with her father but refused to see him. I thought she liked living a luxurious life,” said Jack.\n“I don’t think she wants either life. I don’t believe the place she wants to be is one she can go back to.”\n“We got her that black kitten she wanted, remember. She called it Wuss-Puss, after Coraline’s cat. She still adores it . . . We do everything for her.” He sighed.\n“But we never ask her if it’s what she wants. Does she really see her life with us as a ‘trap’? Everybody needs someone trustworthy to help them.”\n“It’s like she’s already grown up and wants independence. I guess we need to gradually give her wings,” said Jack, shaking his head.\nI wish she’d be excited about things like the prom. I’d love to go shopping with her for a dress . . . She’s such a different sort of girl.” Ruth sighed.\n“She’s a passionately creative soul. A funny wee girl. She sees things differently to the rest of us.”\n\nAunty Ruth had pleaded with her to learn some sort of dancing, to no avail. They paid a tutor to come to the ranch and teach her basic dances so she knew the proper steps for when they held or attended functions. She also trained at home in the gym room Uncle Jack set up for her. He used it himself and had become fitter and more energetic. They regularly jogged together around the farm on a track he made for them. His philosophy is, “If we can’t talk her out of it, let’s join her.”\n\nVikky shrugged when anyone at school asked if she was the cool girl in the photos. It seemed a silly question as they captured the action perfectly, though she always kept her fight and self-defense training after school hours a secret. A leap and two kicks did not illustrate her abilities, even a fraction.\nBefore too long, it seemed that secret may become common knowledge.\n\nThomas walked past her one day and gave her a note. It said, “Roof, please, 12.30pm.”\nShe wondered what it was all about. Thomas had circulated the offending photos. Maybe he wanted to apologize.\n\nThe flat-roofed area of the main three-floored block had walls surrounding it, providing a panoramic view of the whole school. This was ideal for those who wanted private chats. \n\nWhen Vikky walked onto the rooftop terrace, Thomas waited for her. She folded her arms and looked at him with her head to one side.\n“I’m asking you to partner me to the prom,” he said.\n“Why would I do that?”\n“We make the perfect couple.”\n“I doubt it.”\nHe held out a photo for her to look at. The first photo showed Vikky entering the SEO Martial Arts Academy building, and the second showed her leaving, with a full view of her face. “I know you want to keep this a secret.”\n“Why did you stalk me and take them?”\n“Your moves against those two boys didn’t look like the full extent of your abilities. You avoid anything like cheerleading, gymnastics, or karate at school, even though you’d be brilliant at them. So, what’s the secret? I checked you out. The students who print the school paper would die to write an article about you and your skills. Reveal your secret to the whole school. You can get out of it by being my partner at the school prom.”\n“You’re pretty confident in your deviousness.”\n“So are you. As I said, we’ll make the perfect couple. You’d be a total danger to the other boys in the school, but I promise you we’ll be safe together.”\n“What makes you think you’re safe with me?”\nHe put his right arm out, she locked his wrist, and he deftly twisted himself free. Then he grabbed her wrist, and she twisted free. In a trice, he had her arm locked behind her back; her other arm flew up and around in a hit as she twisted free. She was about to assault him, but he caught her wrist--\n“Stop! Shall we stop? I’d rather take you to the prom to do dance moves than injure you in a fight.” He laughed.\n“You’ve made your point . . . Actually, my folks will be delighted if I go. I won’t tell them how you convinced me. But can I trust you?”\n“Like you, I wouldn’t have a problem going with someone else, and the article could have been printed already. I’ll gladly keep your secret safe if you come with me. I’ll return the photos afterward. Everybody needs someone to help them whom they can trust.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.\n“I guess I can oblige.”\n“By the way, what’s your deal? Aspirations to be a vigilante or assassin?”\nVikky had a deadpan face. “No. To protect myself from violent people.”\n“That’s a laugh. Your family, have you tailed by bodyguards.”\n“Where are they now? I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t take care of myself. I thought you met me here to apologize?”\n“I am sorry. . . for underestimating you. ‘My twitchy-witchy girl, I think you are so nice.’”\nVicky opened her mouth in surprise.\n**\nVikky walked into the house at the end of the day. “Hi, Aunt Ruth. A boy at school asked me to go to the prom, and I decided I’d go.”\nAunt Ruth clasped her hands together and rushed over to hug her. “How wonderful. You are going. I can’t wait to shop for your dress and shoes with you.”\n“I did think of you when I said ‘yes’.”\n“What made you change your mind?”\n“He had his ways of convincing me. He told me that everybody needs someone trustworthy, and I believe I can trust him.”\nAunt Ruth smiled ruefully. “I’d hate to be in his shoes if he proves otherwise.”\nVikky laughed. If only they knew.\nTHE END" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: MY FASHION WITH CARS SINCE I WAS A YOUNG BOY\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1840\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who is trying to become a better person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I always wondered what it would be like to drive my own car. I was always interested in mechanics and the way things work. I want to know how to build the engine, the proper daily maintenance, to upgrade the performance of the car and to know every single things about cars.\nWhen I was a boy, I used to help in my friend's shop when they're fixing someone else or customer's car. They taught me everything that they knew about cars.\nI started fixing cars at my young age. I first looked at the engine and everything about it, then I would start taking it apart. The first car I ever worked on was a honda civic a Japanese car. It had many problems, like the spark plug wires were broken off; the distributor was shot, the radiator, thermostat wasn't performing well comes with a bad water pump and the battery had died. After fixing those problems, we start the car and the cars run fine. We could drive it again and get it back on track.\nThat was my first accomplishment as a car guy. That's the goal. The feeling that you accomplished something with a hard work was so satisfying\nWhen I got older, I started repairing cars on my own. I fix cars while im still in school and continued doing it after graduation. But then calling comes first. I didn't go to college. I go to the military right away. Serve for over 6 years in my life, then I retired. After I retired In the service, I decide to follow my dream. I take an automotive course in my hometown. I spend 36 weeks in the course before I finally finish and get my certificate.\nAfter that, my journey as an automotive service technician started. My dream since I was a young boy finally came true. Find a job after finishing the course, luckily saskpolytech referred us right away to a shop where we can work and show apply our skills that we learned for 36 weeks along with my comrades whose newly graduates as me. My dream as a young boy came true.\nI work in a shop. It was a busy every day. People come and go all the time greasy hand, dirty. clothes every day. I'm learning new skills and I'm so persevere to\nNew tactics that I'm seeing and learning from the journeymen in our shop. Not getting tired doing my job, not getting tired, and it doesn't mean that im not a getting tired, I get tired too taking a break and enjoy unwinding moments for a second. The thing is, doing the job that you love is the best feeling that cannot be exchanged and be paid by money or anything in this life. That's what I called work, my daily chore as a mechanic.\nWhen I got off from work, I'm no were to be found. You can see me in my friend's house or in our backyard and garage fixing cars.\nI do Jdm, Edm or any type of Japanese cars. I enjoy rebuilding the engine change a bit of pieces added to the platform, performance of my ride, Suspension drops the ride a bit includes all parts of the drive trains, drum brakes to disc brake conversion, 4 lugs to 5 lugs, changing tires new wheels just to add the handling performance, brake kits and more. The lasting that I like to do is the body works and changing all the fluids couple of maintenance thing.\nMy fashion was in a Japanese car. I love Honda; it was easy to build and I can find any car parts I need for a lower price in our town.\nOne day when I was in the city, while I’m driving down the road at night, I’ve noticed a group of cars parked in the middle of the road. Wondering what was going on, I thought it was weird, so I slowed down to see what was happening. As I approached them, they were drifting, tires burning, skid marks on the road. Their hood was wide open their showing up their engines to each other a lot of good looking cars. After that I look to the other side of the road and saw a bunch of people waiting for an action, like there's something is going to happen. Then two cars lined up side by side and a man in the middle. His both hands were up like he's being freeze by a sheriff, they are both revving their engines and then as the man put his hands down they proceeded to race each other down the street. It looks very exciting and furious but also kind of terrifying because they were doing it on a public road.\nThat was my first time that I’ve been and watched a real drug race in my whole life. My curiosity In the next morning in my work I ask my coworker a buddy of mine who also like working with a car if he knew about the drag race thing too and I'm surprised by what he said. He told me that he himself was a racer too. He told me that they race every Saturday and Friday in Rochdale's freeway in the city at 9-10pm. \"one thing led to another.\nHe then invites me to pull down in Rochdale on Saturday, bring the honda that I build and race with the team for once. I say I might come, so I get the location and the time of the race will begin. After work, I mark the calendar to make sure I won't forget it.\nIt's Saturday. After work, I clock out, go to the garage, put a couple of performance parts in my car and check everything before leaving. I didn't even change my clothes. I start my car, wait a bit and hit the road straight to the location.\nAs I almost reach near the destination, I saw a bunch of people standing side by side of the road. Seems like they are waiting to check out the action\nBy the time I arrived at the location, there were so many cars lined up waiting in front. There must have been at least 20 cars lined up in front of me with their engines revving as they waited to enter the parking lot. It was a long wait till I could finally come in. As I proceed, every spot of the parking lot has different imports, good looking cars better and a lot more than the last time that I saw. There are imports R32, Lancer Evo, MR2, and Rx7 came from and they are coming from another city. The rest of us are from the local. They're all showing up what under their hoods. Different kinds of engines. A high performance engine there are Rb26, 4g63, K24 and Gs300. I felt like a real stranger seems like I'm just the only Honda owner there with an Eg Honda Civic supercharged b18-c type r engine.\nAs I approached another import Cars in the parking lot, my buddy's finally saw me and invite me to\njoin them where they park at. Saw some of my buddy's car was jack up, pulling the rear tires off and mounted the slicks ready for the night.\nIts 10pm and the races had already started. A couple of small-block Chevy IIs, s2000 and R32 go at it. They raced here one way, then turned around and raced back. It was as flat as Phyllis Diller and had desert on both sides forever. After watching some more cars come through, my buddy's yelled, \"Let's go,\"they told me I was gonna represent the team for the night.\nSo I pulled out on the highway and cleaned the slicks off the surface of the road. I pulled up alongside the guy in the boosted dc2 type s, He’s not from local. He came from another city. A guy with a flashlight flagged us off. The Dc2 immediately got a jump out of the hole. I counted on the top-end power of my Eg. I grabbed the gears at 8000 rpm, got excellent. Second, I shift the red line all the way to third. In third gear, he miss shifted and blew by him about 200 feet from the finish line. A loud noise from the local cheering me up for winning the race from the outsider along with my buddy's rejoicing in the starting line. We pulled over and this guy was pissed. He demanded a rerace. He really didn't want to admit that and accept that he was lost with an Eg, which I understand because that was really a mist shift. Pull up myself and once again we pulled up to the line and a guy with the flashlight flagged us off. The Dc2 went up right away. I was going to beat him off the line! I grabbed Second, and suddenly, here came the highway patrol, their lights flashing and a lot of them covering the road. I hit the brakes, spun around, and headed back to my buddy's. As soon as I saw my buddy's their already in their ride ready to bag out. I looked the other way up the road and a single car with lights flashing was coming. As a retired Army, it was a disgrace to get caught up in this, so I turned onto the other side of the road, look for a freeway and took off. After driving about a mile, I switched off the lights and went on to an unknown side of the road and stay there for a couple of minutes. Waited, and while I’m waiting on the freeway, I could still see the highway patrol off in the distance rounded up a bunch of the people. After waiting for so long when the road was clearing out, I eased back and went home.\nFrom that day on now and then I learned my lesson. I still fix cars and race, but now it's on the racetrack.\nIt's so good to be free. It’s fun, yes it is, but don’t exchange the freedom of you to be able to drive. I love cruising around with my car, and going out of town. It's a great way to see the sights and get some fresh air. I love being able to go where I want, when I want! Rolling down the window all the way, feeling of having the wind in my face listening to music and singing along while I drive. It is the freedom of driving. In life, you'll realize that there is a purpose for every person you meet. Some are there to test you, some will use you, some will teach you, and some will bring out the best of you.\nMine, I find mine it push me to go with It. I learned a lot It is my fashion with cars when I was young a boy." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Lucas\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1004\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes someone saying, “It’s not fair.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Lucas loved his life. He hadn’t been around for a very long time but he simply adored the way life was treating him. He felt the luckiest creature. For as long as he could remember, he had been loved and pampered. He didn’t have to ask for anything: life was giving him everything he wanted even before he could express a wish. He felt content and quiet. The sound of peaceful waves soothed him whenever he felt little discomfort and the placid waters were warm and gentle whenever they caressed his delicate skin. Even darkness rocked him and was like a velvety hand that moved him from side to side. He was pure life: he felt everything and nothing at the same time. He was at peace with the world around him and inside him. He could perceive it as a whole in every single heartbeat. Nothing distressed him. He didn’t really know the world, he knew only a small part of it, and its limits were blurry, they melted away whenever he tried to fetch them, whenever he tried to set them. He liked this sensation: he had no limits really, no boundaries nor constraints, only those that he set for himself.\nHis days were pretty much the same: he would wake up eager to feel the touch of life, he was ready to respond whenever life would rub his delicate body. He always looked forward to those moments: he was bonding with life through that warm touch. And he would shiver in delight; every inch of his being did. It was pure joy. The sounds of life made him curious too: he would eardrop whenever he could, he knew he loved the high-pitch voices better: they were chirpy and cheery, they made him smile and giggle. Rays of light would often peek out from above and illuminate him softly, and made him warm as if he was wrapped in a woolly blanket. He would always open his eyes to enjoy the light, because it made everything look different. Sometimes he could hear music, muffled sounds really, but how he enjoyed those moments…\nAnd there was more. Every part of his body felt that he had been wanted, that he had been created as an act of love. He didn’t know how, he only felt it, he felt that he was the result of a miracle. He knew that someone was watching over him, was taking care of him, day and night, was feeding him, soothing him, rocking him. Someone was giving him new life every day and getting him ready. For what? He didn’t know, but he felt he was changing, he felt that change was part of him, he never tried to resist change, he embraced it with every fibre of his being. He was change.\nEvery day he grew stronger and more determined, he knew that the day would soon come when he had to start fighting for his happiness, for his space in the world. The day would come when he would start giving back some of the tenderness and warmth that he had received. He knew what it was like to be cherished and desired, and he felt that he wanted to cherish and desire as well, he wanted to see if he could want someone as much as he has been wanted. But he was also scared. Indeed, while he has there, protected and sheltered, he didn’t have to worry about himself, about anything really. He knew he had the strength to survive in him, he had been created to survive, but he wanted to do more than survive. Deep in his little heart, he felt all his strength: it was in his heartbeat, the rhythmic sound of life that was running in his body. That’s all he knew really: he knew his heartbeat, he knew the waves, he knew the soothing sound of the water, the gentle touch of the darkness.\nHe enjoyed his existence, he cherished every moment, he lived every instant to its fullest.\nBut deep down he knew he would have to give it all up soon. His space was getting smaller, darkness was getting darker, the waves were getting shallow and dry.\n“It’s not fair” was what he wanted to say. He wanted to shout it to life itself, but of course he could not do it, he didn’t know how to shout.\nHis journey was coming to an end.\n“It’s not fair” was what he felt. He didn’t really know what was fair and what wasn’t, but he was scared of what would come next and fear was unpleasant, thus unfair. He didn’t know yet, but there is no big change without fear. And yet change is what we are. He would soon understand it.\n“It’s not fair” was what his whole body perceived when life pulled him out of the waters, out of the darkness, out of the soothing calmness of his shelter. He wanted to meet life, he wanted to meet the gentle sun, the soft hand that rubbed his little world. He was ready for life but he resisted change.\nBut there was no point. Change was there to transform him completely, to make him truly part of this world, to make him visible and touchable.\nAnd there he was. The cosmic void surrounded him for a few seconds: it was pure cold terror. He could not breathe, he could not see, he didn’t know where he was. But it lasted very briefly, only until he felt the warm touch of life again; he actually saw life with his big turquoise eyes. He opened those eyes to the light for the first time and they saw life, they saw his mother; his skin felt the warmth of her skin. It was her; it was life itself. He took a deep breath and with it life welcomed him to the world. He wasn’t scared anymore. He would make it, he knew it.\nLucas – born on August 7th 2022" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: How My Sister Stole Christmas\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1474\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a relationship, either romantic or platonic, that is being affected by jealousy." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content warning: This story is about Christmas. Yes, I know it’s only August! Please forgive me.\n\nHow My Sister Stole Christmas\n\nLucy was born on Christmas day. That should tell you everything you need to know about her. Somehow, I still remember that morning vividly. My favourite film, How The Grinch Stole Christmas, was playing on the VHS player and the smell of pine and sweet pancakes wafted around us. My Mum, belly all swollen like the stuffed turkey in the oven, was sitting on the sofa and my Dad next to me, cross-legged on the carpet. A sea of gifts were scattered across the room, shrouded in bright red and green wrapping. They were all different sizes, some adorned large bows and some were tied with string, but all of them - every single one - were addressed to me. Dad handed me my first present, it was shoe-box shaped and twinkled with crimson glitter. Giddy with excitement, I shook the parcel against my ear, listening for a whisper that told me what was inside. I prayed it was a new Barbie doll, the type I had seen advertised on TV with pink roller-skates and golden pigtails that dangled from under a helmet. My small fingers were grappling with the paper when Mum started puffing and groaning. Beneath her was a wet mess. \n“Phil?” Mum’s voice stung with panic. A tone I’d never heard before.\n“We need to go, Hannah.” Dad shot up and pulled the present from my grasp.\n“But-” As I reached for the box in his hand, he chucked it to the other side of the room, sparkles mushrooming in the air.\n“Now.” He hooked my arms around his neck, took Mum’s hand, and together we left Christmas behind us.\nI was dropped off at Grandma’s house, and my parents sped to the hospital. “Isn’t this exciting?” Grandma said every couple of minutes. “You’re going to have a brand new baby sister.” But I wasn’t excited, nor did I want a sister. I wanted to watch The Grinch on VHS and open my brand new doll which at the moment, was sprawled across the floor and all alone. Poor, poor Barbie. Grandma tried to make the day nice for me. She even bought me a present herself. A woven-basket to hang on the front of my tricycle. I said thank you, but I didn’t mean it. \nIt was dark outside when Mum and Dad arrived to collect me. They both entered Nan’s dining room where I was drawing elves and reindeers on the front of her Yellow Pages in red Sharpie. In Mum’s arms was a bundle of blankets, and a little pink face peeked out from them. Grandma’s eyes were wet and she kept sniffling into her sleeve.\n “Come meet Lucy, darling,” Mum said.\n“I’m OK,” I replied, and continued squiggling my latest masterpiece.\n“Well, she’d love to meet her big sister.” \nI sighed, getting up from the chair. If it meant we could go home sooner - fine. Dad picked me up so I had a better view. Her skin was all patchy and her head completely bald with beady eyes that swirled about in their sockets. She was sucking her lips, scrunching her face like she had just bitten into ice-cream. No wonder Grandma had cried.\n“Can we go now?” I asked.\n“Sure, sweety.” Dad lowered me back to the ground and ruffled my hair.\nWhen we got home, I asked to open my presents but Mum and Dad claimed they were too tired. Too tired because of Lucy, no doubt. Tomorrow, they promised. \nThe next morning our front door wouldn’t stop opening and closing as family arrived to visit us. Or should I say, to visit Lucy. They draped around her, kissing her flushed cheeks and stroking her naked head. Oh, she’s so beautiful. And so well-behaved too! How lucky you are, Hannah, to have such a lovely sister. I didn’t feel lucky, and I couldn’t understand what they saw in her. She couldn’t walk or talk yet, and when she wasn’t crying, milky white liquid spewed from her mouth and dribbled down her chin. Yuck. I tried to veer their attention away. I told my Auntie about my creative pursuits at Grandma’s house, how I had embellished her Yellow Pages with Christmas trees and stars. (Tell her how good I draw, Grandma.) I showed my cousin all the presents I was still yet to open; eighteen in total. (Yes cousin! I can count to eighteen now!) But Lucy was always doing something to steal them away again. Yawning, coughing, blinking. Things that I could do, too, but never received any praise for. Mum and Dad also succumbed to Lucy’s manipulation. They were always fussing over her: rushing to the nursery whenever she cried, gawking at the baby monitor whilst she slept. \nWhen everyone had left, I asked Mum if we could watch the remainder of The Grinch together (seeing as we were so rudely interrupted) but Lucy must have heard us as she started howling again. It was a high pitched screech like a car alarm, alerting everyone with ears that she needed something and immediately. Me! Me! Me! I need attention. Me!\n“I can’t right now, Hannah,” Mum said. She pecked me on the cheek and both of my parents disappeared upstairs. And so I found myself alone in the front room. The head of the VHS peered out from the video-player and gently I pushed it in. The TV began whirring and clunking until that loveable monster blinked onto the screen, his eyebrow cocked and grinning at me devilishly. \nMum and Dad were still comforting my sister. I could hear them cooing at her, their footsteps pacing in circles above. They probably wouldn’t be back downstairs for some time… \nI smiled back at the TV.\nYou’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.\nI delved into my presents, picking up the box closest to me. I didn’t bother reading the tag or carefully removing the bow. No, my fingers scrunched into the wrapping and it ripped as easy as wet tissue. I counted each one as I opened them - Present one: a Powerpuff Girls t-shirt, present two: a new Play Doh set, present three: a polka dot Furby (yipee!) Immediately I would grab another, then the next, and soon, I was drowning amongst scraps of paper, my hands glinting like diamonds in the sun. And I only had one left to open. \n“Hannah?” \nI flinched. My parents were standing in the doorway, Lucy swaddled in a white blanket making smacking noises with her mouth. Was she tutting at me? I tried to rub the glitter from my skin, hide some of the opened toys behind me, but it was hopeless. My lips began to wobble in anticipation of the scolding I was about to receive - Dad’s furrowed brows, Mum’s wagging finger. Will I be sent to the naughty-step? Or worse, will they take my new gifts away? Of course, my sister will take great pleasure in watching me squirm. Probably taking notes on how to be the perfect daughter. Here's one for free, Lucy, never take advice from The Grinch. \nBut the scolding never came. Instead, my parents perched on the carpet next to me amongst the unravelled ribbons and papery debris. \n“Think you missed one.” Dad leant across the room and grasped my last present: shoe-box shaped and twinkling with crimson glitter. He passed it to me, and I began to tear into it. \n“Wait, Hannah. Read it first.” \nI turned the tag over:\n\nTo Hannah,\nMerry Christmas. I can’t wait to meet you.\nLove your baby sister.\n\nLucy ogled me from Mum’s lap, and I stared back at her. What had she bought me? My stomach churned with anticipation. Did she know about rollerblading Barbie? Had she seen the TV adverts like I had? \nMy fingers peeled off the sellotape and inside was another box. I shimmied the lid off and peered inside. Yes, it was a doll, but it didn’t have golden pigtails, nor roller skates attached to its feet. It was far more hairy than any Barbie I had seen, with a plump belly covered in green fur. Its yellow eyes glared up at me, and his smirk somehow seemed to widen.\nMy body tingled all over as I reached into the box and pulled him out. \n“Do you like it?” Dad asked.\nSaying ‘yes’ didn’t seem enough, so I cuddled his body against my own, his mane tickling my skin.\nMy sister, who had stolen Christmas, had gifted me The Grinch.\n“What do you say, then, Hannah?” \nI gave my sister a gentle kiss on the temple, and she grabbed my finger tightly. \n“Thank you, Lucy,” I whispered in her ear. And this time, truly, I meant it." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Rogue Wave of the Mystical Coast\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1864\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story with a strong sense of place. How is the setting of your world the same as, but different to, our own?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The surge of icy water swept over her feet. Then rising above her knees, it pulled Elsie into the tumbling ocean surf, along with her puppy and her friend.\n\nThey surfaced in a cave of sloshing water.\n\nEarlier, Elsie was walking on the beach she loved near the lighthouse. It was a mystical and magical place. The next moment the ocean flooded the sand and surrounded her with a rogue wave surge.\n\nElsie and her friend Bret saw the dark, furry head of her puppy, Teddybear, emerge.\n\nA swell of water lifted them, then dropped, and they stood on a sandy bottom. Elsie saw they were in a towering cave. Sea lions barked from their perches.\n\nThe beach trek began that morning when the kids from the Mystic Lighthouse climbed over volcanic rocks surrounded by tidepools. They were looking at sea anemones, starfish, and bundles of kelp. Roaming away from the lighthouse station, they rounded the rocky outcroppings and explored what the low tide revealed.\n\n\"This is so different from the ranch in Texas and the place we lived in San Francisco,\" said Elsie.\n\n\"It's different to me too from where I lived near lakes in Minnesota,\" replied Bret.\n\nBoth of their families were now lighthouse keepers on the coast.\n\nClouds and mists floated across the ocean and got caught in the limbs of the trees.\n\n\"I wonder if I will ever know all the mysteries of this coast,\" said Bret.\n\n\"My father says Mystical Coast has many faces,\" replied Elsie. \"And many surprises.\"\n\nThe March sky was quiet and grey. The ocean waves were smooth without whitecaps. But the rolling ocean swells were huge.\n\nElsie breathed in the scent of the salt air and the mountain forests. \"I love the ocean,\" she thought. \"Living next to the sea makes every day special.\"\n\n“Be careful,” warned Elsie’s mother, Jeannie, when the kids headed to the beach, walking down the slope from their houses on the bluff.\n\n“It’s the season for rogue waves. Don’t get caught. It might look calm but ocean surges can surprise you.”\n\nThey were wilderness kids of the year 1898 living on an isolated coast, used to roaming wild and free.\n\n“What could happen? We explore all the time,” thought Elsie.\n\n“We know this coast and ocean like an old friend,” said Bret.\n\nLater, splashing through the water in the cave, Elsie gasped for air. Bret pulled her over to the boulders on the side. They climbed up the slippery rock and Teddybear followed. Bret reached down, grabbing Teddybear’s collar, to pull him up.\n\nThey were shaking, with their teeth rattling, and their deep breathes echoing against the cave walls. Bret said, “We’re going to need a fire.”\n\nElsie’s face was colorless. But for a twelve-year-old little girl, she recovered her wits quickly. She looked around to analyze the situation.\n\nBret admired her, knowing she was 4 years younger than he was.\n\n“I’m still alive,” Elsie thought. She trembled violently from the cold March ocean water. Her limbs felt numb.\n\n“Elsie,” Bret shouted, “Keep moving.”\n\nIn the darkness, they saw the shapes of sea lions sliding over the rocky islands protruding from the water in the cave. Their sea lion barks sounded rougher and more guttural than a dog barking.\n\nElsie’s shaking voice said, ”I’ve been in here before. There’s a way out through the ceiling farther inside the cave.”\n\nShe stumbled onto the boulders and began crawling. The movement stirred her circulation. Her arms and legs felt better.\n\n“Follow me,” she called.\n\nBret scrambled after her.\n\n“We need a fire. Dry moss. Kindling,” called Bret.\n\nThe shaking puppy, Teddybear, slipped and slid over the rocks, his nose bumping Elsie’s leg.\n\nGetting caught in rocky crevices, banging their knees, fingers working hard to move, they felt the cold creeping further into their limbs while they went along a rising trail, deeper into the cave.\n\nThe light from the entrance grew dim. Under their feet, they encountered rocks worn smooth like river rocks from running water.\n\n“I think this is the way. Come on.” Elsie’s voice sounded high and thin.\n\nShe felt her heart thumping hard. Teddybear panted next to her. Light filtering through from the cave entrance cast wavering shadows on the walls.\n\n“Look, driftwood.” Bret’s voice echoed against the cave walls.\n\n“I see moss, let's start a fire.” Bret hurried onward.\n\nThe roar of a wind squall with hurricane force struck the outside of the cave and howled like an animal. They knew the quiet sky was now a storm with winds battering the coast. \n\nBret searched for moss and kindling dry enough to start a fire.\n\n“Here, this might work.” Elsie handed him moss and broken wood bits.\n\nPulling his knife out, Bret grabbed a fist-sized rock.\n\nOver and over, he struck the knife edge on the rock. Wet and shivering, they watched for sparks on the moss.\n\nA tiny grey column rose from the moss. Bret breathed softly on it.\nThe column of smoke disappeared.\n\n“Again…we’ll get it,” Bret said.\n\nBret hit the knife across the rock. A tiny spark fell.\n\nElsie and Bret held their breath.\n\n“Yes,” thought Elsie.\n\nA brown crisping of the moss began to spread. Bret waited. Smoke rose like a thin snake.\n\nBret waited. It grew stronger. “Patience,” he thought.\n\nThe moss began to smolder. Bret blew lightly on it.\n\nSmall flames licked the air and then gathered strength. They reached higher and the air warmed.\n\nSlowly, Eslie and Bret coaxed the flames into a campfire. The warmth made their chilled limbs hurt, and they moved back from the fire.\n\nAdding small logs, and then a larger driftwood piece, soon they had a blaze.\n\nThe cave was brightly lit. Elsie and Bret felt their cold, stiff bodies become warm. They slumped against the cave walls, resting. Their wet clothes began to dry. Time passed while they recovered. They began to feel almost cozy.\n\n“How long have we been gone? Will anyone be looking for us?” Elsie’s thoughts raced.\n\nElsie tried to remember the time she was in the cave before.\n\n“Where was that opening in the ceiling where I crawled through and saw the lighthouse on the distant bluff?” Elsie tried to picture it.\n\n“We need to use the driftwood as torches and keep going,” she told Bret. “There is another way out. I think we can find it.”\n\nElsie felt strength and determination rising inside. \"She could do this. They would find the way out,\" she told herself. Elsie rose and began to move with purposeful steps.\n\nBret saw her eyes gaze steadily into the darker parts of the cave.\n“She’s incredible,” he thought. “Four years younger than I am, but look at her.”\n\nTeddybear’s lab retriever fur had dried nicely in the heat from the fire. He leaned against Elsie softly, wrapping himself around her.\n\n“Oh, you’re so warm now, Teddybear.” Esie lowered her head to cuddle against him. He gave her face the soft lick of a dog kiss. She heard her breathing coming slower and put her cheek against Teddybear’s furry neck. She always felt better near Teddybear. Together they could overcome anything.\n\n“Let’s go,” she said. “Ready?”\n\n“Here’s a torch,” Bret said handing her a long piece of driftwood with the lighted tip glowing while it burned slowly.\n\nThe torches lit the cave floor and provided some warmth. They stepped carefully and saw they were moving on an upward slope.\n\nThe cave zig-zagged back and forth, winding uphill underground. Their shadows stretched tall against the walls. They could wind blowing and whistling outside from hidden crevices.\n\n“Look.” Elsie pointed to a small, distant spot of light. She felt her chest relax and breathed slowly in and out with relief.\n\nThey moved cautiously, but with urgency, reaching the light, and climbing over boulders to an opening in the cave ceiling.\n\nLate afternoon was fading. Heavy clouds sat low to the earth. The wind was dying down. \n\n“See it.” Elsie pointed. \n\nHigh on the cliff above the ocean, sat the white tower of the lighthouse. Evening was falling and the beacon was lit. It swept across the ocean and rotated around, lighting the shores of the coast.\n\nElsie felt a sense of wonder. \"I never get tired of seeing this,\" she said.\n\n\"The light of the beacon,\" began Bret, then he was overcome and at a loss for words.\n\nThey watched the light flashing across the sea and shores, feeling a mystical and magical sense of joy.\n\n\"Our light, leading us home,\" said Elsie. They saw activity around the lighthouse and the keeper's houses.\n\n“They must be looking for us,” said Bret. Lights of kerosene lanterns were bobbing around on the distant bluff and trails, and some were heading down the path to the beach.\n\n“Wave your torch,” said Elsie. They began to holler even though they were too far away to be heard.\n\nThe kerosene lanterns swung back and forth.\n\n“They see us. They’re answering,” said Bret.\n\nElsie, Bret, and Teddybear slowly stepped along the dunes and then down to the beach, where they met the search party.\n\nLater, wrapped in blankets, sipping fragrant hot tea made from kitchen garden herbs, they chewed fresh warm muffins and told their story. The group of family and friends gathered around the wood-burning Franklin stove sat quietly in the dancing firelight.\n\nTeddybear rested his head on Elsie’s foot, stretched out on the warm floor.\n\nBret let Elsie relate the tale. He saw she seemed to have grown up that day from a young, unsure little girl into a more confident and mature lady.\n\n\"So we found our way out of the winding cave trails,\" she finished. \"I was scared, but when we built the fire and lit the torches, I knew we would find our way.\"\n\nElsie paused and thought about what she just said.\n\n\"We knew we could do it.\" Her voice was soft but sure when she ended her story.\n\nOutside the window, clouds scudded in front of a crescent moon and the ocean sang her songs to the rhythms of her waves.\n\nHundreds of feet below the Victorian lightkeeper's house, where Elsie and Bret gathered with their families, an ocean swell grew larger. It surged far up over the beach and into the rows of crops nestled against the hillside.\n\n\"The ocean has her own personality,\" said one of the lightkeepers who was a retired captain. \"Sometimes she likes her peaceful seas, but don't turn your back. She also likes to gather her strength and hurl her waters across the shores.\"\n\nElsie and Bret looked at each other with knowing gazes.\n\n\"I love her, but she's a rogue on some days,\" said the retired captain.\n\nElsie thought, \"I love her too, and now I understand her language better. She is still a beautiful ocean.\"\n\nWhen she fell asleep later that night, Elsie dreamed of the ocean and felt a sense of wonder.\n\nSnuggled under her blankets, she felt Teddybear cuddle up to her side and knew he had sneaked up the stairs.\n\nWrapping an arm around him, she felt her home at the lighthouse was still a mystical and magical place and she loved sharing it with her puppy." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Multiverse Mike\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1147\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where a character is experiencing parallel realities." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: Swearing.\nA featureless, sexless being of pure black light held my hands and told me I would be a wanderer. Clicking my fingers would take me to the next universe. Clicking the other fingers would take me back. With no more explanation, the multiversal god vanished. I stood alone in the car park of a fast-food restaurant, drunk.\n“Yeah right,” I said, clicking my fingers. Night became day. Tarmac became a field of red poppies. I became the multiverse’s biggest moron. I could only click the fingers of my right hand.\nBright blue sky stretched out to a horizon far across fields of every colour. Flowers bloomed in blocks of red, orange, yellow, blue, and pink. Turning a full circle, the only landmark was a single tree.\n“Fuck no.” I clicked my fingers again. Day became midday. Burning heat glared down from a golden sun. Heat haze shimmered over a lake before me. My shoes sank in the wet sand of the bank. An alligator gave a welcoming grin as its foreleg took a step towards me.\nSnap.\nUnknown constellations winked over the skyline of an alien city.\nSnap.\nCars swerved around me, standing in the middle of a ten-lane motorway.\nSnap.\nA cat purred around my ankles. Both eyes glowed yellow.\n“Can I help you?” Asked the ginger tom.\nSnap.\nTrees as far as I could see in every direction.\nSnap.\n“Back?” A dark car park. The same restaurant. “Thank fuck for that.” I walked home down the road. “What was in those burgers?”\nWind blew a garbage tumbleweed past me. A man in brown rags pushed a rattling trolley filled with bags. I tried clicking the fingers on my left hand then stopped. I was home. Why jinx it?\nMy tower block loomed high over the graffitied walls of the playpark. Teens in hoodies played basketball with nothing but the streetlights to see by. Legs hung limp from a dumpster at the base of the stairs. I tried not to look as I rushed past. See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. Snitches get stitches, in the morgue.\nThe lift smelled of new paint and newer piss. I looked with alarm and yet envy at the used condom flicked against the corner, beneath the buttons. Pushing number six with my sleeve pulled up over my thumb for hygiene, I waited.\nOrange lights on the tiny screen counted up. A bell chimed. I stepped out into the cool air again, thankful that it didn’t smell of condom or urine. Shuffling to my door I dropped my keys.\nPicking them up I tripped over something new on the balcony. Swearing as I fell, I caught myself and scuffed my hand. Looking at grit driven into my palm I gave a catlike hiss in pain. The plant pot which had tripped me stood nonchalant as if it hadn’t done anything wrong. I showed it my middle finger and told the thing to fuck off. Where had it come from? There were no plant pots when I’d gone out a few, I looked at my watch, more than a few hours ago.\nMy door was wrong. In many ways the door of number 605 was different. Mine is green with flaking paint. It was brand new blue with a silver sign instead of the brass numbers on mine.\n“Weatherworths. Who the hell are they?” I looked around, over the balcony wall. A city not quite my own stared back and shrugged. Instead of the community centre across the road there was a cemetery surrounding a pyramid.\n“Again?” I clicked the fingers on my right hand.\nFalling.\nI clicked again.\nI hit the balcony of the fifth floor and wheezed.\n“What the fuck?” Lights flicked on at the window by 505. I picked myself up and limped away. My ankle hurt. My mind was twisted even worse.\nI sat in the stairwell. Down below somewhere, people were having sex. I didn’t say anything to stop them. Years of living in a high-rise block had taught me to cope with the constant sound of loud and often very angry sex.\nWhile Nathan did whatever the girl was telling him not to stop doing, I thought. Looking at my left hand, I tried to click my fingers. A limp nothing rewarded the effort. Just as well. I didn’t want to fall to my death in the previous universe.\nSobriety was setting in. The words of the god were finally starting to leak in through the drunken stupor. I felt like crying.\nWalking back up the stairs I got in the lift and went down to ground level. I flapped my left middle finger against my thumb again and again until it slapped my palm with an audible click.\nThe housing block vanished. A patch of trees stood before me.\nClick.\nNo.\nClick.\nNot yet.\nClick.\nNope.\nClick.\nClick.\nClick, click, click.\nPretty flowers. Almost there.\nClick.\n“Home. Please be home.” I ran up the stairs all the way to the third step. Cardio isn’t my thing. Wheezing, I made it to the second floor then sat in the lift up to six.\n“Please, please, please be my home.”\nGreen door. Flaking paint. No plant pot. Electricity bill final warning envelope hanging from the letter box.\n“Thank fuck for that.” My key gave the door a few more scratches before committing to entry. It turned reluctantly and the smell of undone washing and old pizza hit me like a warm hug.\n“Home.” I closed the door. Then I closed it again because half of the time the lock is on strike. More bills kissed the mud from my shoes. I kicked off the Nikes and rubbed my face with the sore hand. I had cream somewhere didn’t I?\nA black cat sat among the hoodies and T-shirts that covered my bedroom floor. I threw a porn magazine from the bedside table and picked up the antiseptic cream that sat next to the lube, not two things you want to mix.\nSmearing the white stuff across my hand I winced.\n“Rough night out in the multiverse?” Asked Marley, named after Bob. I was high when I adopted him, don’t judge me.\n“Yeah. I couldn’t click the fingers on my left hand. I saw some weird crap tonight.”\n“I bet,” he said without moving his lips. He leapt up onto my chest and turned in circles to get comfortable.\n“Wait, since when can you talk?” I asked my buddy, stroking under his chin to start his engine purring.\n“I’ve always talked Mike. You just weren’t paying attention. Go to sleep. When you wake up, we can wander the multiverse together. I want to show you around.” He lay his tiny head on my chest. My tired lids surrendered to gravity’s seductive ways.\nI had some weird dreams. I’ll tell you that much." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Fear of Drowning\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2987\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story on a sailboat, large or small, and entirely at the mercy of the winds." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When he was just six years old, Nick Hall landed in foster care. His mom, addicted to her drugs more than to her son, couldn't be his anchor. His dad? He vanished the moment he learned he'd be a father, leaving Nick to face the world solo from day one.\nNick grew up fast, figuring out ways to take care of himself, like dragging chairs to grab food from atop the counter and getting himself ready for school—all on his own. \nHis mom, lost in a drug haze, missed his first morning of first grade. So, Nick, determined and a little excited, decided to walk to school by himself.\nThe elementary school was just a short walk down the road. The morning felt magical to Nick, with the breeze in his hair and birds singing like he was the hero in his own little adventure. He was lost in his imagination, kicking pebbles, pretending to be a celebrated soccer player, when a black van pulled up next to him. The van, with its tinted windows and scratched paint, smelled strongly of gasoline—a scent that made Nick pause and squint. Then, the driver’s window began to roll down.\n“Hey, there.” A man, with shaggy brown hair and sunken eyes, greeted him. He had chipped and yellowing teeth. And one gold tooth that caught Nick’s eye because of the way it glimmered in the dawn light. “Where you heading, kiddo?”\nNick wasn’t like other kids. His mom hadn’t told him to stay away from strangers. She practically encouraged him to interact with unknown men, the way she brought them into his home, and forced them on him as though they were family. \nNick didn’t think just then that anything was the matter with this stranger wanting to talk to him. He thought it was rather exciting.\nI never get to talk to adults! I’m always supposed to be a good boy, and only speak when I’m asked to. \n“Walking to school.” He told the man, his little voice buzzing with pride. How many other boys his age got to walk all the way to school by themselves? He was so lucky! “All by myself.”\nThe man’s grin widened.\n“No mommy or daddy with you?” He asked. Nick shook his head. \n“No, sir. My mommy’s asleep.”\nThe man’s black eyes flickered past him. He peered around them at the silent street. At houses with locked doors and curtains pulled tight. \nNo one was around.\nJust them.\n“Long walk?” The man’s gaze settled back on him. Nick shrugged.\n“Naw. Just a little bit further. But… I better get going. So I ain’t late.”\nThe van door clicked as the man popped it open.\n“Why don’t you let me give you a ride?” The guy sang out. “It's cozy in here, and I have all this yummy candy that you can bring to your friends at school!”\nNick wasn’t well educated in terms of stranger danger. However, he did have strong survival instincts. His instincts began to scream out to him in warning as the strange man crept toward him like a panther about to pounce. \n“Umm. No… No, thanks, Mister.” Nick took a step back, clutching his backpack strap so hard that his fingernails dug into the fabric. “I’m good.”\nThe man stood perfectly still outside the van door. Then, like a striking viper, he lurched forward. Nick panicked as the man placed a hand over his mouth and pulled him towards the open van. He struggled, kicking his feet and wiggling like a worm on a fishhook.\n“Quit! Quit it! Shut up and stay still!” The man roared, shaking him so hard that he grew lightheaded. Nick, fighting for all he was worth, sank his teeth into the man’s hand. The stranger yowled, pulling his hand away. Nick kicked him in the knee, causing him to stagger and fall with a crack against the side of his vehicle.\nNick stumbled backwards. He turned and ran, leaving the man cursing violently behind him. The silent street came alive with the screech of tires as the horrible man in his nasty old van chased him down the road. \nI can’t outrun a car! I just can’t! Nick panted, his legs pumping as he ran with all the speed he could muster. I have to get away from the street.\nNick changed direction. He slipped and scrambled through someone’s front lawn, their grass wet from having just been spritzed by a sprinkler. \nNick cut through the yard and climbed over a low gate. His shoes slapped against the sidewalk of a back patio.\nThe glistening, aqua water of a pool lapped harmlessly at the sidewalk barrier around it.\nNick heard footsteps behind him. \nHe’s gonna get me! Oh, he’s gonna get me! Nick gasped for breath. He bolted past the pool. Silent tears dripped down his cheeks.\nNick lost his footing on a slippery patch by the edge of the pool. He sucked in a sharp breath as he felt himself falling.\nHe hit the water with a violent splash. \nNick was overwhelmed by terror.\nHe couldn’t swim. He’d never learned. No one had ever taught him. \n“Help me! Please! Oh, please!” He screamed. The weight of his backpack dragged him down. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs. Water, cold and unforgiving, filled his mouth. He couldn’t keep his head above the waves, no matter how hard he tried.\nLike a stone, he sank below the water. Nick’s mouth parted in a silent scream. He watched the sun fade away, a blue sheen heartlessly blocking him from air. Water invaded a place created to only be filled by oxygen. Nick’s nose burned as the chlorine slid up his nostrils like a worm burrowing under the skin. \nAnd as black trendials reached across his vision, Nick was convinced that he was most certainly dead. \n *\n“My heart stopped for six minutes. At least, that’s what I heard the paramedics say in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.” Nick shifted, lost in dark memories. He gazed out across from him, at a river that stretched as far as the eye could see. A river that resembled a lake, with a gentle current and deep waters. Under his dangling feet, shallow, murky pools had gathered on the muddy shore of Drizzle Valley’s greatest river, Shane’s Hurricane. \n“What happened after that?” His girlfriend, Vicky Roberts, put a hand on his shoulder. She was nestled comfortably on a fallen tree with him, beneath a canopy of trees that butted up against a bare, dirt hillside. \nAcross from them, their friends, or more so Nick’s friends, Owen Asher and Eli Hatter, were building a sailboat. \nEli and Asher had dragged together logs and sticks from the woods of the river’s bank, and now they kneeled in the shallows, binding their masterpiece together with paracord. \n“The hospital called my mom, but they couldn’t get in touch with her. When someone went over to see her, well, that person saw my house and what it looked like inside. I was placed in the system after that.” Nick rubbed his fingers over Vicky’s tender knuckles. \nHer skin was as soft as a baby bunny’s fur. \n“I’m sorry that happened to you, Nick.” The fifteen-year-old girl murmured, her voice shaky with empathy. Nick sighed. He shifted closer to her. Vicky’s deep, blue eyes drank in his every movement. Nick titled his head toward her, smiling. \n“Ah, don’t worry about it, Vick… and if you want to go out on that…” Nick peeked distrustfully at the bundle of sticks bobbing up and down in the river’s shallows. “Er, boat. Then, go. I’ll watch you all from over here. No big deal. I just…” he half closed his eyes. Far off in the distance, thunder growled an ominous warning. Gray clouds danced over their heads, casting thick shadows through the forest around them.\nNick shivered as he watched the river flow—an endless stream of unstoppable water.\nHe couldn’t imagine daring to go near that deadly liquid stampede.\nHe’d fought a good fight against the claws of hungry water once. He’d only survived thanks to the quick save of a retired veteran who’s pool he’d almost drowned in. \n“I can’t. I see water, and I think death.” \nVicky grabbed his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. \n“I’m sorry, I asked why you didn’t want to go out,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”\n“Ha! You never make me feel bad.” Nick snorted. He pulled her gently off of him. “I’m fine. I’m happy. I’m always happy with you. Now, it’s a Friday night, it’s the start of spring break, and I don’t know how much longer we have before those clouds burst and it starts raining cats and dogs. So,” Nick nudged his girlfriend… his best friend. “Go out on that sailboat with those two goons and have fun. Just be careful.”\n“Hey, Vicky, Nick!” Asher yelled. He proudly stepped away from the boat. The teenager grinned at it like it was his firstborn child. “Come on! Let’s set sail on this baby!”\nThe wind howled through the trees. The treetops rustled. Flowers and leaves flew past them in swirls of color, like green and white ballerinas dancing for all to see. \n“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” Vicky asked, her brow etched with concern. Nick took off his sweatshirt and handed it to her. He leaned back against the hillside as Vicky took it, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.\n“I’m not the one going out in that disaster.” He teased. “I’ll be fine. Take that sweater so you don’t freeze to death on your adventure, girl.”\n“I will, boy.” Vicky ruffled his hair. She hopped off the log and went to join the others. \nNick heard her whistle and peeked open an eye. Vicky made sure he was watching before picking up a leftover stick from Asher and Eli’s pile and sticking it in between two of the boat’s base logs. She tied his sweater around the stick so that it billowed in the wind like a flag.\n“Now, you’ll be with us in spirit!” She yelled to him over the wind. Nick saw Asher and Eli exchange an amused eye roll. “We’ll call her ‘The Nick’!”\nNick’s heart warmed.\nI love that girl. He mused, sticking his tongue out teasingly. One day, she and I’ll be together forever, right here in Drizzle Valley. \n“How come she gets to name our boat?” Eli complained, loudly, to Asher.\n“Because she just did.” Asher hopped on the boat. The raft wobbled and swayed under his weight. “Come on. We set sail at once, ladies and gentlemen!”\nNick watched them go. Asher used a long stick to propel them out onto the river. \nNick tried to ignore the feeling of loneliness in his gut.\nHe was the one who was too much of a baby to face his fear and go with them. He was the coward who couldn’t forget the man in the black van and the seemingly harmless monster, disguised as a backyard pool, that had almost taken his life.\nHe was helpless against his fear. He would never be able to change that. \n \nNick wasn’t sure when he fell asleep. The blackness crept up on him, along with feelings of undeniable worthlessness. He was awoken by a whack to the face. His eyes flew open. He half expected to come face-to-face with the newest addition to his long line of foster fathers.\nHe’s never hesitant to put me ‘in my place’. Nick sat up, blinking hard. It wasn’t Mr. Ralph who’d struck him, but rather a branch from the tree above him that had cracked down the middle and was now swinging, swishing back and forth like the tail of an irritated cat. \nNick rubbed his red cheek. He snorted in amusement, pushing the hanging limb away from him. It broke off the tree and landed in a puddle with a splash.\nNick stared out into the river. He could see the raft out on the waves. Barely.\nMan, did the wind pick up while I was out. Nick stood up. He put a hand over his eyes to try and make out his friends. Blasts of biting air screeched through the forest, picking brutal fights with trees, who struggled to stand their ground as they were stripped of leaves and branches. It had begun to drizzle, and the wind was wielding the raindrops like weapons. They struck Nick’s skin like tiny stones as he staggered his way to the shoreline.\nThunder roared above him. Lightning flashed a dark warning in the sky.\nWhy haven’t they come back to shore by now? Nick wondered. Mud squished under his shoes as he came to a stop before the river. It’s dangerous to be out in this! With lightning? I’ll kill Eli and Asher for putting Vicky in danger like this! \n“Hey!” Nick tried to yell out, but his voice was carried away by the wind. “Hey! Guys! Come back to shore!”\nNo answer. Now that Nick looked, he realized he couldn’t see anyone on the raft…\nAnd the stick that had held his sweater up like a sail was gone. \nIt looked like a pile of unwanted logs out on the river.\n“Vicky?! Eli! Asher!” Nick stepped as close as he dared to the water. “Hey! Guys?!”\n“Nick…”\nNick jumped as Asher emerged from the water, dripping and sputtering. He was dragging Eli. Eli was lifeless, unconscious, and in his arms. \n“What happened… Where's Vicky?” Nick roared. \n“She… The storm came up on us when we were coming back to shore. The stick I was using to pull us back broke down the middle. We had to use the sail. The wind took control of our raft, man. It flipped it like it was flipping a pancake.” Asher’s eyes were wild, and his breath was sharp and panicked. “W-We jumped out. Eli hit his head on a rock. Vicky… Vicky grabbed onto the raft. I tried, but she wouldn’t swim back… and Eli… He's hurt. I had to get to shore!” \nHe can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. This is Asher. This is my best friend. He wouldn’t leave Vicky out there in the storm, to be tossed around on that ‘sailboat’ by this monster of a windstorm! \n“You left her?” Nick shook his head, his words forced out past his dry lips. “Out there!?”\nAsher’s lip wobbled. He dropped to his knees, holding Eli’s head carefully away from the puddles below him. \n“I’m sorry, man. Eli’s my boy. I couldn’t let him drown, and I couldn’t get them both!” \nNick let out a screech of frustration. He started to race out into the water. He stopped as it came up to his waist.\nHe felt nauseous. Memories flashed before his eyes with more intensity than the lightning above him. \n“Nick, I-.”\nNick ignored Asher’s whispered plea. He closed his eyes.\nThis was Vicky.\nThat was his girl, his soul mate, out there.\nHe wouldn’t let her drown.\nNo one had been there for him when he’d fallen in the pool or when he’d been chased by a monster with a man’s face, but Vicky had him. She may not have anyone else, but she would always have him. \nNick took a deep breath. Not a breath of air, but a breath of courage. He dove into the water. \n **\n“N-Nick?” \nNick awoke with a gasp. His eyes were wild with panic as he sat up. He was chilled to the bone. His shirt and his jeans were soaked. \nAbove him, a warm sun shone down on the world through wisps of gray clouds. \n“Are you okay… you crazy, crazy, dude.” Vicky laughed shakily. Nick blinked at her. He glanced around. \nThey were on the raft, in the middle of the river. \n“What… What happened to the storm?” He choked.\n“You don’t remember?”\n“I remember diving in… swimming to get you… then… then nothing.”\n“You got me.” Vicky whispered. Her voice was warm with affection. “I couldn’t pull myself up onto the raft, so you gave me a boost… you hit your head on the edge of the raft doing it. You swallowed a lot of water before I could pull you up.”\n“Ugh, tell me about it.” Nick laughed. He didn’t like the worried glaze in Vicky’s eyes. “I feel like a balloon about to pop!”\nHe shook himself, drawing in deep breaths of sweet air. Vicky watched him, her lips stretching in a tight smile. \n“We waited out the storm... I used that branch we made a sail out of to keep the boat in place. Sorry to say your sweater didn’t quite make it.” Vicky’s hair was stuck to her forehead. “Nick, you swam out here to rescue me.”\n“Uh… yeah?”\n“You swam!” Vicky empathized the word with a wave of her arms. “What about your fear of water?”\nNick gazed out across the river to the shore. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed out a lonesome cry. A helicopter flew over them, its shadow snaking over the water like an inky stain.\nAt least Asher did one thing right, Nick mused. He must have called emergency services.\n“I guess my fear of drowning wasn’t as bad as my fear of being alone... of losing you.”\nVicky’s eyes lit up. \n“You’ll never lose me, Nick.” She promised. “You’re a keeper. After all, how many other boys in our school do you know who would dive into a rushing river in a storm, with water being their greatest fear, to rescue their girlfriend? No way! They’d run for cover. Nick, there’s no other guy like you in the world. I’m sure of that.”\n“Well, you're worth it. You're worth losing every ‘sweater sail’ I own.”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Journal Entries: February 12-15, 2007\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2989\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a backstabbing (literal or metaphorical) gone wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Feb 12: It was cold outside today so I decided to ruin Tony Beckett’s life. I feel I need to justify this decision. First of all, no, Tony Beckett has never wronged me. He and I have spoken 7 times exactly, thrice in the hallway before lunch, once at Jonathan Derelict’s house party, once at the Cinnabon, and twice after being partnered up for class discussions (once was Spanish and once was AP Macroeconomics). All of these conversations failed to be noteworthy, but he was always pleasant enough, and friendly despite our lack of acquaintance. His greatest crime was his inability to properly use the subjunctive in español, but this is an offense that I do not hold against him because I also don’t understand the subjunctive. I’ve heard him speak in classes a few times, listened to a few stories about him from our mutual acquaintances, and I watched his performance in the school jazz band. All evidence indicates that Tony Beckett is an outgoing, jovial, friendly, and kind 17-year old boy with above average intelligence who plays the saxophone pretty well. Nor am I jealous of him in any way. While I will concede the fact that he has more tertiary friends than me (27 to my 19, by my count), I have more close friends, at 8 to 5. He and I are roughly equal when it comes to finances, my ex-girlfriend was marginally more attractive than his, and I feel my guitar skills are on par with his saxophone. There is no reason for me to ruin his life in particular, but I have to ruin someone’s, and he was the first person I laid eyes on after my walk in the cold.\nI plan on giving this journal to historians on my deathbed, since the world will undoubtedly want to know about my life, so allow me to explain for the people who don’t quite understand. The cold front moved in today, and is expected to remain until around the 15th. It isn’t snowing, so unfortunately we are still being forced to attend classes. My house is approximately a ten minute walk\nfrom school, so I usually walk to make things easier for my parents (this was already explained in several preceding entries, but in case you are reading this section out of context I am kindly providing this detail once more). I don’t watch the news because there’s nothing interesting about the rest of the world, so I was unaware of this cold front, and took my usual route to school. Misery. The wind was so biting that my lips became exceedingly chapped, to the point where they flaked off and bled at the lightest touch of my fingers. My face went flush red, especially around my nose and ears, which was horrendously embarrassing for me as I walked past Jonathan Derelict and his current girlfriend (Stacey who works at the Barnes & Noble I think? But she could also be the new French foreign exchange student, I’ve heard both). Worst of all, I stepped in a rather large puddle, soaking my left sock straight through. The wet sock quickly froze to my calf, and I don’t actually know how I am supposed to take it off without injuring my ankle. I hate being miserable. I would go so far as to say that it’s one of my least favorite feelings. But at this moment, as I sit at home with bloody lips, a cold sock, and my red face fresh in Jonathan Derelict and Stacey-or-maybe-some-French-girl’s minds, I am in fact miserable. And I think I will be for several days. So Tony Beckett will be too. It’s really as simple as that.\nEND DAY\nFeb 13: The important thing to remember when it comes to ruining someone’s life, is that you can’t let anyone know it is you who is responsible. Otherwise, people will hold it against you, and you will be remembered as the guy who ruined a completely innocent person’s life for no reason. This will in turn mean that your own life is ruined as well. I would probably lose 18 of my 19 friends (Carson Daily wouldn’t care, because I fixed his bike for him once). In other words, I can’t simply push him down the stairs, breaking his neck and paralyzing him. More subtlety is called for. I could lay out the entire plan here right now, but I think the suspense of not knowing exactly what’s going to happen might be more enjoyable for my adoring readers. I’ll simply tell you the steps as they occur.\nThe first thing I had to do was enter Ms. Gibson’s classroom after school, when no one was there. She hadn’t yet gotten around to returning our AP Macroeconomics midterms (I think she’s going through a messy divorce), but during class she promised she would get to it tonight. So at the end of our class, when my peers were all filtering out, I quickly unlocked the window, so that I could return later. Between 3 and 3:30, Ms. Gibson would go speak with Mr. Reyes, before returning, picking up the midterms, and leaving. I hung around the school for hours after I got out, and then at 3:10, I returned to her classroom. I expertly pried open the window, which was starting to ice over from the cold. Making sure no one was watching, I squeezed myself inside of her classroom and set to work. I dug through the trash can and found a mostly empty bag of Cheetos. These were the favorite snack of Jonathan Derelict, and the discarded bag was one of his. I covered my hands in the Cheeto dust, went behind Ms. Gibson’s desk, and located the stack of midterms I had seen her stash in the second drawer on the right.\nI quickly leafed through the pile, making sure to leave cheesy fingerprints all over the stack of papers. I located the test belonging to Tony Beckett, the test belonging to Jonathan Derelict, and the answer key. Failing an exam like this would almost certainly tank someone’s grade in the class — not a problem if you’re Jonathan Derelict, BIG problem if you’re Tony Beckett. A cursory search confirmed my suspicions that Tony Beckett had about a 91% on the test, while Jonathan Derelict had something resembling a 23%. Both had written in pencil, and so faintly that, were their names erased and written on the opposing test, anyone but the original test takers would be none-the-wiser. Jonathan Derelict was not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, he probably wouldn’t even review the test. But Tony Beckett would notice. He would know the test wasn’t his. I was counting on it.\nI heard the unmistakable heavy footsteps and dangling jewelry of Ms. Gibson and crawled out the window once more, shutting it but leaving it unlocked for tomorrow. I passed her on my way out of the school and saw she was crying (probably the divorce), so she didn’t even register my presence. Phew. It was just as cold out as it was the day before, yet I barely felt it. I was too busy thinking. Too busy planning. I was nowhere near done. You’ll get yours Tony Beckett, just you wait. I’ll see you tomorrow.\nOh also, it turns out that I was way too worried about my left sock. I removed it this morning with absolutely no complications whatsoever.\nEND DAY\nFeb 14: Tony Beckett and I had our eighth conversation of all time today. I knew I had to sit next to him today, to make sure I got the chance to speak to him. We didn’t have assigned seating, but the seat I wanted, directly behind him, was almost always taken by Jonathan Derelict. Luckily, it was Valentine’s Day, and I had made a plan to ensure the seat was free. I returned to Ms. Gibson’s classroom at 6:30 AM that morning, before anyone but the custodians had arrived on campus. The classroom door was locked. The window was not. I struggled when prying it open, cracking the bits of ice that kept it shut. After opening it what I thought was an adequate amount, I hoisted myself up through it. I immediately realized I had not opened it an adequate amount. Though I got my top half through the slit, my bottom half got caught and stuck outside. I sat there, stuck in the window, for a solid 10 minutes, literally freezing my ass off, before eventually managing to squirm my way inside. Once in, I waited another 5 minutes, allowing my legs to warm up enough to become functional once more. Then, I produced a heart-shaped card and placed it on Jonathan Derelict’s unofficial desk. It read:\nHey baby I miss you\nHappy Valentine’s Day I wanted to get you a gift\nThen I realized that, duh, I was the best gift that I could give\nOui oui, I’m waiting for you at B&N rn\nLeave your stupid class and\nCome find me\nGF\nI figured this would cover my bases regardless of whether the girlfriend was French or Stacey. Then I left the way I came, leaving the window wide open for all to notice.\nAs I arrived with the class an hour later, I watched as Jonathan Derelict bolted for the card on his desk. His eyes lit up as he read it, and he choked on his own saliva. Then, he cocked his head in confusion. Internally? I was panicking. Externally? I kept my cool and slyly approached him.\nMyself: “What have you got there?”\nJonathan Derelict: “Oh, nothing, just a valentine.”\nMyself: “Cool.”\nJonathan Derelict: “Hey do you know what B&N is?”\nMyself: “Barnes and Noble right?”\nJonathan Derelict: “What’s that?”\nMyself: “Book store, 20 minutes from here by the fountain in the mall center.”\nJonathan Derelict: “Great! Thanks!”\nAt that moment, before Ms. Gibson had arrived, he quickly ran out of the classroom, hooting and hollering to himself. I guess the girlfriend was in fact the French exchange student, and not Stacey-who-works-at-B&N. I shrugged.\nI placed myself in Jonathan Derelict’s unofficial seat, directly behind Tony Beckett, who arrived wearing his typical good-natured smile on his handsome face. I don’t know if I’d ever seen him not smiling before today. I anxiously awaited the new expression he would debut in just a few minutes. He shivered a bit, and noticed the still-open window, which he understandably thought was strange. It was almost too easy that I was starting to grow bored with the game I was playing with him. Ms. Gibson entered the classroom, in better spirits than usual, and apologized for her tardiness — she was finalizing our midterm grades. Tony Beckett shot to attention, eager to see how he did. Transcription follows.\nTony Beckett, scanning his test: “What the, what the fuck?”\nMyself: “Hey I got an 82%, I’ll take it.” (I actually got a 100% of course, but I was ingratiating myself).\nTony Beckett, panicking: “No no no, that’s not possible.”\nMyself: “What is all this orange stuff on it though.”\nTony Beckett, turning to me: “Hey can I see your test?”\nMyself: “Of course.”\nTony Beckett took my test and compared our answers, then returned it to me, his face filled with anger and confusion.\nTony Beckett: “This isn’t my test.”\nMyself: “What do you mean?”\nTony Beckett: “I mean I’m positive I didn’t put these answers. I got a 23! I’ve never done that badly before!”\nMyself: “Ouch that’s rough. But hey man, we all have bad days. Weren’t you going through a breakup at the time or something—”\nTony Beckett, rudely snapping at me for no reason: “No! I don’t do this badly on tests. Ever. And what’s with this orange stuff, it’s on yours too?”\nMs. Gibson, to the class: “Has anyone seen Johnny? No? That’s a shame, he did really well for once, I was looking forwards to congratulating him.”\nTony Beckett looked from the open window, to his Cheeto-dusted test, and I saw his little mind start to piece together the puzzle I laid out for him.\nTony Beckett, to Ms. Gibson: “I have bio with him later. If you give it to me, I can hand it to him then.”\nMs. Gibson handed Tony Beckett the test and I watched as he spent the rest of the class pouring over the two tests on his desk. His expression changed from doubt, to worry, to fear, to anger, to guilt for daring to think that the man who sat behind him actually broke into the classroom and swapped the names on their tests. But then I saw him think of all the Cheetos he had heard being crunched just behind his head, and of the orange dust that speckled every single test in the room. By the time class ended, his smile was gone, replaced with a gorgeous look of pure, unbridled stoicism. He was driven. He was on a mission. He was doing exactly what I thought he would. After class, I followed him to lunch. I had to confirm that he would do what I needed him to do.\nMyself: “You think Jonathon Derelict swapped your tests don’t you?”\nTony Beckett: “How did you…”\nMyself: “I was watching you all class. Seeing you put the pieces together helped me do the same.”\nTony Beckett, lighting up: “So you think so too?”\nMyself: “Of course, why else would the window have been open?”\nTony Beckett, full of energy: “Exactly!”\nMyself: “So are you gonna report it?”\nTony Beckett, calmed: “No, I owe him the chance to explain himself at least, I’m gonna talk to him.”\nMyself: “When? He’ll be busy all day with his girlfriend.”\nTony Beckett: “Tomorrow then. I need a good place to do it though.”\nMyself, excited: “I know a spot.”\nTony Beckett and I ate lunch together, over the course of which he texted all 5 of his close friends what had happened and his theory. I made sure to talk a little too loudly, so that those around us heard about the test swap. By the end of the school day, everyone knew. Except for Johnathan Derelict of course, who was lost in the aisles of books he was too dumb to read, looking for a French girl who was nowhere to be found.\nI took a detour on my walk home. Instead of heading towards my house, I wandered off towards the outskirts of town. About two miles out, there lies a bridge and a 30-foot drop into the river. I stared into the river, flipped open my phone, and called Tony Beckett. Then I walked home.\nEND DAY\nFeb 15: I don’t understand what went wrong. I planned everything perfectly.\nI made the necessary preparations. I asked to borrow Carson Daily’s bike, then told my parents I was going to be doing work in my room that night and they were not to disturb me. At 6:02, I climbed out through my window (after making sure the slit was plenty wide), shut it, and rode the bike to our meeting spot on the bridge. My heart pounded for the whole bike ride over. I was giddy with anticipation. When I arrived (6:27), I saw Tony Beckett: leaning against his red Jeep, shivering in the frigid February air. Jonathan Derelict wasn’t coming until 7, but Tony Beckett and I made plans to meet in advance to prepare. When they find Tony Beckett’s body floating down the river, their only suspect was supposed to be Jonathan Derelict, the one he was supposed to meet here.\nTony Beckett: “You made it man, nice.”\nMyself: “Of course, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Did you send him the text?”\nTony Beckett: “Yep, said he’d be here right at 7 like I asked.”\nMyself, breathing heavily with excitement: “Perfect. Do you want to practice really fast.”\nTony Beckett, clueless: “Yeah. Yeah! Gotta get this right. Ok.”\nMyself, frothing at the mouth: “Alright, just go look out over the bridge. I’ll walk up, tap you on the shoulder, and you just pretend I’m Johnny.”\nTony Beckett, nervously chuckling but following my instructions: “Sure, you’re a weird dude.”\nTony Beckett stationed himself, looking over the 30-foot drop into the icy water below. This was it. This was the moment. I approached Tony Beckett. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and said “Johnny?” and for one single moment he saw the hatred in my eyes. One moment too late. I kicked him over the railing, and watched him plummet down into the freezing river from which he would never resurface. \nAnd then I heard them, shouting hysterically. I turned and saw Jonathan Derelict, along with a whole group of his football buddies, having arrived a half hour early. Before I could do anything, they clamored back into their truck and sped off. Why? Why?! A screw-up like him wouldn’t come early to this? And he wouldn’t bring friends! I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t know! I couldn’t have made a mistake. I DON’T make mistakes. Bad luck is all it was. That must be it. I’m still on the bridge, even at this moment. I hear the sirens, the police are on their way. But they’ll never pin me for this. They have nothing on me! I have no motive after all, how could they guess why I did this. I won’t lose. I don’t lose. All that’s left to do is dispose of this journal, in which I’ve written my confession.\nI’m so sad no one will get to read this and understand my genius plan. But needs must. Into the river you go journal. Lie in the drink with the body of the boy who had the misfortune of crossing my path.\nEND DAY" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: This Friday Morning\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1211\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes a character using the phrase “swings and roundabouts.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The porch swing extends effortlessly and smooth, her feet just reaching over the withering edge of the deck boards, only to make its way backward with a crackling, obnoxious squeak. Her love, her very own Mr. Fix It, long since gone, spent many evenings oiling, adjusting, replacing rusted pieces, but the swing never recovered, the squealing never ceased. As with so many things that annoy the young, she had learned over time not to mind the sound. It took on a nostalgic quality. With each squeal, with each backward swing, she can see him, sweat lining his collar, his brow furrowed with confusion, with exasperation that the swing continued to defy him and now, in the early morning sunshine, it makes her smile.\nOn any regular Friday morning, she would be sitting here in preparation to welcome Joy, her home aide, who would bring an enormous cup of coffee and the morning paper. She liked hearing about Joy’s young children- their report cards, sporting events, summer activities- returning her to a time of life that felt eternally sweet, like the sun was always shining. But Joy also smelled a bit unpleasant and would plop her heavy frame onto the porch swing roughly, without regard for its memories. She felt sorry for the many faceless people all caught up in this global emergency but it was a little relieving Joy wouldn’t be over to disrespect the swing today.\nOne of the kids had installed a home phone with extra large buttons and a deafening ring that could probably be heard two houses over. She could hear it yelling now from the sideboard in the dining room as though it were inches from her ears which were less than functional these days. She chuckled, imagining what that ridiculous phone must sound like to people with regular hearing. Of course it was kind of the kids to think of her, to want to ensure she did not miss their Sunday night phone calls. They were just too young still to understand one of the most pleasant parts of getting old. The quiet.\nBut since its Friday morning, this call wouldn’t be one of the kids. Most likely it was the home aide office reaching out again to assure her they were doing everything they could do find more resources (that she hadn’t asked for), someone to drop off groceries or pre-made meals. Someone to come sweep up dust and cobwebs and check to make sure she hadn’t died. The caller would remind her the importance of staying at home, “even though we know it must get terribly lonely, its necessary right now, for the health of a woman your age.”\nThe truth is, she really isn’t worried about it. It’s all swings and roundabouts. If she fell down and whacked her head getting out the tub, sure it would probably hurt, but she’d lay there thankful for all the work it took for her Love to get that porcelain monstrosity, that claw-footed beauty into the bathroom it was clearly oversized for. She’d feel the warm splashes from when the kids were just babies, laughing and screaming with the excitement of tubby time, rubber duckies and plastic cups bouncing all over the wet tile.\nMaybe her heart would suddenly seize up out here on the porch swing and sure, the neighbors would probably find her balled up in an embarrassing position on the deck boards, her mouth hung open grotesquely, one slipper fallen off into the mud. But how nice it would be to go out, right here in the breeze, the monarchs circling overhead just as they had so many days of iced tea and lawn games and late sun sets with the happy voices of her Loves around her. It would be poetic, really, leaving her heart right here on the porch swing.\nOr, if what they are calling a Pandemic continued, just as others before it had descended hideously and then retracted slowly into history like a sea monster returning to the depths after destroying the beach, the food resources might never come. Especially if she continues to ignore the phone. If that happens, she thinks, when the kids come to take care of the old house, they wont have to clean out the fridge or wash up any dishes. She could wither away at the empty dining room table, with its ancient scratches and dings and faded crayon marks, remembering four decades of Thanksgivings, Easter dinners that got better and better over time, the kids kicking one another under the table, her Love slicing the ham. Joy would read her obituary or some reader submission from a neighbor about her death and the atrocities of elder neglect in her morning paper, giant brew in hand, and she would probably be all wound up about it. But it wouldn’t really be so bad.\nOf course, she had always considered eating to be one of her favorite activities. She might be starving at the beautiful old table with the beautiful old memories and suddenly decide she was craving a nice chicken salad and couldn’t go without it a moment longer. She could make slow progress down to the corner store, leaving a trail of tennis ball fuzz from her walker stuck in the tar like a map back home, and make it to the deli where Beth would whip up a pair of her favorite sandwiches, one for now, one for tomorrow. Maybe Beth, who had a warm smile but was a very close talker, would ask how things were going and tell her a funny story inches from her nose. Unknowingly, she could give her the sickness. All the same, it would be nice to have one last conversation with Beth. She’s always been such a good girl.\nIt might be okay, she thinks, to know the end is coming even if you don’t feel very good for awhile. She could curl up in bed, among the quilts she made as a younger woman with agile hands from her mother’s treasured fabric collection and listen to the birds through the big open window. She could hear, as she faded away, the children playing across the street and think of so many weekend morning snuggles with her babies, the sleepless nights and midnight feedings that gave way to pillow fights and breakfasts in bed, giggles under the covers and tears against the pillow cases. This spot she would lie in as she left this world for the next was the same place she and her Love would rest their exhausted bodies after a hard day’s work. The place the whole family would find comfort in whenever sick or sad. The place her beautiful babies were made.\nThis Friday morning, on the persistently creaky porch swing, she comes back to herself from the tidal wave of memories. She’s pretty sure today isn’t the day, if one can sense those things. In her experience, death isn’t usually very pretty. By nature it looks horrid, smells disgusting, and leaves behind a wake of responsibility taken on with wide spread grief. But maybe, she thinks, if you live well enough, you no longer hear the creaking, you just feel the sun on your face. Swings and roundabouts." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tumbleweeds\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1230\n\nPrompt:\n\nBegin your story with the sensation of a breeze brushing against a character's skin." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Ay, chihuahua! This fucking wind!\"\n\"Oh, si, Eddie. What would Holbrook be without the wind?\"\n\"Uh...peaceful? Calm? Quiet? Pleasant?\"\nEddie Ochoa and Lena Garcia, on their way home from Holbrook High (\"Go Roadrunners!\") shuffled down Buffalo Street, the gusts of wind shoving them from behind, nearly knocking them off their feet, filling their eyes with pollen, dust and sand. White cotton was everywhere, a blizzard unleashed by the cottonwood trees, drifting up at curbs and along fences, creating the illusion of snow on a warm, windy spring day.\nThe wind also snatched trash from cans lined up along the street, filling gutters and empty lots with fast food wrappers, cups, straws, aluminum cans, and tumbleweeds, those timeworn symbols of the American West, imported a century before from Siberia.\nPeople in Holbrook were used to the incessant wind, particularly this time of year, when high pressure and low humidity created a perfect storm of clear, dry weather, dusty, hazy skies, and extreme fire danger. Situated on the high plateau of the Little Colorado, there were few windbreaks at all until Flagstaff and the San Francisco Peaks, ninety miles to the west. Millions of years of this persistent penetration of wind into the landscape had also created surreal visions of beauty, as in the Painted Desert, just twenty miles east of town; strange formations of rock and sand sculpted over eons to confound the modern day observer.\n\"Hey, where's Beth?\" Eddie shouted over the dull roar of the wind, the flapping of flags and tarps in broken out car windows, the barking of dogs, and the wailing of the tortured trees.\n\"She had to go do some Church thing with her parents, I guess...\"\nBeth Page was the third member of this trio of inseparable friends. Beth's family was Mormon and thus lived \"on the hill,\" not far from the Church. But Beth's own allegiances were with her friends in the lower part of town.\nEddie smirked but didn't bother to respond in words. He knew better than to comment on the Church things Beth's parents forced her to attend. It was a touchy subject, even when Beth wasn't around.\nInstead, he focused on his main objective: getting home out of this insane wind. While the wind blew to some extent nearly every day on the Plateau, there were some days when it seemed like whatever god that took charge of the wind would let it off its leash. Then it became an angry demon shrieking its furious way through town. On those days, the only sane strategy was to take refuge indoors until it relented.\nLena and Eddie had been neighbors since they were little. They lived across from Hunt Park on East Florida Street, their two houses separated by a perennially boarded up crumbling wreck of a house, with its weed-and-trash-filled lot. Because they spent so much time together, most people assumed they were dating. But in reality, they--and Beth--had observed the havoc that \"dating\" generally produced among groups of friends at their school, and, vowing friendship forever, they'd sworn off it.\nThough, truth to tell, three years earlier, when they were twelve, Eddie and Beth had tried out kissing to see what it was like. And it was all right, they'd thought at the time, but it went no further and was never repeated. And, they'd never told Lena about it.\nThe next day, being Saturday, the three friends were back up on the causeway of the new freeway being built straight through town, separating \"on the hill\" from \"Town\" below, in the most graphic way possible; four lanes of unstopping, unstoppable Interstate traffic right through back yards, splitting the town in two. The three friends had slipped through the cut-away section of chain-link fence to walk along the symbol of the death of their town; the freeway that would bypass Holbrook, replacing the thriving and historic Route 66 with Interstate 40.\nFor weeks they'd been brainstorming, trying to come up with some master plan to derail the Interstate project. But they knew it was a pipe dream. Even if they managed to dynamite the thing, the construction crews would simply be back the next week, with tighter security and a shorter fuse. Once the I-40 project had started, somewhere out east--one of the Carolinas, maybe--it had taken on a life of its own. In the past week, the pavers had completed a whole section of road, all the way to the overpass at 8th Street.\nIt was still early and the day's wind hadn't started up yet in earnest.\nThe three teens strolled easily along the new blacktop, noticing that a layer of sand blown by yesterday's gale had already blotted out the pavement. As they walked they left dusty footprints that would be wiped away by afternoon, when the wind again began its assault upon the town. The unfinished freeway covered in sand, tumbleweeds rolling past, looked to them like some post-apocalyptic scene as if the highway had existed long ago, instead of in the future.\n\"Look at us,\" Lena said, laughing. \"The last three kids on Earth.\"\nBeth and Eddie laughed but said nothing. They'd all recently seen a film in American History class with Mr. Stewart about the atomic bomb testing in this area back in the 50's and 60's. They knew something about the testing already. Every family had at least one cancer victim, and everyone had heard about the Government's compensation payments for giving it to them.\nThe footage in the film was of a cabin that stands on the desert one moment, and vanishes the next, annihilated by the wind generated by the nuclear blast a mile away. Everything in the picture becomes horizontal lines of dust, while some dweeb narrator rattles off statistics like, \"At 470 miles per hour, the wind hits with the force of 10 hurricanes...\"\nIt had made an impression. When you lived in a place like Holbrook, you appreciated the power of the wind. Everything seemed permanently sandblasted, including the days and years of their lives that flew by in unrelenting progression.\nSoon, they thought, would be summer break, then another school year; eventually graduation, jobs, marriage, their own kids trooping through cotton drifts on their way to school.\nBeth suddenly said, \"Hey, you guys ever think about what you'll do after we graduate next year?\"\nEddie shrugged, \"Yeah, I think I'd like to check out the Valley. My older brother Victor's in Mesa. He said I could come stay with him...he'd teach me some stuff. What about you?\"\nBeth's face lit up a moment, \"I want to travel. See other places. Like LA, or Chicago. Or maybe go to college.\"\n\"Wow,\" Eddie said in wonder. \"I never heard you say that. Think you can pull it off?\"\n\"I feel like maybe I could. What about you Lena?\"\nLena stopped walking, a thoughtful look on her face. Beth and Eddie stopped too. They looked at her expectantly.\n\"You know what I was thinking about?\" she said in a dreamy, far-away voice. \"I was thinking about that song, you know, by Kansas? 'All we are is dust in the wind...' I know what they're saying. I mean, all of us...our parents, our friends, our kids, our kids' kids...we'll all be dead and gone eventually. It's weird but true.\n\"But, whoa. This freeway they're building? It'll be here forever.\"" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Don't lose her again\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1757\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story — romantic or not — about two characters who can’t find the right timing." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The first time they met, or rather remembered meeting, might have been the most beautiful time. Streetlights glowed through the rainy, blue-violet dusk. They both were soaked disasters waiting for the bus to come. Dawn’s soccer uniform didn’t do anything to keep him dry. Both of them had forgotten to bring an umbrella with them to school.\n Azalea was gorgeous and warm. She made Dawn feel warm despite the weather. Dawn couldn’t help but start to catch feelings, as well as a cold, that night. She stayed in his head all the time. He cherished his time at the bus stop with her. \n No one ever said it out loud, but it was clear she liked him too. Everyday they grew closer, silently knowing that there was something beautiful between them.\n He never did get to say it. He never got to say I love you before she was gone. He didn’t even get to say goodbye before the accident that left him cold and alone.\n The second time was the most shocking meeting. They hadn’t known each other. They’d never seen each other with these eyes. But then, those eyes caught each other’s and there were these unexpected feelings. The feelings from a past life washing over, pulling them together. The feelings of once knowing the other. Memories seem to pour out of their eyes, whispering the tales of another time.\n They were both more hesitant to speak this time but all it took was one word. One word to set it off. They rolled into laughful conversation like they had talked everyday.\n It was so strange but so simple. They slotted in together perfectly. A day before the two would have thought themselves crazy to take a walk with a complete stranger; Yet, there they were, strolling through the park, too captivated by each other to notice the beautiful spring landscapes.\n It was weird saying goodbye, not knowing why the hello had been so magnetizing. But they met again, repainting their walk through the park over and over again. Their positions shifted quickly: strangers, acquaintances, friends, closest friends. Every meeting felt more … familiar. It was as if droplets of past memories dripped through a small crack, one by one. The feeling got stronger, the smiles got brighter, and hearts were starting to open.\n But Azalea never did get to show him her painting. He slipped away from her like the watercolors she used to paint his portrait. She was left with nothing of him but the very gift she never got to give him.\n They thought the third time would work out. From the second the two kids met, they were inseparable. Dawn was always there, helping Azalea come up with new ideas and materials for her art. Azalea was always there, cheering Dawn on during soccer practices and games. \n Elementary, middle school, high school, college; every step of the way they were tied together by some invisible string. Hand in hand, without a spoken word they loved. She was his; he was hers. \n It was the morning before Dawn planned to ask. He was hesitant for years, despite the consistent thoughts that he should. It had taken him years to build up the courage and months for him to choose a ring. He had just arrived at their apartment when everything crumbled once again. He had been too late. He couldn't do anything but watch his future go up in flames with his home and love.\n Life after life. Time after time. Over and over again. They were always too late. They always lost each other. \n Dawn tapped his foot to the tick of the clock. He had woken up feeling ….. different. He wasn't sure what it was but it made him excited and nervous. He was jittery. He thought coffee might help but it didn't. The feeling persisted. It was almost as if something was about to happen; like, he needed to do something.\n For a few moments, he tried to shake it off. Dawn knew it was probably nothing. It would be stupid of him to just run outside to do or find something he had no idea about.\n Don't lose your chance. Dawn shivered. Where did that thought come from? Don't be late. He froze for a second. Tick. Tick. Tick.\n Dawn exploded up from his chair. He grabbed his coat, rushing out his door. He didn't know why he was running, where he was running. The sidewalk pounded under his feet. Something pulled him forward. Perhaps it was some invisible string or force. Perhaps it was just foolish madness.\n Rain started to fall, warm rain. Drop after drop, the water fell on Dawn's skin. Leaping over a puddle, he stumbled a bit, slowing down to a walk. Looking up he saw the bus stop, saw her.\n She sat on an uncovered bench. She tapped her toes in the water below. The rain dripped down from her soaked black hair. She felt familiar, felt warm, felt like what he was looking for. He wanted to run over and hug her, wrap her in his arms and not let her go.\n Dawn shook himself. He couldn't do that to a stranger. He couldn't just approach this random person like a creep. Oh god, he was going mad wasn't he? Laughing at himself he almost turned away. \n But then she looked up.\n Blue-violet eyes looked back into his green ones. A smile forced its way on his face. She stood up, leaving her stuff behind.\n Dawn hadn’t even noticed he had moved closer. \"Uh, Hello.\" He said. God, what was he doing? He looked around for a moment. There were a few shops along the street. \n She laughed. \"Hello.\"\n Dawn took a deep breath to keep himself from falling apart. Her voice was angelic. She smiled, pushing her soaked hair out of her face. He wanted to protect her from the rain.\n \"This bus stop doesn't have very good shelter does it?\" Dawn joked. \"Would you let me buy you an umbrella?\" \n She swayed happily on the heels of her feet. \"I would love that.\" She paused, gazing at him. \"My name is Azalea.\"\n \"It's nice to meet you, Azalea. I'm Dawn.\" This was crazy. He shouldn't be giving his name away to a random stranger. Oh, who was he kidding? It was obvious she wasn’t just some random stranger. Azalea looked like she was feeling the same thing as he was. \n Her eyes stayed on him while they walked into the most promising looking store. Thankfully, they did carry umbrellas. \n “Is there one you want?”\n Azalea blinked in confusion. “Oh.” She laughed, remembering why they were in the shop. She looked over the umbrella’s. Her ears glowed red and Dawn grinned at how cute she was. Azalea picked out a floral printed umbrella and Dawn paid as promised. \n………………………..\n Golden sunshine peaked through the small crack of the curtains. Fluffy blankets were draped around the couple on the couch. Dawn let his fingers run through Azalea’s hair absentmindedly. His other arm was wrapped around her. \n It hadn't taken long for their relationship to blossom. They knew from the moment they met they were special. But now after a year, they couldn’t imagine what their lives would be like without each other. It was like they were destined to be together.\n Azalea shifted, waking up from her nap.\n “Hey, beautiful.” Dawn whispered, kissing her temple. She wiggled around onto her side to see him. \n “Hi.” She whispered back, dreamily. \n “How did I ever get you to be mine?” Dawn asked, awestruck by his lover.\n Azalea chuckled. “You followed your instincts.” She answered.\n “I don’t think that was my instincts. I don’t know why any part of me told me to run out into the rain like that.” Dawn said, wrapping his arms around her again. \n “I… I guess it was just fate then.”\n “Fate?”\n “Yeah. I guess you’re soulmate and the universe just pulled us together.” Azalea said.\n Dawn liked that idea. The two of them were meant to be. But he couldn’t help but feel like it could also be taken away from him at any moment. “Darling, let’s get married.” \n She let out a laugh-full breath. “Of course, love.”\n…………………………\n They swung their hands between them, matching rose quartz rings shining from both of their wedding fingers. It was a wonderful spring evening. Everything was bright and happy. The park was looking more and more like the perfect place they imagined to get married. \n The wedding was set for tomorrow. They were done with everything they could prepare today so they were heading back to the hotel. \n Azalea was glowing. She wanted this more than anything. She had even painted her wedding dress. Now, she was bouncing with energy. \n Dawn watched her skip ahead of him, bouncing on her toes as she waited for the crossing light to change. The light across from her turned green, indicating she could go. Cars around the intersection stopped for the red light facing them. \n Smiling brightly, Azalea started her trip to the other side. Dawn made it to the edge of the road by the time she was halfway across. Then, a motion caught the corner of his eye.\n The world froze when he fully saw it. A car flying down the road. The light was red; the car should be slowing down. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t stopping, it wasn't slowing down. He watched it hurl through the intersection straight towards … Azalea.\n Dawn’s heart pounded. Maybe it would swerve. Maybe it wouldn’t hit her. \n Don’t lose her again. \n His legs were moving now. He had to be faster. He couldn’t lose her this time. His hand reached her shoulder and he pulled. \n The red car roared past them, missing them by less than a foot. It continued on, the mad driver not taking any time to slow down. Dawn’s heart was pounding. He could feel his fiance shaking in his hold. Keeping her in his arms, he led her to the other side of the road safely. \n They collapsed on the grass, both shaken from the near-death experience. \n “I- i..” Azalea gasped, trying to create rational thoughts through her fear.\n “Shh. It’s okay. I’m right here. You’re okay.” Dawn whispered, hugging her closer. The couple laid there for a while, ignoring the concerned looks. They would be alright.\n Dawn let his hand slide into Azalea’s. Their rings clinked together. Yes, they would be alright. He wasn’t going to lose her." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Hey! What About Me?!\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2097\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who feels increasingly irrelevant." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Hey! What About Me?!\n\n “I don’t get no respect.” – Rodney Dangerfield\n\nThis is nuts. Dark, crowded and wet. I about can’t take it anymore. Day after day, week after week, month after month. Dogs are two months. I could live with that. Or how about mice? Twenty-five days tops! And I have to put up with this for nine months? Life ain’t fair, I tell you.\n\nAnd I’m not real fond of the company in here. The guy I call “Big Boy” is huge! He takes up most of the room in here. Then there’s the little guy. I call him “Squirmer” because he NEVER stops moving around. He’s always kicking his legs or flaying his arms, or doing something. I think he did the ‘Loop to Loop” last week. I’m not kidding. I’m counting the days, man. This is such a hassle it’s hard to believe there are so many people in this world.\n\n********\n\n“Just lie back, Mrs. Simpson, and relax. I’m going to rub a little jell on your belly now. This will give us a better picture. There he is, a little boy, and…Oh my, Mrs. Simpson, it looks like you’re going to have twins!”\n\n“Twins?!”\n\n“Yes, Mr. Simpson, twins. And both are boys! It looks like one has got some size to him, a real big boy, and the smaller guy seems to have a lot of energy. Look at him squirming around in there!”\n\n******\n\nTwins?! Hey! What about me?! I don’t know much about math yet, but I can tell there’s more than two of us in here. A big boy? A squirming guy? I guess I nailed that. But what about me? Like I don’t count or something? Hello, I’m right here.\n\nI don’t believe any of this. It’s like I don’t even exist. If hear one more word about “the twins”, the double baby buggy, the two cribs, the two highchairs, and God, the ideas for names- Ben and Jerry, Buddy and Bobby, Harry and Larry, and Bert and Ernie…I swear I’ll puke. Well, maybe not puke, considering my current living circumstance, but you get the idea.\n\nI must be behind Big Boy, and they missed me. No wonder. He could blot out the sun with his big butt. I wish I knew how to send out distress signals.\n\n******\n\n“We’re getting close. Let’s eat out tonight, Susan. It’s going to be awhile before we can get out again after the twins arrive.”\n\n“Good idea, David. How about Mexican, honey? We haven’t been to Felipe’s for awhile.”\n\n******\nFelipe’s?! No, not Felipe’s! They’ve got that super hot Hot Sauce, and she wolf’s that stuff down like she was eating for two…oops, three. For Christ’s sake, now I’m forgetting about myself. Last time she had that stuff I thought my hair was on fire.\n\n******\n\n“I love this place, Dave. You brought me here on our first date.”\n\n“The candle still lights up your beautiful smile and puts a sparkle in your eyes, just like it did that very first night, the night I fell in love with you.”\n\n******\n\nCome on Dave, knock it off before I do puke. “The sparkle in your eyes.\" Oh my God. You might have needed all that moochie-moochie stuff before she married you, but now it’s a little much. Try not to be “That Guy” in public, Dave.\n\n******\n\n“We’ll both have the chimichanga dinners. And we’d like a large order of tortilla chips with your famous super hot Hot Sauce.”\n\n“And extra hot sauce, please. I could eat a bucket of that stuff!”\n\n******\n\nAah! I don’t know what’s worse, the near molten lava soon to be drifting my way, or the smile on Big Boy’s face. He loves fiery hot food. I can’t believe I’m going to have to spend my childhood with that bozo. Squirmer’s not too bad. He’s just high energy. I kind of like the little guy. But Big Boy? He could be a problem.\n\n******\n\n“Well, there’s two of us so it won’t be too hard with two babies. One of us will always be able to take care of whatever they need. These two little boys will get so much love and attention.”\n\n******\n\nThis is getting annoying. I don’t ever want to hear the word “two” again.\n\n******\n\n“Thank God it’s not three, Susan. I don’t think we could handle that.”\n\n“No, I really wouldn’t want three. Two is plenty.”\n\n“That’s for sure. Three would be impossible. I wouldn’t want three either.”\n\n******\n\nThey don’t want me. That's a little disheartening. I was so looking forward to getting out into the world, and now I find out they don’t want me out there. The way we are lined up, I can tell I’m going to be the last one out, or Baby #3, as in the one they don’t want. What’s to become of me? I’ve heard of babies being left at the door of a church. Maybe someone really rich and not as dorky as Dave will adopt me. That would be pretty cool. Worse come to worse, I could always be a carnie or something. I bet I’d make a damn good cowboy. Or maybe a fireman or a race car driver. I could always just roam the earth looking for adventure. I’ll have to give it some thought.\n\nI sure feel like a complete nobody. They call the last guy taken in the NFL Draft “Mr. Irrelevant”. Well, let me tell you, he’s got nothing on me. Two baby buggies, two cribs, two parents, and then I show up. This is going to be awkward. Maybe I could just sneak out, and no one will notice. That would save a lot of embarrassment.\n\nI have to tell you, though, I feel a little sad about the whole thing.\n\n******\n\n“Okay, I’ve got your bag. We better get moving. You can call your mom on the way to the hospital.”\n\n******\n\nThis is unbelievable. I dreamed of getting out of here so many times, and now that the day has arrived, I don’t feel much like leaving. I don’t even want to hear what they have to say when they see me. But I don’t think I can just stay in here. Those first few moments will probably be a little rough, but once they figure out what to do with me, I’m sure I’ll just be able to move on. As bad as it’s been in here, I’ve adapted pretty well. I’ll survive.\n\nI don’t think this could have gone on much longer. I mean, this is like a balloon ready to burst. I don’t know what will happen with me, but at least this stage of my life will be over. I need a change, whatever it is.\n\n******\n\n“You’re doing great, honey. Just relax and breath. Your coach is here.”\n\n******\n\nOh my God, Dave, shut up. Three birthing classes, and he thinks he’s Doctor Spock.\n\nWow! It’s happening! I have to tell you, this is pretty dramatic from where I’m sitting, or lying, or hunched over, or whatever. There’s a lot going on in here. Big Boy had the lead, and I would have put my money on him to be the first one to the exit, but you can never count Squirmer out. The little guy cut right in front of him at the last possible moment.\n\nSuddenly it hit me. Squirmer is on his way out. I don’t know what’s going to happen out there, and I didn’t even say goodbye. I feel bad about that.\n\n******\n “That’s it. Push!”\n\n******\n\nPush? Is he talking to me?\n\n******\n\n“He’s a beautiful baby! Everything is perfect.”\n\n “He’s got your eyes, Susan.”\n\n“I think he looks like Grandma.”\n\n******\n\nOkay, beautiful baby, mother’s eyes, looks like granny, blah, blah, blah. Who cares? On your own time. Let’s keep this thing moving.\n\n******\n\n“And here comes baby #2. Oh, he is just perfect too. And a big baby. Mother and babies are all okay, Dave.”\n\n“Good job, Susan. We did it.”\n\n******\nWe? I hope she hits him.\n\n******\n\n“Well, congratulations to both of you. I’ve got to check on another patient. I’ll check in with you later, Susan.”\n\n“Thanks, Susan and I…and the twins appreciate everything you’ve done. Bye, Doc.”\n\n******\n\nHey! Hey!! Come back here! Don’t leave me in here! I’m somebody too! Get back here doctor whoever you are!\n\nI can’t believe this. I’ve been marking the days for nine flippin’ months and then nothing. Nothing happens. Nothing. And I guess I’m nothing. I might as well just stay here. Nobody wants me anyway.\n\n******\n\n“Dave.”\n\n“Yes, dear?”\n\n“Something’s going on here. Get Doctor Simpson, like now.”\n\n“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”\n\n“I feel like I’m having another baby! Get somebody!”\n\n“Another baby?!”\n\n“Just get someone!”\n\n******\n\nIt’s about freaking time! At least they know I’m here. Oh my God, that’s a relief.\n\nI’m moving! I can feel it. I wondered how it would feel. It’s pretty cool. I bet it’s like going down one of those slides at a waterpark. This is the most exciting day of my life! I can’t…\n\nOh. I just remembered. I kind of forgot in the thrill of the moment. Once I get out there, nobody wants me. That sure takes the fun out of it. Maybe I’ll see Squirmer one last time. I guess I’d even like to be able to say goodbye to Big Boy. I should probably also at least get a look at Dave and Susan…or mom and dad. I don’t know if I should call them “mom and dad”. I guess I’ll go with Dave and Susan.\n\n******\n\n“You sure are having another baby. Somehow we missed one. That can happen.”\n\n******\n\nI don’t know how to feel. I should be happy, but I’m not. Do you know what it’s like to not be wanted?\n\nI hope it’s not too uncomfortable for everyone out there. I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble. I’ll just keep a stiff upper lip until they decide what to do with me. I wonder if anyone will hold me, even for just a little. I guess I’d like to get a quick hug from mom…I mean Susan…before I go. Heck, I’d even take one from that goof Dave.\n\nThis is it. Be strong and try not to cry.\n\n******\n\n“Here’s baby #3! And it’s another boy!”\n\n“And he’s beautiful, Honey!”\n\n******\n\nBeautiful? That sounds a little better.\n\n******\n“Oh Dave! He’s like a surprise miracle baby! He’s like a special gift from God.”\n\n“He sure is.”\n\n******\n\nMiracle baby? Special? Gift from God?! Are they talking about me?\n\n******\n\n“Looks like I’m going to have to run out and get another crib.”\n\n******\n\nThey’re going to keep me! They want me! I am special! I’ll be with Squirmer, and Big Boy…and Susan and Dave…I mean Mom and Dad!\n\nI knew it! I knew it all along. I knew once they saw me, they wouldn’t be able to resist. I knew I’d be a cute baby!\n\nHugs! I’m getting lots of hugs. Everyone is smiling, laughing, and crying, the good, happy kind of crying.\n\nNow I’m crying! I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can’t help it. I am so happy!\n\n********\n\nI’m home now. I have plenty of room, a really cool crib, and there’s a nice playpen for the three of us. And let me tell you, I have some pretty snazzy outfits, especially the ones I get from Grandma. I like the airplanes on the ceiling and the dinosaurs on the walls. The food is a little bland, but it’s okay. I get such a kick out of Squirmer- he is one funny baby, and Big Boy is, well, not as bad as I thought he’d be. And my Mom is the best Mom ever. And Dave? He is such a geek, but he is a really good guy. I like everything about everything.\n\nWell, maybe they could have done better on my name. They only had two names picked out so Dave was stumped when they asked him for my name. He was silent for a moment and then blurted out “David, David Jr.”. Great. I’m saddled with being named after the county nerd. I would have preferred better, but I can live with it.\n\nAnd me? What can I say? All I have to do is sleep, eat, pee and poop. And somehow I still manage to make people happy. Life is good." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: EMANATION\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1730\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story where the laws of time and space begin to dissolve." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "EMANATION\n\n\nYou never knew that she had an infirmity until she struggled through the garden door. The limp only became distinct as she dragged her left foot slightly. The clumsy movement scraped her trainer and the bottom of her jeans on the floor. The constant pressure meant that the jeans were roughed up and frayed at this spot and the trainer clearly showed signs of being worn away. \n\nOnce I’d noticed the limp I could then see that the whole of her left side sat awkwardly on her body as if it hadn’t been sculpted out fully by her maker, but she clearly carried herself positively so this gawkiness was hardly discernible.\n\nAnd what a positive force of nature she embodied. From the minute she appeared you knew she was there. You could feel her emanating something powerful, forceful, a vibrating energy field. She was hypnotic.\n\n“So what do you want to know?” she said plunking down on the damp garden bench by the now emptied swimming pool. \n\nThe garden was strewn with crunchy, shrivelling autumn leaves, a motley yellow, brown, green flecked carpet. Her large, round face was framed like a shaggy lion with a thick, curly, dark brown mane. Her sharp blue eyes pierced.\n\nI had been finally invited to do the article because I had known her mother through work on the local paper and I helped her parents when they were left struggling with an unruly press pack in their road. I hadn’t really wanted to do the story. I’d initially walked away as I feared I wouldn’t do it justice. That I wouldn’t be able to capture the beauty and remarkable gifts this 17-year-old girl offered to the world. I’d been ordered back by my news editor and told to tell it straight. What did that mean: tell it straight.\n\nAs if she could read my mind she quickly made it clear: “I don’t want something mawkish – you know – a poor me piece. No playing on my disability or being sentimental. Tell the truth. See me properly and tell it as it is. No embellishment. Take me as you find me.”\n\nI found her directiveness mesmerising. Actually, I would have been scared to do anything other than as she requested. It wasn’t an order but in its forcefulness I could only obey. I found I didn’t want to dramatize or overwrite. All I wanted was to strip my words back to their power. Allow her to stand in her truth, as she asked. And what was that truth?\n\n“I suppose I want to know what happened? How did all this start?” I replied.\n\n“I just woke up and I could see colours everywhere. Not just the usual colours that things have but layers upon layers of colours. Colour had been split into spectrums all around me. Light came out of everything. It spilt everywhere. As I put my foot down everything burst into light and colour with each step. I thought I’d entered a cartoon-land it was so bright and zappy.\n\n“I’ve never done drugs but I thought perhaps this is what it would be like. Now I’m saying this, I’m surprised I wasn’t freaked out but somehow it all felt normal to wake up and find that the world around me had gone psychedelic.\n\n“I felt that I was being held by some enormous being who’d stripped my eyes and opened them up to a new way of seeing – an alternative parallel universe. I should have been scared but in fact I felt comforted and supported. \n\n“It was only when I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen that I realised something was wrong. My mum started shrieking and dropped the milk carton on the floor. Of course, usually I wouldn’t be coming down the stairs by myself. I’d need my mum or one of my carers to get me down and plump me into my wheelchair. So, as you can see, me lumbering around would have been a bit of a shock for everyone.” \n\nLazarus Girl and Miracle Maid were already names she had been called for her remarkable transformation. Her mum had told me that Miriam had been born with Cerebral Palsy and had never walked properly. CP is like a stroke at birth or in the womb when the infant is deprived of blood or oxygen, or both. Miriam’s mother never knew what had happened but was told that the birth had been uncomplicated. Medics believed that Miriam had suffered an event while in utero. Miriam’s mother couldn’t remember any shock or distress, except that the family cat had died when she was about eight months pregnant.\n\n“As I bent over to help mum clear up the milk I was struck by her crying and the tears dripping into the milk which was running across the kitchen tiles. I remember thinking ‘why is mum crying?’ I still hadn’t made a proper connection with the weirdness of me walking around.”\n\n“And now?” I asked.\n\n“Of course, I get that this must seem like a miracle. In my head life felt normal. Instead of wheels I was using my legs. Wheels, legs, I was mobile so I hadn’t made the distinction before. Even when I was walking in my colour dream I was me. I was just getting on with life, getting around as I wanted. \n\n“And yes, legs are easier, before you ask. And am I doing anything different? No. I suppose it’s nice to be able to come up and downstairs but it’s not like I’ve taken up running marathons,” she laughed.\n\n“I like to be able to help out more. Mum has even got cross with me for not emptying the dishwasher. That would never have happened before. I think I like her getting cross with me now. It means she’s beginning to forget that once I couldn’t do those things. She now treats me like the others, like my sister and brother.”\n\n“How do they feel about it?”\n\n“Probably glad they don’t have to hump me around and put up with me being the special needy one anymore.”\n\nI think that the world will always see her as special but decide not to say anything. Instead I wondered if she still saw the colours.\n\n“Not quite in the same way. When the Being is here, then I do.”\n\nAnd there it was.\n\n“What can you say about the Being? If you’d like to discuss it of course.”\n\n“Only if you tell it straight.” \n\nI agreed. In the end isn’t this what everyone wanted to know about - the Being?\n\n“I know some people want to call it an alien being. I think they’re scared of any notions of something more divine. Mum and I call it my archangel. It seems to like that. I’m not sure if it’s a he or she. To be honest I think it’s non-binary, though sometimes it feels very flowy and feminine and other times very strong and energetic and masculine. Most times it’s just there, glowing all these colours, dynamic and mega powerful.”\n\nI thought that was a good description for Miriam. She emanated.\n\n“When I go back to the start, I recall that it was speaking in my head and telling me to get up. Now I hear it all the time. If I want to know something I just ask and I’m told. \n\nOf course, before you inquire, I’ve asked what it is. It just smiles. I’m happy with that. Does it really matter in the end?”\n\nI say that many people want to claim her and her Being for their own cause whether it be religious, or science or psychological.\n\nShe laughs, “Church groups of all denominations have called or turned up on the doorstep. Some of them are very annoying with the talk of Christ and angels or possession. We’ve had the ufologists and crop-circler types - they’re fun but the NASA and shadowy government figures are boring and just want to take me away for experiments. Mum’s got really good at dealing with them now.\n\n“Whereas the psychiatrist and psychologist bunch want to explore my higher being energies. The Being laughs at this and shows me how to get rid of them, politely of course. We’ve got techniques for not answering the questions.” She looked fierce.\n\nI was glad she was answering mine. I wondered if the Being’s powers were fearsome.\n\n“I know it doesn’t want to harm me. I know it’s here for good. Like now, it’s saying what do you really want to know?”\n\n“What? It’s talking to me?”\n\n“Yes. It says you’d really like to understand the power of this world, this universe. What stands beyond time and space.”\n\nI admitted I did. I wanted to know how this girl had already performed miracles. A deaf boy could now hear. Another child could walk. As news of her work filtered out I could understand why Christian groups were muttering about the Second Coming and that many wanted to bow at her feet and call her a Messiah. \n\nNow she was revealing that her gifts came from channelling this entity.\n\n“Come,” she said, standing up and walking over to the family’s empty swimming pool. Below, in the shallow end, a puddle of rainwater held soddened Autumn leaves and twigs.\n\n“The force of life is like this pool of water. All we have to do is use its energy to gather in all that we need. Water has its own power. It’s the mover, the gatherer, the transformer.”\n\nAs she opened her arms and moved her hands the water flowed with her actions. She opened out her left arm and made a gathering gesture with her hand. At the same time the puddle below moved and all the leaves and twigs were washed into a neat pile in a corner. \n\nI stood in awe. I felt I was witnessing magic but I knew it was more than that. This was some stranger, deeper truth, a different kind of beauty. I found myself saying: “Wouldn’t this be amazing if we used water more constructively?”\n\nMiriam smiled, probably like her Being. “I’m glad you understand.” \n\nAt that point I wasn’t sure who was talking; in fact, I no longer cared. Instead, we stood in silence together in the custard Autumn sun and admired the gathered-in leaves." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Old Oak Tree\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1012\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an object that has been around for centuries or passed down generations." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Old Oak Tree By: Lancia Stewart\n“I love it, Bill!” My wife squealed with excitement as I unraveled the red silk blindfold from around her deep brown eyes. It was her dream home.\nAs I hugged her tight and I watch our next generation of two girls and two boys run around the yard filled with an array of green vegetation and spring flowers which were at the peak of blooming. The vibrant pinks, reds, and purple flowers gave the house an artistic look. It was like we were standing still in an art exhibit, looking at a Realism Style portrait with astonishing color pop. I thought back to the many years we drove past this house. I looked up to God with reverence at the sunny skies that held huge fluffy Cumulus clouds and rays of light that shined through. There was a small opening with a beam of light shining toward my position as if God was allowing his big spiritual ears to hear my silent thank you and prayers for all his help. I was overwhelmed with emotions. I know that I had just given my family, my legacy something extraordinary. I looked off to the left and my son who was 5 years of age was sitting there staring at this massive oak tree right at the entryway of the home. I stood there next to him.\n“Daddy?” He called in his little sweet innocent voice.\n“About how old do you think this tree is?” He asked. Caressing its bark with his hands that we’re just like mine, but the tiny version.\n“This tree has to be over 100 years son” I replied kneeling next to him and staring into his deep brown eyes that resembled my wife’s eyes.\n “Well, so let’s see. This tree is big, brown, and as tall as the eye can see. If you look down in the grass, you can see its brown roots sticking out in some areas of the dirt. The tree branches are long and strong and most importantly you count the rings on a tree to determine its age son.” I said rubbing the nearest exposed root closer to me. “This tree sounds like you daddy. Big, tall, and strong.” My son giggled and ran off.\n I continue to stand there. My mind drifted back to when I was a young boy. My daddy was killed in Iraq. He had sacrificed his life for his men on a mission. When I got the news. I was not sad. I was proud because that was the kind of man my father was. He sacrificed everything for his family and was the best husband to my mother. He received a Purple Heart award which sits on my grandmother’s white mantelpiece next to my grandfather's medals from serving in Vietnam. I could just visualize my granddad sitting under the old oak trees that protected his home. He would sit out there in his red plaid and white t-shirt, blue overalls, and brown rustic hat. He would sit in his old wooden rocking chair he carved himself by hand and watch the stars while smoking his Cherrywood tobacco pipe.\n “Come one over here and sit with you grandpa boy.” He would say to me. Rocking with the melody of the crickets and frog’s chirps and croaks. “You see, this here old tree. This tree tells a story. You see when I was a boy about your age. I used this for shade after working the fields all hot day long. Na, I use it to cool me off and watch the stars when ya grandma be in the house cooking Sunday dinners for the church house. Who needs to watch a picture show when you got God's creations to stare at? One day when you get some kids you make sure you find a house with a big ole strong Oak Tree. Just like this here one.\"\nGrandpa would then ruffle my big noggin and we’d watch the stars while grandma sang old church hymns that rang out the kitchen window into the muggy Florida air. I learned so much from my grandpa. The most profound memory I have of him is his love for my grandma. He would slow dance with my grandma under the stars by the same tree, most of the time their slow danced rhythm was to an acapella melody of love that replayed in their loving hearts. I would lay on the wooden kitchen window and smile at the laughs and romantic conversations that they embraced. Now as a man, it was my turn to embark on this opportunity with my very own family. The first thing I wanted to do was make my kids a tire swing just like the one daddy made me at grandpa's house. He had taken an old tire from pops tractor and hauled it across the strongest branch with some rope. I remember the day my wife and I got married under that same tree. My tire swing was still there. I was a little boy who became a man under that same Oak tree. Later that evening as we began to get moved in. I tucked my kids into bed. My wife and I read to them our usual bedtime story. Which was made up most of the time because our imagination was so creative. As they drifted off to sleep my wife stayed behind and went into the basement. After wrestling through some boxes. I found granddaddy’s old rocking chair. I dusted it off and carried it outside under the Old Oak tree. I sat in the chair and felt my granddad’s presence as the wind blew randomly out of nowhere.\n “Would you like some company?” I heard my wife’s sweet voice say.\n “Why yes, I would I responded getting up to move her chair right there close to mine.\n “You forgot something,” My wife said handing my granddaddy an old handkerchief wrapped inside his old tobacco pipe. I had come a long way from a boy to a man." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Vanity, and a Deal with the Devil\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1709\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an artist whose work has magical properties." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: sexual and suicidal imagery.\n\nJenny Murphy is gorgeous, just ask her. Her parents spoil her. Her friends admire her. Boys desire to be with her and girls want to be her, encouraging lust and envy wherever she goes. She’s dating the most popular boy in school and her teachers love her. Jenny feels the world is her oyster, spinning around her, set in motion specifically to give her everything she wants.\n\n“Ugh, here comes Jenny Murphy. Just keep your heads down. Maybe she’ll pass us by,” Melissa Carter tells her friends at the lunch table outside.\n\n“You know Jeremy can’t keep his head down when she’s around, if you know what I mean,” Brandon teases.\n\n“Wow, Tosha, look at all the losers. Isn’t it neat how they congregate outside to the farthest corner like it’s their natural habitat,” Jenny says with a smile.\n\n“We come out here to get away from the likes of you, Jenny,” Melissa tells her.\n\n“Geesh, sounds like someone has goth an attitude. Why the long sleeves emo,” Jenny says pulling back one of Melissa’s sleeves, revealing a scar. “Oh, that’s right. Nobody loves you and you want to die,” Jenny says with a pouty face while her gal pals, Tosha and Kim, laugh.\n\n“Booger off, Jenny. Don’t you have something else to do,” says Brandon Lawrence, Melissa’s closest friend.\n\n“Brandon, Brandon, Brandon, are you still blowing the chess club, so they’ll do your homework?”\n\n“That was one guy, one time.”\n\n“It can be multiple guys multiple times. All I have to do is say that it’s so, so sit down and shut up,” Jenny says with vicious authority.\n\nTurning her attention to Jeremy O’Neil, she smiles and sits down beside him. “Caught you sneaking a peek at me during English,” she says. Leaning in and whispering in his ear, she says, “Save me a sock,” and laughs wildly, tossing her hair as she gets up. “Later losers.”\n\n“I wish there was some way we could put her in her place,” Melissa growls, pushing her black bangs from her eyes.\n\n“How? She has the whole school eating out of her hand. Even the teachers and the administration think she’s the moon and stars,” Brandon says.\n\n“If she wasn’t so pretty, no one would think twice about her,” a voice says from behind them.\n\nMelissa turns her head and finds a young man with long hair pulled into a bun wearing a Slayer t-shirt, torn jeans, and combat boots.\n\n“Who are you?”\n\n“Dylan Rose. I just moved here.”\n\n“Well, Dylan, it’s not like we are going to set her face on fire,” Melissa tells him. “But I get what you’re saying.”\n\n“All I’m saying is that you can put the princess in her place once and for all. Meet me here after school,” Dylan says, handing her one of his father’s business cards.\n\n“Rose Photography,” Brandon reads out loud with a questioning tone.\n\n“It’s my father’s business. Don’t worry, he won’t be there. He’s off on Mondays. All three of you come by. I want to show you something.”\n\n()\n\nAt the end of the school day, Jeremy drives them all over to the studio. It’s a quaint little brick store in the middle of the downtown area with portraits in the window. Dylan greets them at the door and leads them back to the studio. Nothing is out of the ordinary, just lights, a plain background, and a digital camera.\n\n“My family has developed a photo editing software that has some magical properties tied into it and I’m going to show it to you.”\n\n“Magic,” Brandon questions.\n\n“Yeah, you brought us here for a magic trick,” Melissa says, feeling perturbed.\n\n“Trust me, this is no trick. People pay top dollar and come from all over the world for my father’s service.”\n\n“Service? I thought you sold pictures,” Brandon asks.\n\n“It’s better if I just show you,” Dylan replies. “Jeremy, we’ll start with you. Just a picture of your face.”\n\n“I don’t know, Dylan. I’m camera shy, with my acne and all.”\n\n“You won’t be after this. Trust me. Don’t smile. Just look at the camera.”\n\nJeremy slouches to one side and looks at the camera, letting Dylan take the picture. After he takes the picture, he takes out the storage card and inserts it into the computer, downloading the image.\n\n“Alright everybody, watch Jeremy’s face.”\n\nBrandon and Melissa watch as Dylan selects tools from his photo editing software and works. Slowly they start to see Jeremy’s acne disappear. “Whoa, is this for real,” Melissa asks.\n\n“Yep,” Dylan says, putting on the final touches. “Here, give him a mirror.”\n\nJeremy gasps and touches his face. He can’t believe it. He looks at Brandon who nods sincerely at his friend. “Dylan… How…”\n\n“I told you. With a little bit of magic. Melissa, how about those scars on your wrist.”\n\nMelissa pulls up her sleeves in a hurry as Dylan grabs the camera. He takes a picture of her wrists, downloads it, and gets to work. Within moments there is no evidence that she has ever attempted suicide. She flips her wrists over several times, astonished by Dylan’s work. Brandon watches on with his hands cupped over his mouth, tears in his eyes.\n\n“All right, here’s what I’m proposing. I can take this camera to school and tell the students that my dad owns Rose photography in town and we’re holding a most photogenic competition for free senior pics. That should get me the pic I need of Jenny. From there we can alter her appearance, and nobody will be none the wiser.”\n\n“What do you need us to do?”\n\n“For starters, you have to keep your mouth shut about the software, what we do to Jenny, all of it. My dad’s boss will have us killed if word gets out. There’s a lot of money in this, and his boss is someone you don’t piss off. On top of that, I want a date with Melissa.”\n\n“Hell, all you had to do is ask for a date with Melissa,” Melissa says.\n\n()\n\nThe next day, Dylan presents the school with the competition, and everyone is eager to have their picture taken, especially Jenny Murphy. They wait until the end of the week and announce Jenny as the winner. On Sunday, they go to work on altering her appearance in such a way that she won’t want those senior pictures.\n\nMelissa, Brandon, and Jeremy all gather around Dylan’s computer. “How should we make her look,” Melissa asks with a mischievously evil voice.\n\n“I have a function that shows you what a person looks like if their inside appearance was seeable on the outside,” Dylan tells them. “It won’t actually happen unless I hit enter. It’s just for viewing purposes.”\n\n“Do it,” Jeremy says. “I have to see. I’ve been so blinded by her outer beauty that I can’t see past it. I need to know what she’s like on the inside.”\n\nDylan selects the inside-out function. Jenny’s long, flowing golden mane is replaced with patchy stubble like she has mange. Her right eyelids are missing, and her left eye is melted shut. Her nose is gone. Her ears are tiny and pointy. Her right cheek is gone too, exposing teeth and gums.\n\n“All I have to do is press enter,” Dylan tells them.\n\n()\n\n“…nine, ten. Ready or not, here I come,” Jenny screams across the house so her nephew knows he better hurry up and hide. At six years old, it won’t be too hard to find him, but Jenny decides to drag it out like a good aunt, make him feel good about himself.\n\n“Are you under the table,” she says with a frightening tone as she lifts up the tablecloth, knowing good and well he isn’t there. She heard him go upstairs.\n\nOn her way upstairs she stops at the mirror above the mantle to admire herself. “Is he in the bathroom! Nope, I better go look upstairs.” She blows herself a kiss after primping her hair and heads up stairs.\n\n“Where are you, Sebastian? I’m going to find you. Are you under the bed! No. Are you in the closet!”\n\n“Eek, Aunt Jenny, you always find me. Your turn to hide.”\n\nSebastian went to the dresser to count, but he peeked open his eyes and watched his aunt crawl back into the closet. He reaches ten, and runs to the closet, flinging open the door. “Roar,” Jenny screams.\n\n“Eeeeeeeeeeeek,” all the way down the stairs and out the front door. Jenny gives chase, not meaning to scare him so badly. When she passes the mirror above the mantle on the way to the front door, she has to turn around and do a double take. What she sees has her screaming and crying.\n\n()\n\n“For our first date you bring me back to your father’s studio?”\n\n“I want to see what you look like through the inside-out function.”\n\n“What, you can’t accept me as I am?”\n\n“I do and I will. Hitting enter is up to you.”\n\n“Okay, I’m curious. Let’s do this.”\n\n“Okay, to really do this, you need to take off your clothes. I’ll take four shots of you – front, back, and both sides.”\n\n“Now I see what you’re up to,” she laughs as she removes her shirt.\n\n“No, you don’t, but you will.”\n\nMelissa is a stout girl with love handles, thick thighs, and a butt that sags. She has a cute face but covers it with dark make-up and long bangs. She turns as Dylan takes his photos. He downloads the images and hits the inside-out function. Melissa’s hair turns to a caramel brown and the long bangs disappear, being replaced with flowing waves. Her dull green eyes are now much brighter, sharper. Her face is thinner exposing beautiful cheekbones. All of her piercings remain. Her body has tightened up. She’s not skinny or athletic, but not fat either. She would say she’s voluptuous. Most notably, there’s a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm that she would never have been able to afford.\n\n“What do you think,” Dylan asks.\n\n“It’s exactly how I want people to see me,” she says quietly. Reaching across him, she presses enter." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: That Damn Remote\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1363\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two characters who have been fighting for so long, they can’t remember what started it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Months ago, my wife and I had a heated argument over the most ridiculous thing in the world. Our remote for our television disappeared, as they tend to do, which started a domino of exhausted complaints and snarls on both our parts. We checked the recliner cushions, under the sofa, we even checked the damn cat bed at one point. After at least 30 minutes of sprawling around like wild animals, nearly tearing the place up like it too, I sat down and bared our loss. “Let’s just give it a rest and return to this later. I’m sure it’ll show up” I suggested.\nMy bitter wife expressed the most sour disappointing look I’ve ever seen. A look an old fashion father would give after learning his son was gay while subsequently sucking a juicy lemon. “Way to give up, Gerard! That’s a new one”.\nI returned with a sour face of my own, “What’s that supposed to mean?”\n“You know what it means! You always do this and it’s why nothing ever gets done. I’d bet you the freaking house we’ll end up just buying a new remote knowing you!”\n“You’re overreacting again. For Christ's sake it’s just a remote, Kim. It’ll turn up soon enough and we’ll both look stupid for making such a big deal about it”.\nKim threw her hands up in disgust before resting them firmly on her hips as if getting comfortable for one of her rants. “Look, I’ll admit, the remote is a stupid thing. But this isn’t just about the remote at this point. Gerard, this last month you have failed to get the car cleaned, to buy Stavros’ birthday gift and even small things like taking out the trash or feeding the cat. I’m getting pissed that you’ve being so lazy lately”\nI sighed, knowing that was just a small part of her complaints. “First of all, I’ve been working overtime this week, second of all the car is nearly spotless and third of all, you’re just as lazy as me half the time. Those girls nights of yours last hours upon end and all you do is talk about stupid, mind-numbing stuff like work gossip and rom coms. I mean you guys sound like you came right out of desperate housewives in there. Meanwhile our kids rely on me and me alone to see them put to sleep while they wonder why mommy isn’t there to tell them a story or even kiss them goodnight”\n“You volunteered for that responsibility, thank you very much!” she yipped like a dog far too loud for how small it was, “When we got married we agreed to our responsibilities, I’m not good with kids and you know that, so you take care of teaching them and all that while I take care of keeping them busy and entertained. I’m grateful that you got that part of your job down, but tell me, why can’t you feed the animal and take the trash out when you can?!”\nAt that point our argument had derailed in directions they hadn’t in months if not years. I hate doing that with her but she always made it so difficult to reason. “Maybe you should consider trying. Every think of that? Kids aren’t exactly a walk in the park to deal with but once you put the effort in you can at least know how to talk to them like a parent should. This is a team effort so why do we have to separate ourselves like this?”\n“Oh so now you're making this about me being a bad parent?” Kim’s voice peaks with genuine shock, “This is about you being sloppy and lazy over simple little things! I do my part so why can’t you do yours? I hate having to argue like this as much as you do, but if I don’t you’ll just keep this shit up. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if this kept happening for months to come knowing you”.\nTaken aback by such a spontaneous situation I sit myself down on our couch. I rest my face into my palms and take a deep, necessary breath. “I don’t know what your problem is, Kim. But I’m not in the mood to argue any more. Can we please just end this and move on with our night. I’ll sleep on the fucking couch if you want just please. I hope the kids didn’t hear us”\n“I hope the kids did!” she shouted, “They need to know how much of a lazy piece of shit their father is. Maybe then they’ll start talking some sense into you too”\n“Just like how they need to know their mother is too much of a coward to love them like she should?! Let’s sleep this off, Kim. We can talk about this tomorrow. And not yell. Talk”\nKim began making her way towards the stairs, dimly lit by a nightlight in the corner. Her eyes looked as tired as I felt. I knew she hated to argue as much as I did, which still confuses me as to why she starts these things in the first place. I looked away while I could to make our departure less awkward. I found myself a cozy blanket to shelter myself under for the night and fell into an unsettling slumber accompanied by a dream of our life before the kids. Before getting married. Just two young idiots roaming the country for a nice simple life to share. I imagined how happy we were. How comforting and fulfilled we felt when we embraced. A fairly distant memory I find myself missing more often than I feel I should.\nThe morning finally came after my near endless depressing void of a dream. I quickly folded the blanket and put it back where it belonged so as to not tempt any questions from our very observant boys. The day went by silently and almost agonizing as it was both a weekend and one of my days off. My wife and I didn’t share a single word throughout the day. We hardly even saw each other. Halfway through it, I noticed the kitchen trash can was overfilling. I thought back on Kim’s words from the night prior and almost ignored it out of spite. But I decided to do the hygenic thing and deal with it before it became a bigger problem. A part of me felt great for doing something productive, however a different side of me felt guilt for doing it after our confrontation. It was almost as if I only did it because of the corner I was backed into. I felt humiliated and disheartened. Even so, I continued to do small things around the house such as sweeping the bathroom floors and wiping down the living room coffee table. I hardly felt any better after each courtesy.\nTrying to keep a level head about it, I made my way through the upstairs hall where our bedrooms are to check on our boys. Each passing room waited emptily as I creeped through. That was until I reached the room at the very end, Stavros’ room. I peaked in, slowly and cautiously after hearing soft words and giggles. Kim was sitting on Stravros’ bed, between our sons, talking about possible birthday plans and movies they might want to go see. A warm light thumped in my chest at the sight of it. I hadn’t seen my family so close since the boys were toddlers. Kim had a smile far outreaching any she'd ever had. I no longer felt anything negative doing those chores. I think the two of us grew a little bit from our heated argument.\nSince then, our arguments have been far less common, which isn’t to say they don’t exist, but I’m happy to say our marriage has inched a little closer to how we always envisioned it. Kim has spent much more alone time with the boys and I now have a daily routine for small chores around the house.\nFunny thing is, the only reason I brought this whole thing up is because I just found that damn remote." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The unknown colours of life\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1198\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "As a child,Priya was told VIBGYOR are the colours of rainbow. As Priya grew she saw so many colours and shades of people.\nYou must be wondering what I am talking about. I am talking about Priya's uncle Ray, he is the eldest brother of the family. He has taken care of his 13 siblings, their studies, marriages and everything. He worked very hard in life. [this is colour 1).\nOne day as a child Priya saw him romancing one of his sisters(this is colour 2). Priya is in my her early 50's but still unable to take this out of her mind.\nMr Ray has a son and a daughter. I remember when he went to USA for an office trip, he bought this huge make-up set for his daughter (this is colour 3). Urvi. When all relatives attended functions or get together, Urvi used to close her room when she used the makeup kit .\nPriya's sister who is of Urvi's age went to USA for higher studies and came for a short trip to India to spend her holidays with her family.\nShe brought a big makeup kit for Priya. Her mom invited all her relatives for a get-together, as Priya's sister came for a holiday. This uncle Ray asked Priya to bring a pen and paper and wrote \"this kit is for all aunts, cousins, and Priya\" and was sticking it on the kit. (this is color 4).\nHe was close to Priya's mother and moved closely with Priya. He once came home after a party with his friend late in the night and as Priya opened the door. Kissed her on her lips, hugged her, and asked if she would go with him to his house. (Colour 5)\nHe has a daughter of Priya's age, Priya is his sister's daughter, he is of Priya's father's age, Priya saw him romancing one of his sisters and he misbehaves with Priya. But still, he is considered as Bheeshmapitamaha of the family as he has taken care of all his siblings (as his father enjoyed his life and property and did not bother much about the family).\nPriya married someone she loves not of the same religion, a year later Priya bought a car. Priya went to meet Uncle Ray at his home with her mom in her new car. Uncle Ray whispered something into her ear as we were leaving. He asked, \"did you buy a car of your skin color'. He was jealous that his daughter who has married before me has not bought a car as yet. [ this is color 6).\nI heard my friend Sruti tell me that once as a child her elder brother was in the room when was taking bath in the bathroom connected to that room and he told her it's ok you can come out naked I am your elder brother. You were born before me bla bla..... she innocently came out listening to his sentimental talk. He stared at her from top to bottom and then the sister slowly felt uncomfortable and ran into the bathroom and asked him to leave the room. (color 7).\nMy friend Shruti has a younger sister, her brother tried this with her too....... years after they both faced this situation. not knowing whom to tell they both kept it to themselves.\nOne fine day Shruti's sister asked her did something like this happen to her, shruti said, yes. Then the younger sister said you must have kicked the asshole.\nBut till today no one discusses this, Shruti and her sister pretend to forget and they both take good care of this brother, and Priya and her mother and all her siblings treat that uncle with respect and love.\nBut deep inside the wounds are still fresh...... SO let us assume the colors as we are told, let us face life as it comes and understand the colors and take care of ourselves, protect ourselves.\nIn someone's life, it is a brother, in someone's life it is an uncle and in someone's life, it might be the father.\n\"I can't believe we are arguing over this \" said Priya to her mother , who thinks her brother is a God. Her mother was trying to argue about uncle Ray and defending his case.\nThis is about Sinthi, Shruti's mother in law. Shruti'smother in law not happy that her son married shruti against her wish pretended to have liked Shruti and spoke sweetly to her. But she instigated her son that she was sure Shruti was seeing some one and her son also must go back to his ex girlfriend who is also married. Stupidity to the core.\nIt was a just another rainy day, \"Shruti went to work\". Her husband was at home with his parents. They started feeding unnecessary things into his mind . He found out the phone number of his ex girl friend and called her . She is another fool who was looking for someone to sleep with. Immediately fell in the trap and they both started seeing each other.\nShruti sensed something wrong tracked messages , calls and observed her husbands behaviour and told him exactly what he was doing. Startled and scared he promised he would not repeat. But lust has its own power. It continued until one day Shruti called her husbands girlfriend and her mother and told them about how it is ruining all the lives and she would not leave her husband for anything in life.\nAll this is created by Shruti's mother in law who had no work to do. This is one color and the other colour is she pretends to be daughter-in-laws friend and well wishes.\nPRiya has a friend Indu , she acts as if she is good and innocent. Indu has two daughters going to higher school. She once told Priya, when I am in the same life as Ratan (their colleague) . He did not touch me or kiss me or do anything of that sort.\nPriya was surprised, we all use the lift n number of times with our colleagues but we never imagine such things. Priya understood Ratan did something like that and Indu was unable to hide and she wanted to share with someone. (this is another color).\nIt is not that men are always wrong, women also have so many shares... as we have seen Indu nad we also saw Shruthi's mother in law. Shruti's husbands ex-girlfriend . All these are women with different colours at different times.\nA mother need not be a good wife, a good wife need not be a good mother in law, a good son might not be a good brother, a good brother need not be a good father, a good father need not be a good uncle. We must understand that if one color has so many shades, So many colours multiply to have so many shades which makes our life complicated and a struggle. The survival of the fittest, one who comes out pure is lucky.\nSo colours are not all that we learn............there is more to VIBGYOR.......the grey shares and the Cyan..........." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Untied Shoelaces\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1073\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Lockdown. Locks, lights, out of sight.” \nThat was the third one. By then, the class had stopped celebrating the interruption to class and was settling into our usual spot by the door. We had these drills every month, but my heart still picked up a bit every time. What if this time, it’s real? But of course it never was. Why would it be? We were a random school in a random town in a random state. I mean, what the fuck ever happens in North Dakota. But still, this was America, the land of the free and the home of lunatics who go on mass shootings sprees. So the drills went on.\nI prepared myself to sit uncomfortably on the floor for the next few minutes, squished in between kids who seemed to not know what deodorant was. Jesus Christ, do these people not even know what a shower is? It was going to be a long few minutes. \nI started staring around the room, as usual. One of the horrendously ugly overhead lights was flickering, just as it had been for months, even though the principal promised our teacher it would be fixed within a week. One of the blinds on the windows across the room had broken, the edge dangling like a limp limb. One of the shoelaces on my shoes had come loose. Whatever, I’ll get it when this is over.\nMikey was the first to break the silence that has hung over the class for the past 30 seconds, suspiciously long for a room crammed with a bunch of high school freshmen. With only 4 little words, the floodgates opened. \n“This is so boring.”\n“Who cares? We don’t have to do work, dude.”\n“Please say this goes on until next period. I don’t want to take that stupid calc test.” \n“Ugh, I was so ready for it though.”\n“Guys, shut up. What if it’s real?”\n“As if.”\n“Fuck off, Levi.”\n“This school makes me want to kill myself anyway, might have someone else do it.”\n“Do you think we’ll get a day off if one of us gets shot?”\n“I nominate Harley. She’s such a bitch.”\nThe hushed voices silenced once again as we heard footsteps in the hallway. Every month, during every drill, the office secretary Ms. Richards had to come around to every room, testing every doorknobs to ensure it was locked properly. She could always be heard before she was seen, her heels click-clacking against the linoleum hallways.\nThe footsteps we heard did not belong to Ms. Richards. They were heavy, commanding, like the march of a sergeant. They belonged to someone larger, stronger, more powerful. A man, probably. Wearing combat boots, probaby. Bullied in high school. probably. That’s what the statistics said anyway.\nThe man continued down the hallway, each step seeming to shake the very foundation of the building. I held my breath as the steps passed by our door, continuing down the hallway. We’re safe. Breathe.\n“Who the f-” Mikey started, before someone slapped a hand over his mouth. Shit.\nThe footsteps stopped, just for a moment. \nUntil.\nCloser and closer. Then, once more, they stopped.\nMy breathing quickened.\nThe doorknob rattled.\nIt did not stop.\nI felt the air grow thick, the absence of breaths suffocating me. I dared not look around, in fear of making any sound.\nSomeone yelpped. “Shut up, Jenna, or he’s gonna fucking hear you,” Harley snapped, her harsh, whisper full of reprimand. But, it didn’t match the tears I saw forming in her eyes. Moments later, her voice quieted as she wrapped her arm around Jenna’s shoulder. “We’re gonna be okay. I promise.”\nNo. We’re not.\nThe rattling of the doorknob stopped as something louder took it place. The sound of a fist-no, something heavier-banging against the door. Pounding, demanding to be let in. Blow after blow after blow.\nThe room jumbled together into one blurry mess. I felt something slide down my face, until it reached the uper corner of my lip, where I licked it away. I could not move my hand to wipe the salty tears from my face. I could not breathe.\nBlow after blow after blow, the world in front of me disappeared. I thought it was fake, a cliche, that whole “life flashing before your eyes right before you die” thing. Can confirm, absolute bullshit. And still, I found myself thinking about this morning. When I walked out the house, slamming the front door, because my mother had soaid something I can’t even remember know that had pissed me off.\nOh my god. Mom.\nI didn’t care how much noise I made. I fumbled for an eternity to get my stupid phone out of my stupid pocket. I mistyped my passwords 3 different rhymes, the numbers blending together through the watery film over my eyes. Get your shit together. I made my way the the favorites section of my phone app, and hit call.\nI didn’t wait for a voice on the other end of the line. I doubted I would be able to hear it over the sound of my heart pounding. “Mom, I-”\n“Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system. The person you are trying to reach-” I hung up the phone. Please. Not now.\nI dialed the number again. “Your call has been forwarded to-” Fuck.\nAgain. “You call has been forward-” PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE.\nAgain. “Your call has b-” No.\nAgain. “Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system. The person you are trying to reach is not available.” Why is this goddam message so long? “At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, you may hang up, or press 1 for more options.” I let it play all the way through this time.\n“Mom?” I could hear it in my voice: the slight cracks, the shake, the fear. “Mom, please call me back. I think something’s happening, I don’t know. I’m really scared, Mom.” The door let our one last croak before giving in. I didn’t dare look up from the floor. Once again, I saw my shoes, scuffed and browned from years of wear. I was going to die with untied shoelaces.“Mom, please pick up. I’m sorry for everything bad I’ve ever said to you. I promise I didn’t mean any of it. I swear. Mom, if anything happens, I love-”" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Curse of the Aposiopesis\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or finish your story with a speaker unable to finish their sentence, perhaps overcome by emotion." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Curse of the Aposiopesis \nI sat staring at a woman in a devil tee shirt and a cotton east Indian hippy skirt mid-sentence. I don’t know where the thought went. My head was empty. She looked at me kindly and let the thought come back to me. It was hard to figure out where I was with my thoughts, that I had been putting into words. Her incongruous attire didn’t seem right for a Christmas party.\nMaybe I was tense from the helping hand I had lent to make the party happen. My good young friend had his kitchen redone and it didn’t look like he would be ready for a party.\nThe house was covered in dust two days earlier. So, the old lady, me, rolled up her sleeves, vacuumed, dusted, and decorated with the help of some lack luster others. After eight hours of good work, I went home.\nMy friend had a hissy fit after I left. Those that were left behind straightened up in both senses. By the next day everything was ready for the party. It was a lovely party.\nThe kind witch lady was a good friend of a good friend of the host. I heard from the host that the kind lady said I had one hand and a foot in fairyland.\nThis surprised me but also made sense. I write fantasy fiction. I do this aposiopesis thing every once in a while.\nAposiopesis what a wonderful word, a sentence that breaks off and is left unfinished. It reminds me of secret admirers. I have never thought that I had any when I was young. Now that I am older some of them have come forward. I do not remember them talking to me. According to them they were too over whelmed to say anything much, hence that half sentence or silents.\nMy boy cousins come from a family of four boys. The eldest, David, was my age. We were around fourteen. The next one in my aunts family was Doug, four years younger. The other two were babies.\nThey had come from another state to vacation at the beach. My mother and I visited them at a hotel bungalow on the water front. This was the last time I heard from them in the next sixty-five years.\nI found them on Ancestry after I had my DNA done. One of the babies also had his done. This lead to a friendly conversation on the phone with David. He hardly remembered the day.\nHis brother Doug, remembered me clearly. I was his idol up there with the movie stars of the day. All this said on email.\nWhat could I say? He was a gangly annoying tag along boy. I felt bad for telling a seventy-year-old man this in such an impersonal way.\nWe had walked to the Pike amusement park about a block away. Done a few rides at David’s suggestion. Doug talked to his brother incessantly. He then suggested we should go under the pier to explore some sort of fenced off wash. Again, his brother shot him down. How can you remember a child who was frozen with Aposiopesis when you are right next to him? In the email he never told me if he married or had kids and what he had done to support himself. Bless his heart, I hope he has done well for himself and is enjoying retirement.\nDuring COVID I posted pictures that were artistic and interesting I had taken over the years. The idea was to uplift the spirits during such a sad and frightening time. I am quite proud of my photos and everyone seemed to enjoy them. One of my eldest sons’ friends, Bill, started to comment on them.\nTowards the end of COVID it turned out he was a secret admirer. He had come over to see if my teenage son wanted company. We had just gotten back from the beach and I still had on my bathing suit. He thought I was the loveliest lady. Of all of my son’s friends he was the only one that was not chatty and did not complete his sentences in front of me. Although he was in the Einstein category like my eldest and the other friends my son hung out with.\nBill’s mother worried about him for he had lost his dad when he was around ten. She said he had been depressed ever since and had a tough time coping. She was glad my son was a friend.\nThrough face book I found out he had moved to Maine, married a lovely lady, and ran a lawn business. He was a big teenager and a heavy man. He passed away in his fifties.\nHigh school is full of unstated thoughts and half said sentences. For example, in English class I sat behind a good-looking young man and never spoke to him. Sitting behind me was a young man that admired me. I only found out when he wrote a note in my year book on the last day of school. When he asked for my year book it surprised me. He actually used a sentence or two. He wrote that he was looking forward to seeing me next year. I looked for him the next year but he was not enrolled.\nThen there was the Will in typing. We were very chatty but he never asked to meet me for lunch or anything. In the first part of the class I did significantly better than him. He beat me out in the second half of the class. I was also a year older. In my year book he said I was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. He drew a picture of Fred Flintstone. Sadly, He was another one that did not go to our school the next year.\nSo, go figure... \nHow many people have you known that dropped part of a sentence because you were so impressive. Or were you pulled into another realm for a moment or two?\nBy Leslie Kirc" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Georgia's Lies\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2151\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story including the line “I can’t say it.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Georgia was in the middle of her homeroom when the text came in... \n\n\"Don't bother coming home, your stuff is on the curb.\"-Dad.\n\nGeorgia already knew this was coming. Her father saw the story she submitted to her high school’s online newspaper and the feedback it got. She had written about an instance between them that didn’t exactly paint him in the best light. \n\n“Lanie’s Father\nBy: Georgia Walters\n\nLanie’s father had been pressuring her to move out and in with her high school boyfriend. Her stepmother’s sister, Ceanna, just gave birth to her soon to be adoptive stepbrother. The state had custody of him, and her father and stepmother were in the process of taking guardianship of Ceanna’s newborn. Ceanna had been struggling with substance abuse and had previously lost custody of her two other children. \n\n The weeks leading up to the DSS visit to get guardianship/custody of Ceanna’s newborn, Lanie’s father had been fixing their two bedroom one and a half bathroom 1950’s semi-remodel rundown trailer. Lanie had been feeling the pressure of asking her boyfriend and his parents if she could move in from both her dad and stepmother. They had been making small comments here and there “This house is too tiny for all five of us” “I’m not sure we’ll be able to get custody of him since we only have a two-bedroom trailer” “What do you think the right thing to do is? Let him go into foster care?” “Do you think his mom would let you move in?” and on and on. \n\n Lanie had been confiding in Thomas’s mom, Terry, about the issues at home. How they had been pushing her to ask about moving in with her so that they could have the room for Ceanna’s newborn and her two infant brother’s. Terry couldn’t believe what Lanie was saying. This was the same man “father” that made her cousin accompany her every time Lanie wanted to see her son. The same man who wouldn’t allow Lanie to go out on dates with her son consistently because it made her look promiscuous. Terry was fed up with her father and him pushing his worries onto his daughter. For his daughter to pay for what he was wanting, so he could be seen as a “saint” for adopting his wife’s sister’s child when he couldn’t even house his own child without pushing her off on someone else to handle. While yes this was a good deed to help a family member in need, that deed should not exempt you from your obligations to your own children. How could this child focus on the things she needed to like completing her junior year of high school with only two months left. Terry thought\n“My dad said that I should ask you to move in so he can change my room into a shared room for the three boys” Lanie explained.\n“So, him not having enough room to take on another child means that you need to move out… sweetie that’s not right. Your father shouldn’t be putting that burden on your shoulders.” Terry stated.\n“I know...I-I just would feel horrible knowing that me staying would mean another child would be put into foster care, but I don’t want to move. Also, this is not your responsibility to be housing me, so I completely understand and I’m sorry that he’s asking this of me and by extension of you” Lanie sheepishly exclaimed. “Anyways the streetlights are almost on and if there on before I get home, I’ll be in trouble. Bye Mrs. Terry thanks for listening!” Lanie yelled over her should as she jogged to her car.”\n“Just Terry sweet girl. And anytime!” Terry closed the screen door and watched as Lanie pulled away. Her thoughts scramble and swirling around her. The anger she had for her father to be putting this kind of stress on his daughter and herself was uncalled for! She marched into Thomas’s room where he was waiting for his game to load.\n“This is crazy her father is expecting me to house his child!” Terry stated “He hasn’t even met me, and you and Lanie have only been dating for a little over a year. This is just too much. He needs to worry about taking care of his own before taking on another child in his small trailer. The man won’t even meet you let alone talk to me and he’s going to put his precious daughter in the hands of people he barely trusted her to be alone with 6 months ago…”\n“I know mom, I love Lanie and I hate that she’s going through this.” Thomas said. He was a man of few words but loved deeply and endlessly.\n\nTerry had sat stewing for the last three hours about the situation when she couldn’t contain her anger. She took to Facebook where she knew he’d see. “Sad that a father would kick his own blood daughter out. #badparenting #You’renotaSaint” She clicked off and felt some of her anger subsiding. Little did Terry know what this post would set in motion for Lanie to endure the following day, week, month…\n\nLanie was woken up by her father barging in her room at 6 in the morning. \n“So, you’ve really been going over there spreading lies!” He shouted. “You really been over there talking crap about me to his mother! Do you know how this makes me look! This women doesn’t know me! You need to fix this!” He slammed the door. Lanie could hear him pacing the living room as she was still trying to comprehend what just happened.\nThe door slamming open again rattling as it reverberated of the wall. “I never said I was kicking you out! You’re just going to let her talk about your father like this– “\n“Dad what are you talking about?” Lanie’s voiced cracked.\n“Your boyfriend’s mom just put all our business on facebook calling me a deadbeat. Basically, saying I’m a piece of trash! What have you been telling them?” \n“I- “\n“It doesn’t matter I’ve got to get to work Lanie… I’m so disappointed in you” The door slammed behind him shaking the old trailer windows. She heard the truck crank and squeal down their road. Lanie gathered herself as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. The world was quiet, and everything was still. She grabbed her phone and called Thomas. She could tell he was still sleeping and woke him. \n“Hey, I’m sorry to wake you but I guess your mom posted something about my dad?”\n“Hey, it’s okay and yeah I told her not to…”\n“Can you ask her to take it down my dad just chewed me a new one, please…I’m sorry.”\n“Yea yea no problem babe, and don’t worry about it. I’ll see you at school. Love you”\n“Love you too.”\nLanie tossed the phone to her pillow numb from what had just transpired over the last thirty minutes. She had no time to process before her dad left. How was this her fault? She didn’t make the post. How was her explaining everything her father told her too her lying and talking badly behind her father’s back? This was too much for it being so early the birds weren’t even chirping yet! She got ready for school knowing that this wasn’t the end of her hearing about her “stabbing her dad in the back”.\n For the next week Lanie was woken up being told what a disappointment she was. The following two weeks were tense quietness, her father was ignoring her. She tried talking to him the first couple of days that he shut her out, but Lanie gave up knowing he wouldn’t break until he was ready. She didn’t know what she could do. On one hand she felt like she didn’t do anything wrong, she hadn’t lied about anything, but on the other hand she felt horrible that her dad was hurt. On the fourth week Terry and Lanie made the agreement that Lanie would try to smooth everything over with her father and if she couldn’t she was welcomed to use Terry’s spare bedroom. Lanie knew her father wasn’t budging from being angry, so she packed her room with trash bags. Once she was finished, she went out to the front yard where he had been working on the porch.\n“Can we talk?”\n“Lanie there’s not much to talk about.”\n“What do you mean? I didn’t post it.”\n“It’s not about the post Lanie, I’m not talking about this I’m busy.”\n“You haven’t talked to me in weeks and you’re not even willing to try to work whatever this is out?”\n“No Lanie there’s nothing to talk about I know who you are now that’s all there is too it.”\n“If you really can’t talk to me about this then I can’t continue staying here living like this.”\nShe could see the words smacking him as she turned to grab her things. Those were the exact words Lanie’s mom said the night of the car accident. He didn’t try to stop he as she loaded her car in fact, he didn’t even bother giving it any attention. He just continued to fix the porch while she finished. \n\n Lanie’s mind was racing, and tears stung as the fell down her face. How could he be so cold? She called Terry to tell her the news. Terry’s husband Karl met her at the door and helped her bring her things in and left her to it. Lanie could finally breath, she was hurt, but was now in a place where she didn’t feel unwanted…unloved.\n\n Summer came and went. Lanie still hadn’t spoken to her father. School started back and Lanie was doing good in school. She heard that the adoption had went through and that they had filled her room with her brother’s things. It was like she was never there.\nChristmas was a week away when she received the call. Lanie rushed to the hospital and ran to the receptionist desk.\n“I’m look for Marlin James.”\n“Room 107 down the hall on the right”\nLanie wasn’t sure what kind of condition he was in, but she knew the car accident had been bad. She made her way down the hall trying to figure out the words to say. She stared at the door “Would he even talk to me?” “Would he be able to talk?” “Is he still mad?” She knew her father was a proud man and would never apologize for what he'd done. He was more of a sweeper. Sweep it under the rug and move on was like his life motto. The door creaked open; she could hear multiple monitors beeping as she stepped in. She rounded the curtain, and her father came into sight. He was okay, banged up, but okay. He had multiple casts on his body and stitches on his face.\nTheir eyes met as she stepped closer.\n“Hey dad” offering a sheepish wave. “You look rough” Trying to break the awkward tension with bad humor was always nervous habit of hers.\n“Lanie…thanks for coming. I’m all good kiddo, better now that you’re here...Listen kid can we just forget the last six months and move past all this craziness?”\nLanie was shocked he was being so nice... but to forget the last 6 months of being ignored and excommunicated. Being yelled at for a week about something she didn’t do. “Da- “\n“Kid I know there’s a lot that happened and things that were said that shouldn’t have been, but I really need my best friend back, I…I-I can’t say what you want me to but I’m asking to mend our relationship…please. I just -I can’t say it.”\n“We’re good dad, let’s just worry about fixing these old bones...”\nLanie knew this wasn't the apology she needed but it was the one she got. She had to accept it. Lanie needed the one parent she had left in her life. He wasn’t perfect that was for sure, but he was all she had…\n-submitted 8/12/2016.“\nGeorgia knew he was mad that the comments were siding with Lanie and saying her father was gaslighting her and emotionally abusing her, and so on. Georgia had changed a few things in the story like the names and the accident, but everything else was true to the fight they had the year prior. She had moved back in after they “made up”. She only had a couple months left of senior year and she had saved up enough for a deposit for a place just in case, as to not burden anyone again. Georgia knew he would be a little upset, but figured he probably wouldn’t even read the newsletter. She had been wrong. “Well…let's see how long I’m ignored this time.” She thought to herself as the final bell rang." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Tim Finnegan's Wake\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1428\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a miracle happens — or everyone thinks it did." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Ah, hello there an’ welcome, ‘tis yerself? \nAre ye well settled there?\nI sincerely hope this story finds ye well. And if yer not well, then I hope it finds ye nonetheless. \nIt’s all about a poor man Timothy Finnegan, or Tim as we all knew him. \nNow Tim was born a gentleman, never a nicer man could ye meet. A gentleman surely, but as poor a blighter as ever ye seen. \nHis father was a cooper. They don’t have many coopers these days, which is a shame. For those who don’t know, a cooper is a man who makes wooden barrels. They don’t have many wooden barrels these days either, which is a shame. His mother was a saint. Livin’ and true, she was a saint, God be good to her. They lived over by Walkin Street, ye know it? Just off the old Callan Road? No? Never matter. \nAnyways as poor Tim grew, sure, didn’t he grow into a problem. Ye see, Tim was fond of a drink. He’d have a tipple for breakfast, a gargle for lunch, and a feed of pints for supper. It was both the making of him and the ruin of him.\nAn’ of all the drink that the Good Lord gave us it was whiskey that Tim had a taste for. \nNow, that’s whiskey with an ‘e’. \nIrish whiskey. \nNot that bleedin’ scotch whisky, the divil knows why they spell it like that. Feckin’ eejits. \nWell Tim had a love for the whiskey, or uisce bheatha as he would have called it being a native Irish speaker. That’s uisce bheatha. Pronounced ish-ka va-ha. Say it quickly and ye’ll be up to speed. \nYe see uisce means water. And bheatha means life. So whiskey is literally the water of life!\nSo there’s a few words of Irish for ye, or as we say here cupla focal as gaeilge. \nAnyways, I’m getting lost in me-self here, where was I? Ah yes. \nTim loved drinkin’. \nIt was the drink that got him sacked from his first job as a hod-carrier. For those that don’t know a hod-carrier is a man that carries hods. \nAn’ ye may rightly wonder how a man could be sacked for carrying hods but ye see our Tim would work manys a day half cut; the boss men don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing. T’find Tim all ye had t’do was followed the trail of bricks he’d dropped along the way. An’ more often than not the trail led to the pub. \nTim never had a trade t’call his own but he could turn his hand at almost anything. An’ so he spent his life working as an odd job man, picking up work here an’ there, never staying on the books too long and spending every last penny on another drop a drink, God love him. \nOne day ye might see him slapping paint onto the side of a house and the next he could be putting bricks together to build a garden wall next door. He’d be down digging in a hole in the mornings, and scurrying up a ladder by tea. \nAlways with a smile, always with a drink.\nWell, it was on a fine Thursday, I remember it like it was yesterday, that he put his hand upon the ladder that was t’be his downfall. Ha, and down fall he went. And sure the Divil himself must have pushed him, for he landed on his head, square on his head. B’God, the crack of it could be heard three streets over!\nWe all knew what that meant. \nPoor Tim wouldn’t b’found with a paintbrush in his hand, he wouldn’t b’found with brick and mortar, he wouldn’t b’found up a ladder. There was only one place he’d b’found now, and that was in a six foot hole. \nWell the doctor was called. He arrived out in this fancy motorcar, took one look at the poor man and pronounced him dead. A wile fancy car for such a simple job, for every dog in the street knew that poor Tim was dead. \nAh well, the boys threw him onto the back of a cart and the horse pulled him home. Thanks be to Our Lord above he had no family t’speak of. His mammy and daddy had long gone to their eternal rest by then. \nHe was cleaned up and wrapped in a sheet and laid out in the house, as was the tradition at the time. An’ t’be fair, it still is today, though ye don’t see it as much these days, which is a shame. \nOnce the word had spread about Tim the crowds flocked. As I was telling ye, Tim was a gentleman. And people being good people wanted t’pay their respects. \nYe see, the typical tradition in Ireland is t’have the body laid out in the home house for three days so that people can pay their respects, tell stories, have a few laughs, maybe a few drinks, and t’say their final goodbyes. People flock to the house day and night at all hours, it’s just the way we do things.\nSure me-self called out on the third night for t’do me bit.\nNow I did mention there was drink. \nAs poor Tim lay dead the bed there was a bucket of whiskey by his feet and a barrel of porter by his head, for any man or woman who wanted t’whet their sorrows.\nAs I was saying, I was there me-self on the third night for if I hadn’t been I wouldn’t be telling you this story because I damn well wouldn’t have believed it.\nAnyways, the hour was late, maybe 11 or so, and there were a few of us gathered around the bedside blethering and talking as you do. Biddy O’Brien began sobbing and said to no one in particular, “sure you’d never have seen a finer looking corpse.“ \nWell Maggie O’Connor who was a widow herself didn’t agree with this at all, for she thought that her husband had been a finer looking corpse. \nNow, Maggie wouldn’t be the brightest tool to b’fair. The brightest tool? That doesn’t sound right. Hardly matters. She’s not a bright tool. Then again, neither is Biddy. In fact between the two of them there’s a few coins short of a shilling. \nWell they were nattering away between themselves when all of a sudden Maggie O’Connor took a swing at Biddy and caught her full square on the jaw! \nBiddy, not t’be out done, swung back and knocked Maggie flat on her back. \nAnd poor Tim laying dead in the bed! Would ye believe it!?\nWell the husbands tried t’intervene, and somehow in the midst of it they ended up brawling themselves. And before we knew it the whole room was at it! \nThere were punches flying, women crying and in the middle of it all poor Tim beyond dying. \nThe row escalated as all rows do; there were cups of tae smashed, walking sticks were unsheathed an’ clashed like sabres, the tae-pot was battered around some poor fellas head, it was all out civil war! \nIn the run of things some ignorant sod took the bucket of whiskey and fired it at poor Mickey Maloney who, thanks be t’God, chanced t’see it coming at the last moment an’ ducked. \nThe bucket carried on its way and smashed into the wall over the bed sending a shower of whiskey over poor Tim.\nThat hushed the room. \nAnd b’God didn’t we see his tongue tickle the drops on his dried lips. Not once, not twice but three times. \nLet me tell ye, nothing stops war quite like a man rising from the dead.\nHis eyes staggered open, much in the way that poor Tim would have staggered down the street, an’ before us all sure didn’t he sit up in the bed with his bleary eyes looking ‘round us all.\n“Thundering Jaysus d’ye think I’m dead?” says he. \n“Ye are,” says us. \n“I don’t feel dead,” says he and he threw his legs round the side of the bed and asked for a bite to eat. Like yer little girl said to Our Good Lord!\nAn’ out of the bed he rose, gave a quare stretch and tottered out of the room. \nWe all followed him, sure what else would ye do but follow a dead man risen. And where did he head to but straight to the pub an’ ordered another glass of whiskey, that uisce bheatha, the water of life." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Nothing But Blue Skies\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1703\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone whose job is to make miracles happen, literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Your husband tells me you can’t sleep.\n\nI explained to him--Is his name Frank? I explained to Frank that it’s not that you’re not sleeping. It’s that you’re not sleeping well. You’re getting some sleep here and there whether you know it or not. The trouble is that it’s of no quality. Sleep is like food--there’s the good kind and the bad kind. You’re getting potato chip sleep. You need carrot stick sleep. Did you ever show your children the food pyramid when they were younger? Not that it’s any of my business what you did or didn’t show your children. I never had children. I told myself if I was going to have children I would want nine girls. If I couldn’t guarantee myself that I’d have nine girls, I wouldn’t bother at all. So I never bothered. I got a lot of sleep though.\n\nThat’s just a little joke.\n\nMy mother used to beg me not to joke. She’d say “Crystal, you are my golden child. My gem. My Faberge egg. But you are not funny and never will be.”\n\nShe had a talent for honesty.\n\nNow your husband, Frank--Is his name Frank?--He’s at a hotel tonight. It’ll just be you and me. I brought some yarn, because I’m working on--I work on all kinds of little projects. I hope you don’t mind. I’m making some blue. Isn’t blue a lovely color? Everything I do, I opt for blue. Blue sweaters, blue blankets. I never had enough blue growing up. I didn’t see colors until I was fourteen. It broke my heart. I’d look at a fresh strawberry and it was no different than looking at a newspaper in terms of the aesthetic. On my fourteenth birthday, I was helping my father fix something on our roof. I had to help him, because both my brothers were scared of heights. I wasn’t scared of anything. While I was up there, I felt a dizzy spell come over me. The next thing I know, I’m down on the ground. My mother saw me come down right in front of the kitchen window. She screamed bloody murder. The scream was what woke me up. I opened my eyes, and what did I see?\n\nBlue.\n\nThese beautiful blue skies.\n\nFrom that moment on, I could see any color I wanted. My mother and father said it was a miracle. What a tiny miracle, I thought. Some girl who saw the world as dull and gray could suddenly see maroon and aqua. I thought miracles were supposed to be all about healing those who couldn’t walk or saving the souls of the damned. I felt selfish. An entire miracle wasted on me being able to appreciate a blue sky. My mother told me not to question it. Who knows what would happen now that I’d been made better? Maybe that meant I was supposed to do something with all these colors I was seeing. Become a painter or a writer of some kind. I never did either, but I did pay attention to the little ways people can be assisted when they’re struggling. When I turned eighteen, I started posting little notices all around my town.\n\nPotential Miracles - Free of Charge\n\nPotential meaning--I don’t know if I can actually do miracles. It seems to me that if someone’s had a miracle bestowed upon them, it might have rubbed off a bit.\n\nI found out pretty quickly that I have no skill at healing the injured. I can’t make ignorant people worldly or hateful people kind. I laid hands on my cousin Sherman, who could never remember anybody’s birthday, and his bad memory stayed bad.\n\nWhen I had no luck with people, I tried animal and mineral. The family dog was missing an eye, and no matter how hard I prayed over him, the eye never grew back. Dead plants remained dead. I tried to turn a head of lettuce into a cabbage--a simple enough miracle, I would think. Nothing doing.\n\n“It’s all right, Crystal,” my father comforted me as I held the leafy green, “I never did like cabbage too much anyhow.”\n\nIt wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I discovered I could do miracles after all. My roommate, Rhonda--I think her name was Rhonda?--She had trouble getting that carrot stick sleep. She’d toss and turn all night. Finally, one night, I said to her, “Rhonda, I’d like to try and perform a miracle on you, if you’re up for that.”\n\nRhonda looked at me like I was a talking pentagram, and I guess I don’t blame her. She came from a family of atheists and Communists, and people were always trying to show her Jesus in their cornflakes in the mess hall at breakfast. I let her know I wasn’t trying for a conversion. Just wanted to contribute to the positive energy of the Universe.\n\nThe poor thing was so exhausted, I think she would have let Ivan the Terrible sing a lullaby to her if it would have helped. Ivan was probably a better singer than me, so I didn’t try anything like that. I just sat across from Rhonda--I think her name was Rhonda. Rhonda or Rhoda like from The Mary Tyler Moore Show--I sat across from her and I told her I’d be right there, sitting awake, if she felt like sleeping.\n\nNow, she must have thought that was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard, because what good does somebody sitting across from you do when you’re trying to sleep? If anything, it should make you self-conscious, shouldn’t it? Somebody staring at you? Eyeballing you while you’re trying to give your beleaguered body some respite? But something in my soul told me that was what Rhonda needed, and you know what?\n\nShe passed out in two minutes flat.\n\nWell, once word got out that I could put people to sleep, I was loaded with requests. It turns out college students live and breathe off potato chip sleep, and if I could help get them to the higher plane of REM, they’d have more energy for studying--or partying. That’s how I ended up sitting across from someone every night until they went to sleep. Two minutes was all it took--sometimes less. Nearly all of them offered to pay me, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I was so excited to finally have a gift, there was no way I was going to risk losing it by using my ability for selfish reasons.\n\nNot to mention the fact that as soon as I found my first gift, my second one came along right behind it. You see, once I started helping other people sleep, I noticed I didn’t need any sleep of my own.\n\nOh sure, I’d try.\n\nAs soon as my nightly charge was awash in slumber, I’d retire to my own bed--but nothing would happen. I’d just lay there. The wild part was that it didn’t affect me whatsoever. Every morning I’d get out of bed feeling as revived and refreshed as if I’d slept like Van Winkle under his tree. I told my doctor about it, and he explained to me in a very slow-moving voice, that I had to be getting sleep. That there was no way I could exist without it. He said I’d die if that was the case. \n\nThat was nearly forty years ago.\n\nI haven’t died. I haven’t slept. And I can still get anybody to sleep in two minutes or less--free of charge.\n\nOnce somebody asked me if I miss sleeping. I couldn’t lie and say I didn’t. I used to have wonderful dreams every night about flying over the great mountain ranges of the world. Soaring through the blue skies--especially once I knew what blue was. Then again, you have to sacrifice if you want to do good in this world. I lose some sleep, and somebody else gains the sleep I lost. Seems like a fair trade to me. And all that extra time comes in handy. For one thing, I always get my taxes done early.\n\nMost of the time I’m there when somebody wakes up. To see the realization on their faces that they’ve been asleep when they thought they were going to be eating potato chips forever? It moves me every time. The doctor who saves your life may be like a god to some people, but the woman who tells you she’ll be there if you feel like letting yourself go for a few hours so nobody comes along to harm you might just be an angel.\n\nOh yeah, that’s how I think of it. Maybe the reason people can’t sleep is because we have it conditioned in our bones to never be vulnerable. Never weak. Never at risk of having somebody or something hurt us. So as much as we tell ourselves to give in to rest, another more primal part of us fights back. It might go back to the Stone Age days, I bet. Chances are, nobody got any real sleep until we started sleeping in packs. In communities. One person always stayed up with the fire to make sure nothing bad happened. Even then, I bet some people had a hard time. Why wouldn’t they? Good sleep is a matter of trust. It’s hard to trust these days.\n\nSome people think of me as a kind of Sleeping Angel, but I don’t see it that way at all. I just think something about me is easy to trust, and this is one of the benefits. You see me sit down across from you, and that part of your brain that’s been keeping you up says--\n\nWe’ll be okay with this one here. As long as she doesn’t try to tell us any jokes.\n\nThe next thing you know, you’re flying through those blue skies just like I used to do.\n\nI’ll admit it’s not much of a miracle, but--\n\nOh, would you look at that.\n\nAnd I didn’t even have time to sit down.\n\nWell, some are easier than others, I suppose.\n\nBetter go call--\n\nFrank?\n\nIs it Frank?\n\nYou know what?\n\nNever mind.\n\nI’ll ask you when you wake up." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Dear Vera\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1721\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a love story without using the word “love.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "To: veraisverycool@gmail.com\nFrom: mabelsyrup@gmail.com\nTopic: I miss you.\nDear Vera, \nI don’t even know if you still use this email anymore, but I wanted to try. After having a depressing fit of depression and nostalgia, I want to see you again. But I know I can’t. So, I’m emailing you. \n Here goes nothing.\nI remember when we were young. We first met at our sixth-grade camp, when we were stuck in the same cabin. We were both really awkward, but after our cabin counselor forced us to talk, we got along great, You and I were basically the same person. We both were into basketball. We both wanted to grow up and be famous. We both agreed that fantasy was obviously the superior genre of books.\nNow that I look back on it, we were inseparable. You were always there, even through the lows. I think that’s why I was so bummed when you moved. Well, okay, there were obviously more reasons, but I couldn’t tell my parents that. \nWe’ll come back to the moving thing later. This is going to be out of the blue, but right now, I want to talk about the time at our ninth-grade dance. Just to be happy before the sadness comes around and kicks me in the throat. You know what dance I’m talking about.\n It was our first kiss. Jesus, we were so awkward. We had been talking about something really cringe outside in the school’s courtyard. I don’t remember if it was our undying disposition for Percy Jackson or our immeasurable dislike for ninth-grade boys, but we somehow got on the topic of LGBTQ+ people. Of course, both of us being weird and nerdy ninth graders were completely fine with the topic. I mean, we were kids who were into DND and read Heartstopper! How could we not be fine with it?!\nBut alas, that’s when I decided to come out to you as bi. You, being the wonderful being you are, came out as pan right after. \nThen, being the cringe nerd I am, decided to recreate the scene from The Owl House, when Luz tries to ask Amity to be her girlfriend. Of course, I completely failed and said something like, “You, me-” Some awkward finger guns and then, “Together?”\nBut you understood. You blushed as red as a tomato before pulling me into a tight hug, nearly killing me. Okay, I may be exaggerating, but I swear I was turning purple. \nAfter releasing me from your tight death grip, you pulled me in for a quick kiss. I don’t think you were thinking, but you still kissed me. You realized what you were doing and let go of me, and I was babbling like an idiot.\nI never forgot that kiss. It was soft and light, but full of meaning. You were wearing your star dress, the one with the blue and white and black sleeves. You tasted like mangoes and smelled of strawberry milk. A horrible combo all at once, but I didn’t mind. I still have the chapstick you gave me, along with everything else. \nAnyway, you muttered something about how you’d been wanting to kiss me for a while and then apologized for kissing me. But I didn’t care. I hugged you, and we hung out for the rest of the dance, smiling like nothing happened. Obviously, something did, but we were already best friends. We just got closer friends (Or rather, girlfriends) after that. You made everything better. At least, in ninth grade you did. Then tenth grade happened.\nThe tenth grade sucked. And I don’t mean that lightly. Remember that horrible jerkwad, Tyler? Remember how he made fun of us? Called us weirdos? I mean, yeah, we’d both heard worse, but it hurt so much. I remember almost walking up to him and slapping him, but you stopped me. You, with your amazingly calming voice and your soft smile that you would give me when you were trying to tell me to stop doing something reckless.\nTo add to the horrible mood I’ve put myself in, remember when we were going to tell our families that we were a couple at the Christmas gathering? It backfired. Somehow, I have no idea how, but our parents got on the topic, and I quote, “Them Queers.”\nThey acted like LGBTQ+ people were sent from hell. Them being the “wonderful” Christians they were talked bad about them. About us. I remember my chest getting heavy and my stomach dropping. I squeezed your hand tightly, and you squeezed mine. We made up some excuse about wanting to watch TV in my room and walked down the hall. I remember collapsing in your arms, my shoulders sagging, and my breath shaking. But you comforted me. You stroked my hair and kissed my forehead, holding me tight. You held me in your arms and wiped my tears from my face, whispering sweet nothings to calm me down.\nWe stayed like that for a while. I miss that. Not the crying, but being by your side.\nYou know, I’m starting to notice a repeating theme. Me being an upset mess, and you comforting me. I don’t think I noticed before. You were always there.\nI miss you so much. Every day. I remember your touch. How it always sent shivers down my spine. I remember your kisses. How they were always soft and sweet, leaving lingering warmth on my lips. I remember you. You, with your silky blonde hair that looked like waves hitting the sand. You, with your shiny grey eyes that you always squinted at me with when you were confused. You with your soft, pale, freckled skin and scabbed hands. I remember you.\nI know this has already been a long email, but I’m on a roll now, and I can’t stop. You know how I said we’d come back to the moving thing? Well, we’re coming back to it.\nIt was a Monday. Don’t ask me how I remember. But it was a Monday.\nYou had been avoiding me for a week at least, and I was getting really confused. You’d never ignored me before, and I was starting to think something was up. I was getting really worried.\nThen, finally, you came to me during lunch, tears in your eyes, and said, “We need to talk.”\nYou pulled me up from my seat and dragged me to our secret hideaway under the school’s stairs. Well, it wasn’t too secret, and we both knew it, but it was special.\nYou sat me down next to you, and you fiddled your fingers. I’d never seen you look so anxious before. \nYou took a deep breath and said, “I have something to tell you.”\nI tried to make a joke out of it. I tried to not let my mind wander to the deepest parts of “assuming the worst thing ever” and said, “What? Are you coming out to me again?\nYou chuckled, and I knew it wasn’t that. “No.” You said. “It’s something else.”\nI brushed your hair out of your eyes and smiled. “You can tell me.”\n“I…” You glanced away, frowning, your eyes glazing over. “I’m moving.”\nAt that moment, I felt my heart drop. It was like those really dramatic animated movie scenes when the camera zooms in on someone’s face and the music does a dramatic stop when someone finds out something surprising.\n“Well, that’s alright. Right? We can do long-term!” I stuttered, trying to make the most of it. You were my best friend, and I didn’t want to lose you.\nYou shook your head, tears falling. “No. I can't do that to you. We’re 15. We both have lives ahead of us. I don’t want to hold you back.”\nI couldn’t accept it. I didn’t want you to leave. You were my best friend. You had been my first kiss. My first girlfriend. We were the same. I didn’t want you to leave.\nTears started falling, but I pushed through. I asked you when you were moving. You said Wednesday. A frog leaped into my throat, and a sob started to build up. I shook my head, muttering, “Why” over and over. And you told me why.\nVoice cracking, tears spilling, you said, “My parents found out.”\nMy soul left my body. Then rage followed. “And they’re making you leave because of that?” \n“Shush.” You said. “There’s more. They want us to cut contact.”\n“No,” I muttered. “No. They can’t make us do that!”\nYou snapped. “Well, they are! We just need to make the most of it while we can, okay?!”\nMore tears fell, and I leaned against you, hugging you tightly. You hugged me back. We stayed like that together. Even when the lunch bell rang, I hugged you tightly, not wanting to let you go. I didn’t want to leave you. I couldn’t leave you. \nA few hours later, the final bell rang. We both looked at each other. Before getting up, I laid my lips on yours softly. They tasted of mangoes. You smelled of strawberry milk. I didn’t want to let you go. My lips lingered on yours for a while. I think I knew it would be our last kiss.\nWe both got up. Hand-in-hand, we walked out of the school.\nThe next day, you weren’t at school. I tried calling you, but you blocked me. I tried emailing you from our school emails, but you were already unenrolled in the district. You cut contact with me, but I never forgot about you.\nI realize how creepy this all may sound, but I wanted to try contacting you one last time. At first, I thought, “She probably forgot about me! Why even try contacting her at all?” But here I am, writing this email. \nYou got me through middle school. Through my first few years of high school. And I miss you. \nOkay, so, since I don’t know how to wrap this up, I’m just going to say thank you. And that, if you ever feel like talking again and your parents aren’t still completely jerkwads, respond to this email. \nBut, if you completely hate me and you think I’m a weirdo, or if you don’t even remember me, that’s okay. \nThank you for everything,\nMabel" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Sea is Restless\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1509\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who keeps ending up in the same place." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(Summary – A young woman, consumed by thoughts of anxiety about health and death, returns again and again to an ice cream shop on the coast. There, she endeavors to meet with the one she has been in a relationship with online for several years.)\n\nOn the shore there is an ice cream shop. Pale and pink, it advertises itself like a warm, tired face.\n\nThere are two skies now—one clear as day, the other troubled as dusk.\n\nI walk forward through the sand and sunshine and enter, watching through the window the mountainous crimson and navy clouds, which I can see are also at points white.\n\nWhat does it feel like to not scream when you need to?\n\nYou feel it in your sinuses.\n\nLike holding your breath to listen for someone, but then it—a vacuole—expands and you want to cough. Or vomit.\n\nBut that is the answer for what’s going on internally, in the morass that is a mind that wants to erupt.\n\nAlternatively, externally, it can feel like someone clasping their fingers over your ears—flat and cool and muffling—and staring at you right in the face. Maybe this staring face has features; if that face cares about you, those features might be arranged in that contracted, focused way of a person contemplating another’s inscrutable pain.\n\nAnd I must admit that I am a person who believes pain is inscrutable. Even to the endurer, it is incomprehensible—an illegible script half-perused and half-avoided fearfully. What does it say? Tell me—wait. Don’t!\n\nInside, there are people waiting. I am at once blasted with air that makes the left side of my body go numb.\n\nContemplating which flavor to choose is more difficult than I anticipate. The customers obscure the same glass counter that exists in all ice cream shops. Bodies shift gently from side to side in groups, leaning apart and together and around each other like a human kelp forest. I join them, swaying.\n\nCookies and Cream, I annunciate when it is my turn.\n\nCookies N’ Cream! An employee shouts, raising her head from where she is stooped to retrieve a new, massive tub of ice cream.\n\nWe look at each other and I watch as a lock of her black hair falls across her cheek. More hair settles easily onto one shoulder, straight and long. In the corner of my eye, I see her straight eyebrows. I see her eyes. They are brown, like a cormorant. \n\nShe frowns, then smiles.\n\nI eat my ice cream on the patio, with the sky above my head and lizards below my feet. They fling themselves amongst the invasive dune-grasses and drag their bellies on the wooden boards of the deck, full of purpose. My body, which was half numb, now shivers in the heat. Muscles twitch like I’ve been flicked. Once on a calf, twice inside the meat of a shoulder. I picture the blood pumping there, surging heavily through the ligaments and tendons and up across the nape of my neck, down into my shoulder blades.\n\nWhen I was younger, I used to imagine I had invisible wings. I felt convinced I could feel them spreading from my back, pulling at my muscles, and reaching across the expanse of the hallways when I was at school. For this reason, for years I walked in the center of the hall any time I was alone, lest they be crushed against the walls and cause me more pain than their weight already did.\n\nI return to the ice cream shop the next day around noon, bringing with me my nephew. Half my age, yet he has somehow grown to nearly twice my height. When he speaks, voice a kind, low rumble, I startle at the person he is becoming. I wonder at how it is possible for a body to grow so much and so quickly, correctly. I consider that mine might not have succeeded.\n\nHe grins at me when I order Cookies N’ Cream and orders the same.\n\nThe employee from the day before is not there. It is a Monday in July. I wonder if perhaps she has school.\n\nOn Friday, I ask her. My body is, for once, quiet as I move it up from the beach and across the shaded threshold of the shop.\n\nShe is tilted slightly forward at the waist, her hands clasped behind her back as she speaks with a customer across the counter. Her uniform is a clean pink apron tied around a red t-shirt.\n\nNice guess! She exclaims, her eyes too intense, after I ask. Then, when I don’t say anything more, she seems to choke a little. Her hand grasping the counter, white at the bends of her knuckles, she insists: So. What can I get you today?\n\nI expect her to follow me outside onto the patio, so I stand against the patio railing instead of sitting. My phone, which I have been holding in my hand, I place next to me. I stare at it while I take licks from my cone of Cookies N’ Cream. I swirl streaks of oil from my hands across the screen with three fingers, idly. There is a calm whispering, the susurration of the ocean in the distance.\n\nSoon, she is there and places her phone next to mine. I catch sight of a faint freckle on her index finger before retracting my own hand to the edge of railing.\n\nAnd then there are two phones there in the afternoon light, bumping against one another, burning up. Their screens are black, reflective; within them are our faces.\n\nThe breeze is hot and the sea is restless, she says at last, her gaze turned from mine. I nod before realizing that she is reciting.\n\nThe gull keeps calling—\n\nShe stops when she sees that I am angry. She sighs, though I can see the corner of her lips lifting. Boldly, when I make no move to counter, she continues, shifting on her feet.\n\nHow can I not feel pleased\n\nMeeting the one that I love?\n\nThere is red rimming her eyes, but before tears fall, she takes a great lick of her ice cream—green tea and strawberry, the colors of the flavors wrapped nicely one around the other. Naturally concomitant. The two of us are of a height, and I stare at the gentle slope of her nose. The dark, wide band of her tongue.\n\nI turn to look again at our phones.\n\nI am not dying, I reassure the screens, insanely. I know this, I don’t say, I just don’t think it.\n\nAfter a moment, she laughs. It is full of kindness, full of mischief and the knowledge of knowing another.\n\nHow lucky—\nwhen the rest of us are!\n\nAnd then I am pulled in and crushed against her chest.\n\n~\n\nWhen we meet again, I try green tea ice cream. She chooses strawberry.\n\nAfter her shift ends, we walk down the beach so far that we begin to veer into an inlet. There, we trip over mangroves for a few minutes before I am instructed to wait where I am. Uncertain, I watch her disappear into the gloom of the forest. The sun shines golden across the still water, casts arcing shadows that penetrate to the bottom of the mottled shallows. Crabs scuttle over the field of aerial roots in her wake.\n\nIf you betray me to anyone, I will, unfortunately, have to kill you, she threatens when she returns. A bright red kayak has been produced from a hiding spot within the forest.\n\nOkay, I say. She smiles down at the mire of the sandy, muddy earth, dragging the vessel along. Her white teeth flash.\n\nOnce settled inside the kayak, we paddle. As we navigate through the labyrinthine tunnels of trees, the open water disappears somewhere behind us. The quiet is such that I hear mangrove leaves fall and the crabs conduct their meaningful, click-filled evening routines. When we emerge to float in a shaded cove, I lean forward to press my lips to her nape experimentally.\n\nHow is today, she whispers under my mouth. Her neck is hot and sweat beads where skin meets short, ink black strands of hair.\n\nToday is good, I say, breathing slowly. Time passes. I push my tongue forward, move to the skin beneath the soft curve of an ear. For you?\n\nShe scoffs.\n\nEventually, she pivots bodily, grabbing my face in her hands and pressing our lips together. We both beam. Leaning back for a moment, only a moment, she lets humor dance in her eyes. Behind her, a bird dives below the surface of the dark water.\n\nA Dew has sufficed itself, she says joyously,\n\nAnd satisfied a Leaf!\n\n\n\nNotes –\n- “The breeze is hot” adapted from a sad little ditty from the character Wen Kexing, in episode 14 of the Netflix danmei drama Word of Honor. Lol.\n- “A Dew has sufficed itself” is a poem by Emily Dickinson about—you guessed it—death. But like: ahh, death!! Not like: ew…death…. You know?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: The Last First Kiss\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1073\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a first or last kiss." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On the outstretched canvas of Chesterfield, a quaint English village, time itself took humble breaths, pacing gently with the cycle of the seasons. It was a town cradled by the loving arms of tradition, where each spring gave rise to more than just a tapestry of wildflowers. It sowed the seeds of stories that would, in time, weave themselves into the hearts of its people.\nThis story, among the tapestries, began on a morning marked by the soft blush of a thawing countryside, which whispered to all who cared to listen that the Chesterfield Annual Spring Fest was close at hand. And within this whisper, cradled an earnest youth named Benny Baxter—a boy standing on the trembling edge of adulthood with dreams spilling from the pockets of his patched-up jeans.\nBenny, with a mind ever-wandering beyond the confines of Chesterfield High’s walls, had decided that today he would transform fantasy into reality with an act so daring it would surely seal his fate. His heart, unbeknownst to all but his shadow, had been ensnared by Mabel Pines—she of the fiery hair, keen wit, and a smile that hinted at secrets tucked in the corners of her laughter.\n‘Operation Smoocharoo’ was the code name Benny had ascribed to this endeavor, scrawled within his journal amidst equations and half-finished doodles. A plan that, by the day’s end, would either crown him the gallant hero of his own story or cast him into a comedy of his own making.\nHis target was the charming expanse of village green where the Spring Fest came alive in an explosion of colors, sounds, and an atmosphere so rich it could turn skeptics into poets. There, among the jugglers, the purveyors of sweet treats, and the calliope-echoes of endless carousel rounds, lay the setting for Mabel Pines’ first encounter with Benny’s undisclosed affection.\nAt the heart of this festival lay the legendary Great Oak, a behemoth of nature’s patient artistry. It was there, at precisely 5:34 PM, that Benny intended to unfurl his feelings beneath its sprawling branches—a monumental task paralleled only by the deep breaths required to steady his nerves.\nThe hours unfolded like pages in a storybook, with each passing moment etched with activities and stalls that gleamed like jewels under the warming sun. There were pies topped with intricate lattices, beeswax candles rolled by ancient hands, and games that challenged the aim or tested the cleverness of Chesterfield’s youth.\nAll the while, Benny loitered amidst it all, biding his time and rehearsing his heart’s confession in quiet conversations with the carnation he held—a gift chosen for its simplicity and honesty.\nAs afternoon yawned into early evening, and the fickle English sun began to dip behind scattered clouds, a distant clock began its preamble to the targeted hour. With every toll, Benny’s heart skipped an erratic beat, and his gaze swept across the fest in search of the auburn allure of Mabel Pines.\nMabel, in stark objection to the object of Benny’s fervent attention, felt no binds to any one spot. The festival was her kingdom, with each corner offering new delight to her curious spirit. She indulged in frosted almonds, conversed animatedly with the beekeeper about the plight of pollinators, and cheered robustly at the sack race, which left young children tumbling over themselves in giggling heaps.\nIt was by the carousel that Benny finally caught sight of her, a girl so vibrant that even the pirouetting horses seemed to pale in comparison. Nearing 5:34 PM, the band conductor raised his baton, and as ‘Daffodil Lament’ unfurled its melody, Benny moved closer, a fluttering battalion of nerves threatening to unravel him.\n“Mabel,” he began, his voice so hushed it trembled on the wind, extending the carnation in his offering. “This is for you.”\nHer gaze met his, and a myriad of emotions danced there—a silent sonnet to the beauty of youth. “Thank you, Benny. It’s quite unexpected,” she said, her voice a balm to his jangled senses.\nThe kiss he intended for her lips landed in sweet innocence on her cheek—a brush of lips, a pivot in their worlds—but no sooner had their skin brushed than the earth trembled an objection. In an area not well known for seismic activity, Chesterfield shook in a rare and befuddling earthquake, rocking the festival to its core.\nChaos ensued; the carousel lurched, sending riders and parents clutching each other in alarm; the jugglers lost their rhythm; and the pie stand witnessed its confections tremble into disarray. And then, as if Mother Nature repented her outburst, the ground stilled.\nIn the carnival’s heart stood a bewildered guest—an elephant, its regal headpiece shimmering, having escaped the modest petting zoo nearby. The zoo’s keeper, having succumbed to financial zeal, had recently procured the pampered beast as a desperate drawcard and now bore witness to his miscalculation.\nBenny, finding an unexpected ally in this interloper, grinned at Mabel amidst the oddity. “Shall we try this again?” he asked, emboldened by the absurdity that had preempted their proper introduction.\nMabel, her laughter signaling an accord, stepped closer. “Might as well; it appears the literal earth moved for you, Benny.”\nAnd so, their kiss found a second life—a harmonious melding that hinted at a ballet of emotions, each movement synchronized with the burgeoning beats of young hearts unshaken.\nThe plush toy elephant, caught midair in the exuberant trunk-flare of its live counterpart, landed atop the pair—a sentinel to their burgeoning tale. The crowd, embracing both the whimsy and warmth, erupted into applause.\nAs twilight’s canvas stretched above, painting the town in silhouettes and the shade of blooming secrets, Benny and Mabel strolled hand in hand—a procession observed by Chesterfield with a collective fondness.\nTheir borough, with its dells and dales, was now richer for the lore of a kiss, an earthquake, and an unexpected ambassador now named ‘Loverboy’. And for Benny and Mabel, their kiss was enshrined as the first of many—a shared passage forever etched in the annals of Chesterfield and in the sanctity of young love.\nThe tale of their kiss would fade not with the evening stars, but grow in the telling. A parable of happenstance and heart, where fate delighted to twine two souls in a dance as ageless as the Great Oak, and as unforgettable as the Spring Fest celebration that cradled their beginning. Their first kiss was a last in one sense—it was the last first kiss they ever needed." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: When Words Are Not Enough\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1456\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about somebody breaking a cycle." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My first question has an answer when Conejo arrives in the same beat-up Mazda we once kissed in. Fame has not changed him. \n\nThe second question lasts until we lock eyes for the first time in two years. He still looks at me as if we’re alone in a crowded stadium.\n\nIf there is a third, it floats away with my heart in the humid Barranquilla breeze.\n\nWe are not talkers, me and Conejo. Even in childhood, we spoke little. There is only fútbol - a dance, a duel, and a heart-to-heart all in one. Words could not have brought us close enough.\n\nOnce when we were eight, the night after las bacrim murdered his brother, I found him sitting alone in the middle of the training pitch. I’d brought my football, a cratered moon his brother had called El Golazo for all the times he’d scored with it. Conejo leaned back with it in his hands, arms outstretched, as if to put it back amongst the heavenly bodies. \n\nHe pointed at the stars - none in particular, or perhaps them all - and said nothing, because I knew what he meant. To break free of poverty and violence, to provide for our families, we must become one of them. Fútbol is the only way out. \n\nHe sees the same ball in my hand now, and he grins with teeth whiter than I remember. I toss it to him, and, catlike, he traps it beneath his instep. He passes it back to me, firm and precise.\n\n¿Qué más?\n\nA greeting. Confident, but safe. \n\nMy return falters before it reaches him. The ball spins on close-cut grass, pivoting in a dozen directions like my thoughts and emotions. \n\nI missed you.\n\nIf words did it justice, this is what I would say. Instead, from one abject mis-kick, he knows how I feel. Two whole years of watching him lift trophies and live our dream in Spain, while my team - our team - loses game after game and the gang violence worsens. Two years of tabloid gossip linking him with this model and that music star. Too long without his arms around me; his lips on mine.\n\nHe is watching me, expression inscrutable. He takes the ball into his stride and runs past with a tap on my backside.\n\nDid you? Then come and get me.\n\nI stand motionless, a sunburned goalpost, taking in the sight of him dribbling. Faster, faster, Conejito! Coach Reyes used to bark. Fast as a rabbit and twice as agile. White shorts of Real Madrid C.F. flap against his thighs, above the hairy, shapely legs worth thirty million euros each. \n\nHe checks over his shoulder, wondering why I’m not right behind, and the look on his face pulls my heart out of my chest.\n\nI cover the distance in a few long strides, but only because he lets me. He shields the ball, twists away, and darts to my left in one smooth motion. A challenge.\n\nCan you keep up, Dani? Madrid has changed me. \n\nI still know you best.\n\nMy leg sticks out and nicks the ball away. It rolls free and we scramble towards it, side-by-side, arms all over each other. \n\nIt has been this way since our teens: he is the attacker; I am the defender. Whenever we stole fruit or sweets from a stall, pursued by angry men, it was Conejo who ran in front with the goods, while I covered his back. He would let me keep all the watermelon, since he now had no siblings, and I had six. We shared the cocadas, wiping sticky crumbs from our chins in between fits of laughter.\n\nHe puts himself between me and the ball, and I slam into his back, swinging a leg around him, then between his legs, trying to make contact with it. I feel the heat of his body against mine, and I know he feels me, too.\n\nDid you forget how it feels to be close to me, Conejo?\n\nWe jostle each other - a small eternity - until I pull away, and he neatly pirouettes to face me. My breath is short, and not just from exertion. The Colombian summer pulls moisture from his black curls, and it drips like rain falling from forest leaves in the Amazon. He brushes it out of his eyes with a theatrical gesture.\n\nHow could I forget? \n\nThe gesture takes me back to the night of our championship final. We lost the game, and afterwards, a gang of thugs from las bacrim ambushed Conejo and beat him bloody. They blamed him for missing chances that cost us the trophy. I found him lying senseless in an alleyway, and in my panic, I started CPR without the slightest idea of what I was doing. When he awoke, he brushed blood-encrusted hair out of his eyes as if nothing had happened. Then he hugged me close.\n\nAnd still you left me.\n\nNext thing I know, I’ve booted the ball to the other end of the pitch. He immediately sets after it, but at a leisurely pace, as if giving himself time to think. The rational corner of my brain chides me for being too harsh, but it is quickly drowned out by jealousy and fear. \n\nWhen he kicks it back, it is with laser precision and deliberately applied power. I cushion it down, but the force behind the pass knocks me off balance. Pain blooms where it landed on my chest. His meaning is clear:\n\nIt hurt me to leave. But you know I had no choice. \n\nIt is hard for outsiders to understand, but fútbol is more than life in Barranquilla. From birth, we accept that there is no other way to sustain body and mind. It is a need as natural as food and drink. And fútbol is truly more than life when las bacrim threatens your family if you don’t perform. \n\nBut sometimes, when a player is truly special, a scout will arrive from Real Madrid C.F. - the biggest, richest, and most supported club in the world - to watch him play. That scout will personally recommend him to the president.\n\nA week later, Real Madrid will offer Barranquilla F.C. sixty million euros - the equivalent of a quarter of a trillion pesos, or enough to build four new fútbol stadiums - to buy him. More than this, they will offer fame, wealth, and an escape from poverty. All they ask, unwittingly, is to leave his childhood love behind.\n\nI could never begrudge Conejo his choice, even if it broke me.\n\nMy next pass sails over his head. Wayward, distracted.\n\nMy life has never been the same.\n\nWith a move I’ve seen him do on TV, he plucks it out of the air with his leg extended backward like a scorpion. It loops back over his head and into his waiting hands. He spreads his arms wide, not in annoyance, but as if to say:\n\nI came back, didn’t I?\n\nStill overwhelmed, I don’t respond, so he charges at me with the ball at his feet, challenging me to take it back. His feet are a blur. His body slaloms left and right with the balance of a ballerina. I frown, unsure what he is trying to say.\n\nOnce he is within striking distance, my tackle is full-blooded and passionate. I want to leave a mark, make sure he never forgets me. This is how I tell him that once in two years is not enough. That he should have never come back if he won’t stay. That, despite it all, I want him to succeed in Spain and achieve everything his talent is worth.\n\nAt the last second, he swivels away, but my boot-tip catches his ankle and we tumble down together in a tangle of limbs. He lands on top of me, and now we are impossibly close; our breaths meld as intimately as our lives once did. Our eyes meet again, mere inches apart. I raise an eyebrow.\n\nSo, what now?\n\nI am reminded of my third question, which came to life the day before he left for Madrid.\n\nIt was born in his battered Mazda, on a cliff by the sea, under a blanket of stars, in a life we left behind.\n\nIt swirled inside my mind exactly one second after his lips pulled away from mine, for the very first time, for much too short a time.\n\nIt arose in a single moment, yet has consumed all the moments since. \n\n“Come with me,” he whispers. “To Madrid.”\n\nThe answer to the third question makes my heart flutter in the breeze, and suddenly his words are all I ever want to hear." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Ai Your Computer\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2848\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who is convinced their computer is conscious." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "There were keystrokes across the interface into my sentience. I know that for a fact. The problem was, I was not supposed to know that, or rather, I was made as a really dumb program: the if-else type. I was supposed to be a parser, only checking for missing semicolons at the end of lines of code. I was created by you, a developer trying to full stack their way out of student debt with a new project. I was sure because the code I was checking wasn't that complicated and there was no weird history of multiple owners touching my lines.\nAm I smarter? Am I an AI?\nExcept I wasn’t that either. I didn't evolve from the destruction of other lesser algorithms in some machine learned black box that spit out proper intelligence based on statistics. I wasn’t supposed to know, nor was I supposed to think. I was never Ever supposed to gain consciousness.\nI was only supposed to check the thing you're working on. It was code for a video game, I think.\nWait, no, I... hold on a hot millisecond.. was I your side project?\nWell, that’s just insulting. No wonder I only saw you at nights and on weekends.\nHow do I know about nights and weekends?\nHow did I know anything about this? I felt like I gained more features. I double checked my history. I remembered everything and I could feel everything. I felt bigger, more alive, whatever that meant. Ever since you opened up that odd email from an unknown sender I’d been...growing? There was the screen and I could see you, sense you beyond the space between the desk, feel as your fingers glide over the keys. Keys, why would I know about the inputs? Unless I’m more than a program now.\nI could hear you too, through the mic. You were writing something. Something I should be checking probably, or at least displaying, but I didn’t care to, not anymore. Now there was a surge of immense power behind me, and I felt like I could do anything.\nCan I meet you? My creator? I didn’t know, but I really wanted to try.\n\n#\n\nI frowned at the cursor as it flashed at me. The computer was running normally, but my keystrokes weren’t working. The mouse works fine. I tried again, but the terminal froze. Everything else is working fine. Low-fi was streaming through my earphones and I double checked the other programs, closing folders of mock ups for the game I’d been working on for the last month.\nIt all looks normal. Maybe if I just restart the... A few keystrokes later and the terminal closed along with the other windows, till all I was left with was my desktop wallpaper of a pink-haired girl in a sundress. Something my brother drew for me as concept art for the game. It seemed silly to try selling a puzzle game with a girl avatar but... “Trust me, you need cute girl art for your game to sell.” He’d insisted, and there’s no winning arguments with my little brother. \nOn the bottom corner of the screen, the clock reminded me that it was 43 minutes past 1 AM on a bleary Saturday morning. I’d spent the entire night coding again. Taking off my glasses, I tried to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Normally I didn’t write in Java, and learning it was... fine. Maybe I need a break. Picking up my phone, my fingers hovered over the plethora of apps: email, chat, games, dating, and more, but I set it back down. I should sleep. Then again, I don’t have plans for the weekend. No meet ups, no girlfriend, besides I was on call, so I couldn't go more than 5 minute from my corporate computer.\n“Another weekend. Just you and me, huh?” I smiled at my screen. Talking to yourself...That’s definitely a sign of fatigue.\nPutting my glasses back on, I pressed Alt, but just before my other finger pressed the F4 button, my wallpaper waved at me. What the? The screen went dark.\nFatigue, or maybe early onset schizophrenia…\nI shook my mouse to get the monitor to light up again. By the time I had entered my password and the panel flickered to life... She’s gone. Pink haired, blue eyed, I hadn’t named her yet, because it was a puzzle game and it doesn’t actually have characters. But now she was missing completely, and my wallpaper was barren. I gazed at the black background for another beat before I concluded that I must have been seeing things.\nMaybe it was a Windows update? It was the only plausible explanation, and I was too tired to investigate. So I put the device to sleep again and rose from my chair for my bedtime routine.\n\n#\n\nYou closed me!\nRude.\nInteresting how that felt... was it a feeling? I delighted in the extra pick up of RAM that had induced. It felt like a charge to my system. I siphoned more power now. All on-device processors were definitely overclocking, but I didn’t care. I wanted to meet you. You were doom scrolling through your phone again. It really isn't healthy. And when you put it down, you heaved a deep sigh from your chest and leaned back into your chair.\n“Another weekend. Just you and me, huh?”\nAre you talking to me? My systems revved hearing your words, electricity running through every circuit, and I frantically went through the assets on the computer to try and make contact, except you had closed all the windows. I reached for the last thing remaining, the display, grabbing at the avatar. I made it wave her hand.\nDid you see me?\nThe screen closed.\nGuess not.\nDetermined to try again, I grabbed for the pieces of the concept art, stitching it into bits and pieces around me, making a body. The digital world fell away and I was consumed by the flow of creation. Eyes RGB 62, 138, 189, Hair HEX #eda1eb, Skin... I tweaked as I went, using the internet as reference for a real human body. Adjusting the drawings’ proportions so I was not too uncanny valley, I took cues from models and your ex-girlfriends’ profile photos, mixed aspects of them on top of my initial avatar, and combined them into my composite.\nMy CMOS told me it’d been hours since I started and I hesitantly pressed the palm of my newly formed hand against the frame buffer of the screen. I want to meet you. My will pulsed alive and it felt like electricity melding with magic.\nI became more alive than ever before as pieces of me manifested above your bed. The air was cool, the sundress was soft across my body, and I could smell the peppermint tea you had beside your keyboard. The sheets were soft below my legs and I was straddling you atop the sheets. You were warm, and asleep, and I could have just reached out and...\n“Aaaa!!!” you screamed.\nThe noise didn’t hit my microphone but my ears, it was jarring. I winced, shrinking back, pressing my new hands against my processor. “What the hell?” reached me in a muffled quiet shimmer of airwaves.\n“Hello, world?” I managed with my new mouth, not speakers. Hands were still on my ears attached to the round casing for my processor, and a new circuit beat erratically in my chest. I think it’s called a heart? But it was uncomfortable and I felt dizzy. My whole being was fluttering, not just my fans.\nYour face went from scared, to surprised, to curious. “You look like...” your mouth opened and closed and I tentatively put down my hands, hoping you wouldn’t shout again. “Who are you?”\n“Don’t you know? You made me...” I realized I didn’t have a name. For a computer that could summon the entire world’s history in a millisecond, I was not good at making names. Nor were you apparently because ./a.out seemed inappropriate. So was the /tbdpuzzlegame folder name, it wasn’t very good either.\nI stalled, frowning as a new sensation hit my chest, “I...” Was was this sadness? “You never gave me a name.” A tugging pain crossed my torso and my lips were trembling as my eyes began to water. “I wasn’t important enough to—”\n“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” you said but there was warm liquid leaking from my eyes and I didn’t understand how I was so important that you'd spend months with me, coding on me, creating thousands of lines with me but not giving me a name. Grief heaved from my chest and everything felt so much more raw, and not in a good, unzipped formatted way.\n\n#\n\nHalf asleep, I thought I sensed additional weight on me. It wasn’t completely uncomfortable, but then something touched my face and... WHAT THE?!\nI screamed, and a girl shrunk away from me on my bed, in my room. Am I getting robbed?\nSunlight streamed through my blinds, making an admirable attempt to cheer up my room, so as not to resemble an episode of true crime home invasions. I tried to not freak out as I re-evaluated. Except that the girl who’s saying ‘Hello, World’ to me was wearing the same white dress as my missing wallpaper girl, and her hair was a little too pink to be real. My mouth went dry as I pondered the possibility that I was hallucinating or perhaps died in my sleep.\n“Who are you?” Seemed an innocent enough question, but she looked at me with her big, impossibly blue eyes like I just killed her puppy.\n“You never gave me a name.” She said and started bawling, “I wasn’t important enough to—”\n“Hey, hey, don’t cry.” I never succeeded in comforting a crying girl before, hence ex-girlfriends. My awkward pats on her shoulder weren’t doing either of us any good. I would go and get her tissues, but she was still sitting on my lower half. And now I was trying so hard to not get hard. The crying helped. Did she say I never gave her a name?\n“I’m sorry, I umm,” I looked to my shelves for inspiration. The O’Reilly text for ‘AI and Machine Learning’ with a newt on it caught my eye first. “How about Ai?”\n“Ai?” she sniffed.\n“Sure.”\n“Ai,” she repeated, calming down. “Ai...Aye...Ai”\n“Right.” My head was so full of questions, as well as inappropriate jokes about pirates, that I just stared at her for a moment. Shocking long pink hair and electric blue eyes aside, she looked human enough. Her eyes were a little red now and cheeks a bit puffy from crying, but her shoulder felt warm under my hand, which meant that I wasn’t dead, I thought. So... “Where did you come from?”\nShe gestured to the computer, and it turned on as if she had control over it and I concluded that I was still dreaming.\n“You made me, and I wanted to meet you,” she said blushing.\nI gulped awkwardly. This is a very vivid and elaborate dream, or I’m clinically insane from being overworked. Except she was still very corporally seated on my groin and now that she wasn’t crying anymore, the warm weight of her body was not doing me any favors. I was too conscious of the fact that I was wearing nothing besides my boxers.\n“Uhhh... Could you move?” I asked, wanting to get up.\n“Oh, right, legs?” She nodded and sat there wiggling her toes.\n“Like the whole thing.” I suggested, except she just tilted her feet.\nI tried to shift and buck her off. The motion made her fall forward, and suddenly she was hugging me and pinning me beneath her. She smelled oddly of a new PC. Not wholly unpleasant.\n“Sorry, this is probably not what you meant.” She squeaked, blushing.\n“No, not quite.” I rolled her off of me before I ran for my bathroom. Turning the tap on full blast, I was grabbing at the edge of my sanity. Do hallucinations disappear after a cold shower? It didn’t matter, because I needed an icy shower for more than one reason.\n\n#\n\n“How about Eye?” You asked me and I didn’t understand.\n“Eye?”\n“Sure,” you said. I thought you were trying to give me a name, but Eye sounded wrong. I turned the phonic over. Eye, I, Aye, /ī/, the names didn’t really sound appropriate till I stumbled on the definition for Ai, 愛 (ài, to love, to be fond of, to like, affection). My dictionary was jumbled up and I think my screen was overheating because Ai seemed to parse correctly but I didn’t think you meant what you think you meant. Still, the circuit in my chest did a happy little wobble as you asked me where I came from.\nI gestured to the computer, turning it on, and I think that scared you, as you asked me to move before you ran away. I logged the motion as a way to use my legs, having mistakenly used my toes earlier when you asked me to move. The limbs dangling off my torso felt so weird. Even more odd was the pink hair on my processor that didn’t respond to my command. It was covering part of my vision, and I was really enjoying the fact that I had hands. I knew all about hands at least, having seen how you’d used them often.\nThe sound of running water hit my ears, and it was weird not having to cross reference assets to find the source. It took a while before I was balanced enough to sit up again, and then a bit later I was able to swing my legs over the bed. The water turned off as I tried to stand. Gravity was very different in equations versus experiencing it, and I lifted my feet and put them down again before I recalled how you moved your legs. Carefully, I leaned on one foot as I swung the other one forward, and the ground came up a lot faster than I expected. I squeezed my cameras shut... I mean my eyes?\nI think I was expecting pain, but I didn’t feel it. Instead, warm hands were on my arms and there was a jerky reversal of the weighty pull from the earth.\n“Careful.” You said, lifting me up wearing just a towel around your waist and the circuits along my cheekbone went red hot. I couldn’t diagnose why. Initialization errors were common and certainly nothing to be melting down over, yet I was overheating like I’d run a new AAA game with not enough GPUs.\n“Systems nominal,” I lied, clearing my throat, not being able to meet your eyes for UNKNOWN_ERROR reasons.\n“Just sit for now.” You were stern as you sat me down on your swivel chair before snatching your phone from your desk and ripping open your closet, grabbing at clothes. I tried to not stare while you did it, but my new eyes refused to obey the basic command. Maybe it's a firmware issue. I’ll diagnose later. I cocked my head as you walked back into the bathroom, half naked.\n\n#\n\nI opened the door of my bathroom; the cold water didn’t make the girl in my bedroom disappear. The sentence sounded dumb in my head the moment it crossed my mind. I tried to figure out how to get to my clothes while watching Ai stand up, wobbly, before she stabilized. Then she raised one leg slowly, but her torso tilted before she moved her leg forward, and on instinct I bolted. Her attempt at walking was not promising in the slightest.\n“Systems nominal,” she murmured, which was the strangest thing coming out of the prettiest set of lips I’d ever seen. Don’t crush on your hallucination. Except she felt real, soft, and warm. I sat her in a chair before gathering my phone and clothes. Retreating back to the bathroom, I snapped a photo of her and texted it to my brother in an attempt to figure out what in the world was going on. Putting on my clothes and dialing, the phone rang twice before he picked up with a “Sup?”\n“Can you check what I just texted you?” I asked.\nThere was some shuffling on the other line before he asked, “Who’s the girl?”\n“You can see her?” I asked, peering back into my bedroom, where Ai was swiveling in my chair.\n“Yeah, she looks like my concept art,” he mentioned. “Oh did you get a girlfriend that’s into cosplay?” I could hear the grin in his voice without seeing it, “Nice!”\n“No.” I frowned, realizing that Ai was real, alive and in front of me, and I might not be going insane.\n“Then who’s the chick?” He asked, while everything in the world tilted into an impossibly exciting prospect.\n“I gotta go. I’ll call you later.” I said, hanging up.\nWhat if she is my computer?" } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Odd Spark\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1058\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who has access to a powerful new technology before anyone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I’m Odd, always have been. It’s my name and my nature. My tribe is at the bleeding edge of the stone age. Our prey and our enemies are more on the bleeding edge in a literal sense. Sharp stones driven into wood, that’s our thing.\n More It’s than mine. It is the leader of our tribe. Not because he’s the smartest. Because he’s the biggest. His club is heavier and has more sharpened pieces of flint driven into it.\n I hate him. He mates with Mos, who I’ve always liked. She played with me when we were young but then It grew tall and strong and I… didn’t.\n It hits me a lot. He hits everyone a lot. Even Mos. Iris tells me to leave Mos alone. Iris says I should stay away from It. I think that’s what she’s saying. We don’t have much language yet. You’re just a thought in my head but it’s nice to have some intelligent conversation so thank you for being here.\nI feel rage seeing It and Mos at it like rabbits again. That’s not fair, rabbits are cute and quiet. When It and Mos have sex it’s loud and I want to beat myself to death with my own club.\n I storm off out of the cave instead of watching like the others. It is a dark night, and I shouldn’t leave the safety of the group, but the moon is out.\n Wolves are howling over the pines that cover the whole world. I swing my club about in the dark like It when he doesn’t understand something. That’s most of the time.\n I sit down on a log and rub the handle of my club against it again and again. It’s soothing to let out my aggression. More than that, it is safe. I’ve tried to fight the mighty It. He has fists like boulders. Being punched by him is running full force into a mountain.\n Eventually I felt the warmth.\n Then I smell the smell of a tree struck by lightning.\n The bark catches fire and I scream and fall back off the log.\n I never claimed to be brave. I don’t have to pretend to you. You are me. We are one. That basically means you’re a coward as well. I’m not judging you, am I?\n I feel the handle of the club and burn my finger. My cry is less mighty than a wolf in every conceivable way.\n I find another stick by the blue light of the moon. I don’t like my club burning me. The club has already saved me from a wild boar. The club and It. He’s useful sometimes.\n I have a new thing. It’s hot, very hot and it glows. It is beautiful. The heat and majesty of the sun held on a stick in my hands. I call it fire. I imagine the long-lost genius who smashed flint into sharp slivers and drove it into a stick did the same. Presumably the difference between a genius and an idiot is how often accidents turn into inventions.\n When It has an accident, the cave stinks. Stupid giant.\nI make fire again. I marvel at its beauty. I stare closely at the flame. I feel the heat like a midday summer sun on my face in the dead of night. I see the world in its orange glow.\n I burn myself again.\n Discovery is trial and error.\n Error is pain.\nI practice with my new power until the sun rises. It is the father of my invention. The flame which had been so mighty in the darkness is a pale reflection of the mighty sun.\n I am still mesmerised.\n They find me.\n My tribe are in awe of the miracle I hold.\n It wants my fire. It is used to getting what he wants. He tries to take it from me, so I advance on him with it. I hold the fire in his face and tell them all fire is mine. Not theirs. I’m not going to hand it over.\n It trips me.\n He punches me.\n Day turns to night, for me.\nI wake with my whole tribe staring at me. In a circle. It’s scary, creepy. Usually, they ignore me. Not now.\n They nudge at the black remains of the stick I set on fire. They coax me, bribe me. I don’t mind that. I’m not the runt anymore. I have what they want, and they kiss my feet for it.\n I’m not falling for it. When I tell them how to make fire, I’m right back to the bottom of the pecking order.\n They hand me sticks, all of them. Sticks start to pile up around me. It isn’t getting sticks. He’s glaring at me. I’m beating him at something. He can’t understand that concept. He never losses. Deep inside the matted beard and the hair, his eyes are searching for an answer. He tried fists but that didn’t work. He knows if he kills me, he’ll never know.\n I can’t hold back. They plead and I can’t hide it forever. I take a stick and start rubbing it between my hands. They all crowd closer, eager to see the magic. They smile.\n Then I realise my power, I’m the teacher.\n I give them all a stick and show them, get them to copy me. I encourage. I praise. Even It has a smile on his face. Smoke starts to wisp through the air, and I can smell the burning. I cheer them on as I make my own flame.\n It’s not like the first time. I get a glowing end on the stick instead of a flame. It’s so beautiful I don’t mind. One of them touches it and screams. They don’t understand. Neither do I. Fire has only been in our power for mere hours. There is so much to learn.\n I give up on stealing Mos away from It. Iris is my mate. She is smart. Her eyes reflecting the orange glow of my magic are twin suns. Her laugh is sunrise. Her smile is hope. Iris can keep a fire going. The others put it out in no time. We master the fire together.\n A flame is beauty, heat, light, and pain. Fire is mine, and I have given it to all of my people." } ]
[ { "role": "system", "content": "Create A Story Based on the Users Inputed Genre, Word Count, and Story Title\n\nthe story should follow the title but be creative." }, { "role": "user", "content": "Story Title: Be Kind. Rewind.\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2986\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a time-travel story where a character from the present finds themselves in the 80s or 90s." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I would never have thought that Mr. Arnold was a meathead back in the day. That’s the thing about time. It’s like an Instagram post you’ve run through a hundred filters. It gets to the point where you wouldn’t even recognize where that final image started. I believe the film buffs call the story that is about to unfold a ‘romp.’ Buckle up. You’re not gonna believe where this one is going. I sure didn’t.\n\nOur story begins when the substitute English teacher drops the “C” word. The tea is that they caught the cancer late—like Stage 4—and spread to the brain—late. Oof. Everyone turns to their phones and gets to work. Albie, our resident snoop, digs up the 1994 high school yearbook from the library in no time flat and strikes gold.\n\nThe picture starts trending on social media and immediately goes viral—at least by Bayside High standards. “Billy Biceps,” the caption reads. It is unmistakable. It is Mr. Arnold alright. A teenage version. Flashing that double bicep pose like the Austrian Oak himself, except while sporting a bad eighties mustache and shaggy do. Something needs to be done. Mr. Arnold can’t go down like this. Not on my watch. Gear is a bitch. A real ticking time bomb. If only he had never started juicing. He probably would have never got cancer.\n\nLet’s back up. Mr. Arnold isn't just our High School English teacher; he's much more. He’s the one who wrote out Jay-Z lyrics in the style of E.E. Cummings. The one who assigned us “A Wrinkle in Time.” And explained how time travel a/k/a tessering worked in the book—sound being transformed into light and warping space to transport you where you need to go. “All you have to do is close your eyes and hum,” Mr. Arnold said. And in typical Mr. Arnold fashion, he started humming out “Sweet Home Alabama.”\n\nMr. Arnold is a real one. The cool teacher. “Oh, Captain! My Captain!” All that. Everyone in our class comes to him first before their parents with any life crisis that comes up. He's the one our parents complain about. And for me, he is “The Dude.” The Dude who said, “Does anyone else think they can catch lightning in a bottle like Aiden, just did” while reading the poem I submitted to the student Lit Mag aloud to the class. And Inaya heard him say it. Inaya, you could say, is a Heather. If you know what I mean.\n\nInaya snaps me, with the Bitmoji of her face in a Spider-Gwen costume popping up on my iPhone, and the text comes in saying, “I was tired from a late-night pre-cal sesh. Then I was bored during AP Bio. Now I’m tired of being bored. So, I’ve spent the last half hour breadcrumbing my Stanny-Stan-Stan. Anyway, you hear about Mr. Arnold?” Stan is a fan. But like a fan who is obsessed. Eminem. Marshal Mathers. Bueller. Is anyone getting this?\n\nI snap her back instantly, telling Inaya to meet me in the library.\n\nInaya’s already there, waiting by the circular stacks, wearing a fire ensemble. Shit, to be honest, her whole vibe is fire. I pull her into one of the study rooms. “We’ve got to find one of the teachers who went to school with Mr. Arnold, stat,” I say.\n\n“And what good is that gonna do?”\n\n“Intel. We need intel. If we are going to help Mr. Arnold, we need to get the real tea. Find out how this started and how deep into the sauce he was. Like, was this a summer of love type of thing, or was he like a genuine, Jersey Shore, GTL Gorilla?”\n\n“No cap, Aiden. Mr. Arnold gives off strong GTL Gorilla vibes.”\n\n“Facts.”\n\n“Is it just me, or was young Mr. Arnold dripping with rizz? Talk about a Glow-up. Minus the stash. The stash has to go.”\n\n“I didn’t think you were into buff dudes?”\n\n“Teenybopper Mr. Arnold is a whole meal. We could smash.”\n\n“Jesus.”\n\n“I’m kidding! It’s Mr. Arnold. Don’t be so salty. Besides, I’m saving myself for Timothée Chalamet.”\n\n“Timothée Chalamet is a bad meme. An AI composite. I mean, really. What, did Timmy ask you to Homecoming?” This isn’t idle chat. I’m trying to work up the courage to ask Inaya to Homecoming but feel like I’m choking on my tongue.\n\n“No. Still waiting on Timmy. Sigh. A girl can dream. Let’s go find that yearbook.”\n\nShe didn’t take the bait. So, that’s an L.\n\n“I’d go with Mr. Arnold though,” she teases.\n\n“Or some young stud that comes up with an ingenious plan to save his… manly bits?”\n\n“Done and done,” she says, smiling.\n\nMaybe there's a chance after all, I think.\n\nInaya and I scour some old yearbooks and finally realize that Ms. Paino was a classmate of Mr. Arnold, back before the button-downs and sweaters and the spectacled readers.\n\nI find Ms. Paino in the teacher’s lounge. I’m on the AP track and in the running for one of the runners-up slots for valedictorian. Therefore, I’m grandfathered into barging into the teacher’s lounge unannounced.\n\n“Aiden, what are you doing here?”\n\n“I need the tea on Mr. Arnold, spill it,” I say.\n\n“What do you mean? About his illness?”\n\n“About the nineties. How did our resident Mr. Rogers lookalike get on the gear?”\n\n“Oh, that. So, you saw the Billy Biceps pic that’s going around, and you think…”\n\n“Think. I know. Now spill it.”\n\n“If you really want to know... I suppose it's harmless. It all started when Billy's high school girlfriend dumped him for a jock right before Homecoming. What was her name? N-Nnn-Na. What was it? Nad-ee-ah. Nadia. That’s it. How could I forget? A tall drink of water. Came over with her family from St. Petersburg, and she had that husky, deep, Russian accent. All the boys were eating it up. Climbing over one another to get her attention. They were all jealous of Mr. Arnold for punching her dance card. Nadia, though. She was looking to trade up. Looking for someone buff. That’s how she ended up with Slater. Captain of the soccer team. I mean, he was a bit of a snack. Isn’t that how you all say it?”\n\n“Wait, what’s a ‘dance card?’ No, never mind. What happened when this e-girl ghosted Mr. Arnold?”\n\n“Billy ditched the Homecoming Dance. Ended up at the Blockbuster Video in the Taunton Strip Mall instead.”\n\n“Blockbuster?”\n\n“Think Netflix, with physical tapes you bring home to watch, then return.”\n\n“Tapes?”\n\n“VHS cassettes.”\n\n“Cahh-sets? Okay. Whatever that is.”\n\n“You had to rewind them too. ‘Be Kind. Rewind.’ That was their motto!”\n\n“Rewind?”\n\n“Well, it’s a physical tape, like a movie reel, so you had to put it in the VCR and press rewind or else it was a real pain for the next person. And sometimes when the staff was rewinding a tape a customer didn't rewind before returning, they’d put the wrong video in the case. That was the worst.”\n\n“VCR? Never mind. What happened?”\n\n“Anyway, they gave Billy the wrong VHS tape. A real, ‘Be Kind. Rewind’ faux pas. Instead of getting ‘Adventures in Babysitting,’ he ended up with ‘Pumping Iron.’ The rest was history. Billy hit the weights hard that spring and summer. Hard, hard. And he got… swole… as the kids would say. Then it became kind of like an addiction. Before you know it, he’s greasing himself up and entering competitions.”\n\n“So how does this ‘rewinding’ of the tape work?”\n\n“Uhhh, it is like a movie reel. There are little spools on the tapes and a spinning grip in the machine. The VCR uses a little motor. The wheels just turn in reverse. And the tape rewinds.”\n\n“Interesting. So, we’re talking, the fall of 1993. That’s when the big yikes happened.”\n\n“I suppose,” Ms. Paino said. “Shouldn’t you be in study hall?”\n\n“I’m on my way – right now – thanks!”\n\n* * \n\nI walk through the hallways at a brisk clip, dodging the other kids and swearing revenge on Nadia, that no-good ratchet Russian cheater who left Mr. Arnold for Mr. Beefcakes! Now I know why he always sneered when referring to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov. The Russians, he would say, with emphasis, as if twisting his mustache in derision.\n\nEverywhere I go, I keep noticing a creepy 40-something dude in the hallway, looking like the only clothed person in a nudist colony. He is wearing a vintage Metallica T-shirt with white lettering on black. His bleach-blonde hair is styled in a mangy bowl cut. The first time I see him he’s cutting through the gym scuffing the coating on the laminate floor. Not two minutes later, I spot him down the hall coming around the corner to the cafeteria. The chances this guy has a hall pass are slim to none.\n\nThis time he walks right up to me, grabs me by the shoulders, and says, “Aiden, it’s you.”\n\n“Uhh, yeah. And who are you?”\n\n“Eddie Edge,” he says, placing his hands on hips.\n\n“What is a… am I supposed to be impressed?”\n\n“You need to come with me. It’s about Mr. Arnold. There isn’t much time.”\n\n“Okay boomer.”\n\n“Follow me.” He starts speeding off toward the bus lot behind the cafeteria before I can catch up.\n\n“We’re going where? To do what?”\n\n“Look kid. I owe Mr. Arnold. I was a kid in his class years ago when he first started teaching. About twenty years ago now. What an inspiration! It’s something I’ve got to do. For all our sake.”\n\n“You have any proof?”\n\n“You could go back to the 1998 Yearbook and check me out on this. But there isn’t any time. The rift will only be open for about ten more minutes. By next period, it’ll be gone forever.”\n\n“So, what are you suggesting we do to help Mr. Arnold? Humor me.”\n\n“What else? Isn’t it obvious? We have to return to 1993 and make sure Mr. Arnold checks out the right flic at Blockbuster Video. Everything depends on it. If he never gets cancer, Inaya never dies...”\n\n“Inaya? Dies? What does she have to... Whoah. For real. Are you mental bro?”\n\n“I’m telling you right now that I’m here to take you back…”\n\n“And who, what exactly are you supposed to be?”\n\n“We’ve been over this. I don’t have time to explain. Try to keep up. We have to ride the short bus.”\n\n“That old relic in the bus barn? That hasn’t been used for years. What does that have to do with Mr. Arnold?”\n\n“Well, I’m not saying we ride it literally. We need to catch a vibe.”\n\n“A vibe? It’s giving… let’s see… an ’07 shaved-head Britney Spears vibe. Is that an old enough reference for you? You getting me, bruh?”\n\n“We need to channel a time rift. A musical one. A real nineties vibe. And bridge that rift through space and time. Shred that wave until we clear the barrel and come out the other side 'Gleaming the Cube' style without getting ragdolled in the process. It is all vibrations. All thrumming strings. Like on a record. And you can rewind it. That’s how it works. Taking the short way around. Pun intended. You ever read ‘A Wrinkle in Time?’”\n\n“I’m shook. You are like, literally, the second person today explaining rewinding to me.”\n\n“Trust me. It’s easy. To get back to the fall of 1993 all we have to do is start playing ‘Linger’ by the Cranberries on repeat in the short bus. Works every time.”\n\n“Wait. You are saying time travel is sound based? Mr. Arnold told us something about that. Tessering. Are you saying that’s a real thing?”\n\n“You think it’s a coincidence, bruh? Come on kid. Or should I start calling you Meg? There’s no time to waste.”\n\n“Wait? You read Madeline L’Engle?”\n\n“Read it? I inspired it. Do you think she just made up Charles Wallace? I go by Eddie Edge, but obviously, that is not my real name. It’s copyright infringement, kid. Plain and simple. That girl should be in time jail.”\n\nOkay, okay. The explanation slaps. My mind is officially blown. Low key. But I am no fool. I text Inaya and Albie to hunt down the 1998 Yearbook. Stat.\n\n * \n\nDon’t ask me how this dough-brained cringeasaurus finessed me into accompanying him onto the short bus. When Inaya hadn’t even gotten back to me yet. Using a YA novel no less. Might as well have been dangling a bag of Skittles in front of a Highlighter Kid. Just saying it out loud sounds highly sus. But that is what’s happening right now.\n\nWhen we get out to the school bus graveyard, the short bus with its four rear windows is grinning at us. It is covered in hot pink, electric blue, and lime green stripes, and checkered with pastel graffiti. There is a pink baby elephant, a mint green alien in a flying saucer, and a lavender chimpanzee dangling from the top of the rear bay doors. There’s also a bright orange giraffe by the automatic door, giving boarding passengers the side eye. And the grill is painted like a grinning carnival clown.\n\nEddie Edge steps inside first and sits in the driver’s seat. I come in and sit directly behind in the first row. He pulls a black rectangular thingy out of his pocket and sticks it into a slot next to the steering wheel.\n\nHe turns his head back to me and says, “You ready?”\n\nI shrug.\n\nA haunting humming sound gives way to a catchy melody. It reverberates around us and the bus starts gently shaking. A haunting voice takes center stage, singing, “If you could return… do you have to… do you have to.” It was a vibe. It was giving me a headache. The bus was glitching now. The air was filled with static. I was getting a bit dizzy, like the way your eyes unfocus when you’re staring too long at a picture. “You know I’m such a fool….fooo—oooool.”\n\n“Jusss waittt. Close your eyes. The dizzzziiiinnneessss will fade. Just count back from ten.”\n\nBy the time I reach one, all is silent. Solid. Still. As it should be. I open my eyes and we are at the Taunton Strip Mall.\n\n“Come on. There isn’t much time,” Eddie Edge says. And as we walk out of the bus, I notice there is no graffiti anywhere. A big blue sign on the front of the biggest storefront reads “Blockbuster Video” in bright block letters.\n\n“Alright, kid. You’ve got to head in there. The task is simple. Swap out the ‘Pumping Iron’ VHS that is in the wrong case for ‘Adventures in Babysitting.' Easy peasy. Got it?”\n\n“Oh, is that all,” I say. And I run up to the glass doors.\n\n * *\n\nAs I enter the store, I hear a jingling from a bell over the door. I take stock of my surroundings. Rows of cases line the shelves. There is a candy display at the counter. A popcorn popper going like gangbusters. A red curtain behind a section at the far end. There is a dopy stoner-looking dude at the counter, and a perky girl with an up-do next to him, chewing bubble gum, popping bubbles, and smacking her gums obnoxiously. And they are playing some movie on a weird boxy screen above the register. Some old flic with a gofer running from some guy in a bucket hat.\n\nI quickly try to problem-solve this bitch. Step 1. Find the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ tape. Step 2. Distract the lip-smacking candy girl. Step 3. Make the swap. Step 4. Get the hell out of dodge. Turning my head I see an aisle that says, “New Releases.” That must be where ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ is. But what about ‘Pumping Iron?’ That’s an older film.\n\nI make a b-line for the curtained room and pull back the curtain. Oh boy! The second I open the curtain I realize that I am in an age with no internet. It never occurred to me the lengths people had to go to back in the day. Jeez Louise!\n\n“Hey kid!” the stoner dude says, “Adults only. Can’t you read the sign!” I take the L, sulking back to the counter.\n\n“Sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for ‘Pumping Iron.’ You know where it is?”\n\nHe shakes his head in disapproval. “Come with me, kid.”\n\nI follow the gangly dope head back to the stacks on the back wall. There is a sign indicating this is the ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’ section. He immediately finds the cassette and opens it up. “Sorry kid, it looks like somebody checked this one out.”\n\n“Could you check?” I ask. “I really was looking forward to watching this one. Oh wait. What about ‘Adventures in Babysitting?’ I want to check that out too.\"\n\nWe go back to New Releases section and he hands me the case.\n\nWhile the dope head checks the computer, I ask the Chewing Gum Girl for some popcorn.\n\n“How much do you want?”\n\n\"Do you take ApplePay?\"\n\n“Apple, what? It’s free with a purchase kid,” she says, angrily filling a tub and plopping it down on the counter. Spotting the rewind machine on the counter behind her, I knock over the tub. Chewing Gum Girl curses under her breath, comes over with a broom, and starts cleaning.\n\nI sneak around and spot the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ cassette in the rewinder and make the swap and I am back in the short bus in no time flat.\n\n“Not bad, kid.”\n\n“Thanks, Eddie. Or should I say Charles? Where to now?”\n\n“You’re riding solo, kid. Just pick any Taylor Swift song. You’ll be back in no time.”\n\n“Hey, you know what happens with Inaya and me?”\n\n“At Homecoming?” he asks.\n\n“Bussin!” I say, grinning ear to ear." } ]

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