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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: Coping Memories\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1017\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trinity bent over to pick up the fallen sign again. She sighed as the rain made the black ink drip. The nasty wind did not make matters easier either. Instead of thumbtacking the sign, she decided to duct tape it, no matter how horrific it looks. Her goal today was to sell her outgrown clothes, it was okay if her stand didn’t look as desirable as she hoped it would be.\nThe cardboard box that was packed with neatly folded clothes was now soggy. Trinity rubbed her temples, this is a disaster, I picked the worst location to sell. She decided to snap out an umbrella and talk with wandering individuals to persuade them. Unfortunately, her efforts were not enough.\nThe girl patiently waited until a young boy walked up to her stand. He was short with ruffled hair. Trinity glanced down at him and bent down so she could communicate with him face-to-face. “Do you find any of these outfits interesting?” He ignored her and fiddled with some clothes before placing them down in the box.\n”Would you like to purchase any? I think they would be perfect for you.” Trinity suggested. Finally, the little boy glanced up at her and tilted his head, “Why are costumes and others worn out completely?”\n”Well when I was your age I used to wear these.”\n”Why are you selling them then?”\n”I need money and I want to share my memories and imagination with others.”\n”What kind of memories?”\nTrinity looked up into the cloudy sky for a few seconds before rummaging through one of the boxes and pulling out a white night gown with small sparkling stars. “When I was eight my mom and dad had gotten into a fight. This happened often but this one was frightening. I was wearing this gown at the time and had been crying under my sheets. By the time my mother stormed out of the house, I was already fast asleep, and I had a dream about waking up in a cloudy heaven.”\n”In the heaven, I woke up with wings. The wings let me fly across the entire place, and it was astonishing. The best part of it was that there were many other children there, the children all looked different but we’re wearing the same white gown. They were talking, playing hopscotch, prancing in the rain, or fixing each other’s hair. It was the most wonderful thing.”\n“At that time I had been so separated from other children since my father often locked my in our house and forbid me from seeing anyone. With my wings, I flew down to the children and talked to them. Fortunately for me, they all thought and talked like me. I made so many new companions that I was dying to share with the person I loved most, my own mother.”\n”I decided to search the entire heaven but found no sign of hope. I was devastier with the results so I sat down on the ground with tears streaming down my face. I finally had something special in my hands and the one and only person that loved me was nowhere in sight. A chilly air mass brushed my left arm, leaving goosebumps to begin, I turned to the the sky which was now dark, I peered into the darkness and saw tiny stars begin to form.”\n“I wiped my eyes and stepped forward, the tiny stars slowly came together to form the shape of a familiar female face that I saw almost every day. My lips began to form into a smile that grew to a large expansion. Something in that exquisite sight, I felt like I finally felt the hope and peace within.”\n”What’s the point of the story?” The young boy asked. Trinity didn’t respond and instead took out a torn red shirt and bandana. She smiled at them. “These wonderful things are the point, they helped me go through the struggles as a child, and the trauma my father gave to me.”\n”So you go to another dimension?”\n”Somewhat, mainly imagining the best of the worst situations.”\n”I think your story was cool.”\n”I think that you are an amazing listener.”\nThe young boy rummaged through his pockets, hoping to find some money to give to Trinity. However, he only came up with a few pebbles and penny.\n”I enjoyed your story very much.” The young boy said. Trinity declined the offer and instead offered him a red sweater. “You can keep your rocks, but have this gift, it’s a sweater I wore when I became a red bird that flew out of it’s small cage.”\nThe boy gasped and slid his arms through the holes. He smiled, “I love it so much thank you!” Trinity formed the smile she had when she was in the cloudy heaven. “And what’s your name?” She immediately asked. “Firebird! Because now I am an unleashed red firebird!” He moved his arms so they could looks like wings.\nTrinity mimicked him before looking up into the dark and clear sky. And there for the last time, she saw her mother’s face in the stars.\nEpilogue: The young boy wore the sweater every single day and told everyone who asked the same story, however, not many people believed him. The boy had also been suffering at home and used the sweater to imagine wonderful and magical places to make him feel happier.\nThe young boy had dreams about pirate ships or strange new lands. The boy would go to visit the girl every time he got a chance and they discussed experiences together that they enjoyed. Trinity was one of his closest friends and he felt as if he could trust her with almost everything in his life.\nHowever Trinity never existed was another factor of his coping. For all his years of his father’s abuse he longed for a friend who could understand what he had been through and what he dreamed of. The boy later grew to become a writer, and he shared his stories with others around the world." } ]
[ { "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 Princesses and Houdini\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1669\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "On a Saturday morning after breakfast, Millie was in her room colouring in her Princess Colouring book. Her mom came into her room carrying a big cardboard box which she placed on the rug beside Millie’s bed. \nMillie turned in her chair and saw that the box was empty.\n“Time for some spring cleaning. Millie, I want you to put all your clothes that are too small into this box and we’ll donate them to the Thrift Shop.”\nMillie pouted. “I don’t want to give away any of my clothes.” \nHer mom put her hands on her hips. “If you don’t make some space in your dresser, I’ll have to stop buying you new clothes.” \nMillie also put her hands on her hips, “ You can’t take my clothes. They’re mine.” \nHer mom sighed. “We’ve gone over this already, Millie. Your old clothes don’t fit you.”\n“Yes, they do. I can still wear them.” She folded her arms in front of her, but when she saw her mom step towards her dresser, she leapt off her chair, and planted herself between the dresser and her mom. She stretched her arms out to block her mom. \n“Don’t be silly, Millie. Now, move aside, and we’ll go through your clothes together. Think of how happy a younger girl will be to receive these clothes.”\nMillie clenched her hands at her side. “I’m not giving away my clothes.”\nHer mom frowned and narrowed her eyes, and Millie braced herself. Then her mom smiled and her shoulders lowered. Millie didn’t lower her guard in case her mom was just trying to trick her into relaxing.\n“As you wish, Millie. You can keep your old clothes, as long as you promise to wear them every day.”\nMillie’s arms came down. “I promise.”\nHer mom smiled. “Lunch will be ready soon.”’\nMillie breathed a sigh of relief when her mom left her room. After lunch she’d flatten the cardboard box and put it into the apartment recycling bin, but now she’d put on her most favourite princess dress.\nShe felt very much like a princess, because she had been granted her wish. Her favourite pink princess dress felt so smooth and soft when she held it against her cheek and she liked how the fabric was so shiny. She pulled the dress on over her head, but it wouldn’t go any further. She took it off and undid the zipper at the back, and tried again, but this time she couldn’t get it over her shoulders. \n“Mom,” she cried out. Oops, she’d made a mistake. She couldn’t let her mom see her struggling to get her dress on.\nHer mom’s footsteps sounded in the hallway. Millie stuffed the dress under her bedspread.\n“Did you call me, Millie?”\n“Uh, no, I didn’t call you, Mommy”\nMillie waited until she heard her mom walk into the kitchen and turn on the tap. \nShe laid the dress on the bed, and tried to pull the zipper down more, but it wouldn’t go any further. \nMillie looked around. She didn’t have a sewing machine or a needle and thread and she didn’t know how to sew, but she had a good pair of pink scissors. She found them in her desk drawer and used them to cut the pink material just a tiny bit below the bottom of the zipper. The material was slippery and difficult to hold and cut at the same time. The cut was a little crooked, but it was too small for her mom to see. \nHer mom’s footsteps sounded again in the hallway, and Millie threw herself against the door.\n“Are you okay in there, Millie?” \n“Yes, Mommy, I’m fine,” she called out in a pretend bright voice.\nShe waited again, until she heard her mom being busy in the kitchen. Then she pulled the dress over her head, but she still couldn’t get it over her shoulders. She took it off and measured an inch with her two thumbs beside each other and cut some more. That didn’t look like much, so she measured and cut another inch, and then another inch. She was getting better at cutting straight.\nNow she put the dress over her head and shimmied into it. She smiled at herself in the mirror in her pink princess dress.\nTriumphantly, she walked out into the kitchen and paraded for her mom.\n“My little princess,” her mom said, and put her hand to her mouth.\n“I told you I can still wear my old clothes,” said Millie.\n“Yes, you’re a little Houdini,” her mom said.\n“Is Houdini a princess?\n“No, Houdini was a very famous magician, and I think he’s the only one besides you, who would’ve been able to get that dress on.\nMillie wondered if Houdini would’ve secretly used scissors. She sat down at the table and said in her princess voice, “Ring, ring. Bring me my lunch.”\n“Yes, your highness, your lunch is being served,” her mom said in a hoity-toity voice and placed a plate with a sandwich and three carrot sticks and two celery sticks and a glass of orange juice in front of her.\n“You didn’t ask me, ‘Will that be all?” Millie said.\n“Because Princess Millie, that will be all,” her mom said.\n“Oh, okay,” Millie said and bit into her egg salad sandwich. Her dress was stretching and pulling on her tummy and she heard a little tearing sound at her back. She quickly coughed to hide the noise. \nHer mom was preparing food at the kitchen counter. She turned to Millie with her eyebrows raised. “I hope it wasn’t a bit of egg shell getting caught.” \nMillie shook her head. When her mom turned back to the counter, she took another bite, and heard another rip. She quickly tried to cough just from her throat, so her stomach wouldn’t move.\n“Are you sure, you’re okay,” her mom said. \nMillie tried holding her tummy in, but she couldn’t hold her breath and eat at the same time.\n“Have you lost your appetite, Princess Millie?”\n“No, I don’t feel like eating,” Millie said, and as she stood up, she heard a long ripping sound. Her eyes flooded with tears, as she covered the rip with both her hands, and went running to her room.\nMillie threw herself face down onto her bed and cried into her pillow. Her mom came into her room, and sat on her bed beside her and stroked her hair and patted her shoulders. \n“I’m not a princess. I’m not even a Houdini princess,” she said, between gulps of crying.\n“There, there, of course you’re a princess,” her mom said, continuing to stroke her hair.\nMillie sat up, her cheeks felt red and sore. She wiped away the rest of the tears in her eyes.\n“But if I was a real princess or even a Houdini princess, I’d be able to use magic to put on and take off my princess dress without ripping it,” Millie said, finding more new tears coming out of her eyes.\n“No, sweetie, Houdini would never have tried to get out of a princess dress that was so small, because he’d know it would be impossible, even for him, to get out of,” her mom said.\nMillie looked down at her pink dress, the front of it still looked pretty, but she could feel where it was ripped at the back. “I don’t want to grow up, Mommy. I want to stay little forever. If I can’t wear my princess dress, then I won’t be a princess.”\nHer mom wrapped her in her arms. “You don’t need this dress to be a princess.”\n“But it’s my special princess dress, and now I’ve ruined it,” Millie cried.\n“You’ll always be a princess to me, even if you’re dressed in rags,” her mom said.\n“Or clothes that are too small?” Millie smiled through her tears.\n“Yes, and you might be surprised to know, that I’m still a princess as well.”\nMillie’s eyes popped open. “You? How can you be a princess?”\nHer mom pulled out a gold coloured ceramic heart she had on her necklace, which Millie had forgotten about and read the back of it, ‘To my Princess Mom, love your Princess daughter, Millie.’ \nMillie giggled. \nHer mom smiled. “Didn’t you know that princesses come in all sizes; tall and small, thin and round and every size in between.”\nMillie gave her mom a hug. “Can we fix this dress and give it to a princess who is smaller than me?”\nHer mom nodded. Millie opened her dresser drawers, and pulled out all her clothes and spread them on her bed. “I’ve got more clothes I can donate to smaller princesses.” \nMillie and her mom laughed, as she held up some of her clothes which were way too small. When she wasn’t sure, she tried them on, but not all the way. This time she was careful not to rip them. \n“I’m so proud of you, my princess,” her mom said when she’d filled the cardboard box. \nMillie stood up, “Now, can I see your favourite princess dresses, Mommy.”\nHer mom had not one, but two dressers, and a very large closet. Millie pulled one drawer, but she couldn’t get it open, because it was jammed packed with clothes. Then she tried to open the closet door, but it was so full, it wouldn’t open.\nHer mom put her hand to her forehead and sighed, “You’re not the only princess who doesn’t want to give up her princess dresses.” \nMillie grinned. \nHer mom laughed. “I’m going to need at least five boxes.”\nMillie and her mom pulled on the closet door together. \nA little man wearing an old black suit and a black hat squeezed out. “Princesses, that had to be the most difficult escape of my life.” \n He waved a silver wand and Millie saw princess star dust swirl in the air, as Houdini vanished out of the window and into the blue 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: ROUTE 66\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1063\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a flashback." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Traveling Old Route 66\n It was 1958 and the biggest day of my life to that point—high school graduation.\n Graduating at the end of the January term meant no senior trip, but that wasn’t going to stop me. A few days after graduating, as the Everly Brothers were singing their smash hit “All I Have to Do Is Dream,” three friends and I had a dream of heading West\n On a cold, snowy, Detroit Friday night, we piled into my friend Paul’s 57’ Chevy and drove non-stop to LA, arriving exactly 48 hours later. All in all, it was a 2,300‑mile trip driving from Detroit to Chicago and then onto the entire old Route 66 that, in places, was just a rough two-lane road with a fading stripe down the middle and Route 66 roads signs every so often. We followed trucks for 30-40 miles at a stretch, then they followed us. We learned the rules of the highway along the way.\n Stopping for gas at some small station along Route 66 was like refueling at the Indianapolis 500: We filled the tank with 25 cent a gallon gas, washed the windshield, checked the tires, bought a snack, switched drivers, and off we raced. We were timing our stops, frantically trying to beat our time from the last one. \n Arriving in Hollywood, Route 66 officially ended a few miles west in Santa Monica. We got an inexpensive hotel room with two double beds near the famous Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel and the iconic Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. We were excited, taking in the usual tourist sites along Sunset and Vine, and amazed to see the new round Capitol Records building about to open. It was surreal to see all the places we had only heard about or seen in the movies and on TV. We drove though Beverly Hills searching for the homes of those elusive stars. Just a couple days earlier, we were cruising Detroit’s snow-covered streets; now, we we’re looking for movie stars.\n When we left LA for home, we planned it non-stop again. Driving late at night along Route 66 with barely any traffic on the road near Amarillo, we were moving at over eighty miles an hour, when we saw flashing red lights coming up behind us. We pulled over and stopped.\n The sheriff’s deputy got out of his car, slowly walked up to ours, and cautiously peered in the window, asking, “Where you boys headed so fast?” Then, not waiting for an answer, “May I see your driver’s license?”\n Paul was driving and, while digging out his license, said, “We’re going back home from a trip to LA.”\n “Where’s home?” the deputy continued as his flashlight lit up the faces in the rear seat and then mine sitting next to Paul in the front.\n “Detroit,” we responded, almost in unison.\n Looking at Paul, he said, “The speed you were going is considered reckless driving—you know that, don’t you?”\n “No, I didn’t,” Paul quickly answered, handing over his license.\n The deputy studied Paul’s driver’s license.\n “I’ll hold onto this,” he said, as he made another sweep of the rear seat with his flashlight. “You boys just follow me up the road a way. Got that?” \n “Yes Sir”. Paul immediately responded, sounding nervous.”\n The deputy walked back to his patrol car.\n The next thing we knew, we were standing in the living room of a small-town justice of the peace. He read the citation. We were sized up rather quickly as nothing more than four Yankee teenage boys racing through Texas near midnight.\n Speaking in a slow Texas drawl, looking at Paul (we were standing behind him), the justice of the peace said, “Son, you have a choice: pay a $150 fine now and we’ll reduce the speed on your ticket and call this done, or go to jail for reckless driving and appear in court tomorrow morning.”\n Paul, looking a little shaken, didn’t hesitate: “I-I’ll pay the fine, your honor.”\n We breathed a sigh of relief and pooled our money. Paul handed it to the deputy, and we quickly left.\n We resumed our non-stop trip home along Route 66, and that encounter with the law remained a fun topic. Mocking the sheriff— “Where you boys headed so fast?”—we burst out laughing when the radio just happened to play “Deep in the Heart of Texas.”\n After settling in back home, over the next few months, I began to ask myself, what does my future hold? I was going to be nineteen years old and wanted more than a dead-end job.\n My older brother worked on the production line at the Cadillac plant in Detroit and offered to help me get a job there. “Working on the line pays well,” he said.\n I was tempted until my father quickly jumped in with a few compelling words that I believe changed the direction of my life.\n “Kid, whatever you do, don’t work in a damn factory.” He had worked in one for over thirty years.\n His words were compelling and I ruminated on them long and hard and decided a factory job was not for me.\nAt the time, events were unfolding everywhere. President Eisenhower broadcast on color TV for the first time. The country was in a recession. NASA was formed. The Soviets launched Sputnik 3. Castro began attacks on Havana. Five thousand U.S. marines were sent to Beirut, Lebanon. There was no major war going on, although the North and South in a small country called Vietnam were taking swings at each other. Elvis had been inducted into the Army earlier that year, as well.\n I was going to be nineteen years old soon. The words of my father continued to echo in my mind.\n Finally, I made a life-changing decision and look at the future from a new perspective.\n I went to the Army recruitment office in downtown Detroit, listened to the recruiting sergeant who was sitting there in his newly pressed uniform, and signed up. It was a shock to my family.\n Two weeks later at the induction center, I raised my hand swearing to “. . . defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” I signed up to give my life if necessary for three years. An hour later, I was on a train heading to Fort Knox, Kentucky. No Route 66 this time.\n -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: The Final Petition of the Beast\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1988\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone living vicariously through someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I trust that your patience and historically-proven aptitude for distilling the truth of events from the muddled fog of contentious viewpoints will inhibit you from leaping to a firm and resolute condemnation of my actions until you hear me out to the full. Let us see if I cannot, in time, convince you of my benevolence by offering another perspective on the events which preceded my downfall and which led me to assume this sorrowful state in which you now observe me, a perspective which, I hasten to warn you, runs contrary on many points to those you have no doubt already encountered. In exchange for your borrowed time, I promise to inform you of what really happened regarding a topic we can agree truly matters, the well-being of none other than my human host.\n The rumors you have heard are true. I am soldered, by mechanisms far beyond the understanding of the human sciences, in an intimate manner to the psychological tendencies of the human mind. I must again plead with you to discard your prescribed opinions regarding this arrangement of living. Any beast or person misunderstood will stand by me—and perhaps you also will join us?—in testifying that the misunderstood are always critiqued with unwarranted harshness. I have borne the most hideous names hurled at me by those who fear and misunderstand of my role. I have gone by many disparaging titles throughout history, and am only too aware of the multitude of unsavory images attached to the notion of a parasitic relationship. May I suggest as a substitute for this baseless hatred the fondness of a pet for its owner? After all, I do more than leech. Like your beloved animal companions, I am also capable of altering the mood of my host, as you shall soon see.\n My host was a young boy when I transferred myself from his parents’ minds to his. His psychological foundations had been set years before, and I arrived to find a habitat much to my liking. Between the folds of his thoughts, I made myself a home. I had left a part of me behind, of course, in the minds of the parents. Their family had served me for generations, and it was a light task for one as skilled as I in the art of suggestion and in possession of such intimate knowledge of their inner workings to fan the mother’s insecurities just so so that, while remaining completely imperceptible to their untrained eye, my little whispers achieved nothing short of the legal separation of the boy’s parents. I then secured my spot in the boy’s mind by magnifying his sense of responsibility for his parents’ misery. Thenceforward, the slightest reminder that he was unlovable had him wriggling deliciously in my grasp. It was thus, with my claws sunk deep into his skull, that I ushered him into high school.\n His emotional trajectory was the most promising of all his dear family members yet. Not a single friend he made the first month of school. The very weight of me crumpled his posture as he wandered, friendless, through the halls. I steered his mood between the Scylla of an overly morose disposition, certain to be noticed by peers and trigger the arrival of help in the form of a school counselor or therapist, and the Charybdis of an optimism that would grant him the strength to shrug me off. I would have achieved this ideal flawlessly were it not for that damned girl, who transferred to his school and was placed, catastrophically, in the seat across from my host. Were she my charge, I would have doubled down on her insecurities at the first sign of that cheerful, infectious laugh and blasphemously pristine, consistent mood, if not out of a sense of duty to myself then out of respect for my colleagues who work so hard to keep precisely her sort of energy away from the vicinity of our hosts. Before the week was out, the boy was going home smiling to himself at the memory of their last conversation. Thankfully, I had conditioned him in preparation for such catastrophes—the reminder of the tension that awaited him at home when he stepped off the bus was enough to lull his mind back to its usual state of a miserable hibernation—yet I knew this girl was no patch of sun or tasty treat. She was here to stay. It frightened me how deftly she slipped under my nose. After generations of thankless, uphill labor, I was faced with the prospect of relinquishing all in submission to her smile. The memory of the warm undertones that bubbled up from deep within the boy at the memory of her smile causes me still to shutter.\n I irked him, I belittled him, I downright scolded him in my best imitation of his father’s voice for his cheek. You can imagine, then, my shock when he steeled his nerve and neglected to drink from the sweet stream of self-pity I offered him. He told me himself that this girl was worth the pain, a revelation that gave me a most unpleasant shock. For centuries, my strategy had been to capitalize on the self-pity of my hosts by maintaining their focus entirely and crushingly on themselves. The bitterness this tactic unfailingly produces kept his parents under my thumb until their separation. I expected the same trap would ensnare their child also, but my suggestions fell suddenly on deaf ears. He had a drive to know this girl, and his deep-set belief that he was, essentially, unloved and unlovable did nothing to curb his momentum. In all my carefully executed precautions, I had not foreseen his sexual drive would rear its head in this manner. I chastise myself for the mistake. Had I studied more carefully the behavioral patterns of his father, molded my contraptions to better accommodate the boy’s hereditary quirks, I might have prevented this disaster from transpiring. As it stands, the animal drive to reproduce is, like me, powerful and resilient and cannot be permanently subdued, only temporarily diminished.\n He surprised even himself, I think, at his boldness and forwardness looking back on what he did next. During a break in class came the briefest of silences, pregnant with the potential for shadow-shattering community, and then he spoke; and at that moment I perceived within myself a distinct and piercing horror that stemmed from the sudden realization that my source of life had suddenly begun to slip away, like sand, no, like water between my sharpened claws. The boy and the girl talked on stools in the back of the classroom, opposite the wide windows, with the morning sun on their faces. His willingness to reveal his most intimate thoughts, including those I had pointedly enforced on him to be the cause of his unlovableness, to this girl—a near total stranger to him, unknown less than a week ago!—it frightened me. So I bit him, hard, on the tip of his ear. It was too risky, you see, to allow a conversation of that nature to continue. They might have begun to discuss me, the boy’s negative self-talk, and he might have let the cat out of the bag and deprived me of the strength that secrecy affords. He was still grimacing from the pinch of the memory of some past embarrassment when the teacher resumed class. But the girl looked worryingly at him, and I at her, for I knew the fight was far from won.\n Before I continue, I feel compelled to address my apparent neglect of the rules. You must understand, taking into account the urgency of my case, why it was necessary for me to inflict more than merely psychological torment on my host. Consider the goal I had to achieve. If the result of my admittedly brash action was the immediate embarrassment, the later regret, and the plummeted social confidence of my host, three dimensions firmly underneath my jurisdiction, can the rules really be said to have been abandoned? Even so, I trust you to keep the details of my misstep within the sphere of your knowledge and mine only.\n That afternoon, the boy flopped onto bed and I robotically conjured his usual evening diet of social comparison and self-loathing that bites so poignantly on the teenage psyche. I had just settled in for a mellow evening of brooding and isolation when the boy received a friend request from the girl. Soon they were volleying messages happily like two ducks in a pond. I spewed my most horrid concoction of degrading insults in his ear, but the boy took even my most clever and piercing threats and—and told them to her, verbatim, as I had whispered them to him! The stupid boy believed my work to be a product of his own imagination, but the untruth of his utterances was instantly checked by the girl, and the secret of my existence was out. I felt the shame and secrecy drain from his mind like the contents of a filthy toilet all at once unclogged. You would have screamed too if you had been there, your life’s work transformed in an instant to shining acceptance and relief.\n She urged him to speak with the school counselor on Monday, and walked him down to the counseling office herself when I attempted to undermine the urgency of his plight. I found us face to face with my old host, whose emotions I could not comprehend nearly as well from this side of his face. The counselor did not return my fiery gaze, although he noticed me the moment we stepped into his office, but gave the boy a long, sad look.\n “I see what’s happening here.”\n “Do I need anti-depressants, sir?” asked my host.\n “Oh, no. Just a daily dose of self-acceptance.”\n\n*\n\n If I have revealed too much of myself and my motivations, so that you look down upon me as the villain of this tale, believe me now when I tell you I have done so for a special purpose. For do I not, also, possess those same heroic traits, of determination, bravery, creativity in my methods, and consistency in my effort, all in service to the biological imperative to survive and reproduce, for which you applaud and congratulate the boy? What does it matter, really, if my methods are unconventional, my form perhaps shocking to you, my feeding style “abnormal”? I would caution you against delivering judgments colored so heavily by dislike for the unfamiliar and the unknown. What is the difference between me, who seek to preserve my existence by any means, even the grossest, and him, who takes the opinion of his friend into account before making a decision to the same end and purpose? I assure you, it is a difference not in type but in degree only. He fought harder, more ruthlessly than I, and so he has won. I, who held the boy’s leash, now cower, packed away and forgotten, in a dark and lonely corner of his mind. He does not visit or feed me, except occasionally and by accident. My strength is waned, my spirit is dehydrated, my form considerably shrunken. With the addition of communal support—that loathsome girl had friends, and introduced them to him—I doubt I shall ever drink from the boy’s vitality again.\n What pains me most is the thought that his (and her?) children will be reared without the guiding influence of my whispers on their young minds. I will be hard pressed to imitate to his children the voice of their father when they have not been primed for years with the backdrop of his incessant complaints.\n The boy has abandoned me. I shiver, cold and alone. But you, you are still here, warm and receptive, believing in the truth of my whispers, attentive to my voice. You will let me in, won’t 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: Dear Diary, Let me be me\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1277\n\nPrompt:\n\nFormat your story in the style of diary entries." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Day 5842:\nI don't know why they won't just let me be, I mean, seriously, I’m not a baby anymore. They always think I will get lead down the garden path by some big bad boy in a big bad car with a big bad attitude.\nThey don't know me at all. I absolutely would not get into that kind of trouble. 100%.\nWhy won't they trust me.\nI try to talk to them, but the words don't come out right and it all gets mis-spoken and misheard, misunderstood and I usually end up in tears. Then I'm suddenly the emotional one.\nI don't know why I bother sometimes. I really don’t.\nI wish I could be like Shayne. She gets along so well with her parents. They talk about EVERYTHING!! And she doesn’t keep a dumb old diary. 'Live in the moment' she says. ‘Take life by the horns, and don't let some horny little boy take you!'\nI did laugh when she said that though. She really is quite funny most of the time.\nToday we were laughing about when we first met and how she had tripped on the step at recess and her face fell straight into my pot of chocolate pudding and I’d just stared at her.\nShe stood up and everyone was laughing and pointing at her. I felt horrible.\nShe didn't seem to care. She just poked her tongue out as far as it could go and licked it off her nose! Some of the kids stopped laughing because they couldn't believe how long her tongue was.\nMy face was red. I was soooo hot I thought my face would melt off. She just laughed and said “I think I like you stranger. I think I may decide to eat your pudding again someday.”\nShe'd wiped her nose with the back of her hand walked off!\nAnd the rest as she says, is hysterical history.\nOh well, better go deal with the ranting rents once again.\nToday’s thought of the day:\nI WISH I HAD COURAGE.\nDAY 5843:\nWell I nearly got yesterday’s courage, but not quite. I almost got the courage to ask mum and dad to sit and have a cuppa with me and have a chat... but it just seemed corny, and they were super busy and being weird again - same as Day 4973, that was the day they told us three kids that we were going to have a baby brother. At their age!\nI hope they aren’t surprising us with another brother or sister. The poor thing won't even be out of high school, and they will be planning for retirement! Anyway, they are being super cagey .\nSo today... not many ramblings to report. Mr Anderson is in a mood this week; I heard his wife is quite sick, so Shayne and I baked some butterfly cakes and picked some proteas from down at the park for him to give to her. And when I say picked, what I mean is we cut through the really hard stems with her mom’s chicken cutting scissors from the kitchen! - Don't worry - we didn't tell her that!\nBut we did add it to the jar of notes that Shayne has in her cupboard.\nThe: \"Sorry mum-I forgot to mention-. \" HA! She said she is going to read them out to her mum on her wedding day. I don't know if Shayne will ever be allowed to get married!\nHope Mrs Anderson is okay. She really is a nice lady.\nToday's thought of the day:\nBE KINDER TO OTHERS\n• • •\nDay 5844\nFinally! it’s here!!! Day 5844 sweet 16! Yay!\nMum and dad said Shayne can come over for family dinner tonight and then we can have a birthday party on the weekend. I have been waiting for this day\nF-O. R. E. V. E-R!\nI can get my licence this year. I can stay out till 11.30pm. I can get a job (probably to pay for the car... - I'm good with that though) AND... I don't have to babysit Mitchell on weekends now. I get the whole weekend off, in writing that though, I would not want to have every weekend off, now that he’s out of nappies, he’s way easier to look after… .and Shayne loves babies, but she doesn’t have brothers and sisters- that’s probably why! Between the baby brother and two nephews - in the babysitting queen and Shayne is the sucker sidekick. She doesn't mind. ANYWAY!! BACK TO ME!!\nToday I wake up 16. Today I celebrate with friend and family. And on-the weekend I have my party to remember with all my friends.\nThought of the day:\nHAPPY SWEET 16 TO ME!!\nDAY 5844 part 2. Sorry Diary, I have never done a part 2 until today… but it was super cool and I just had to let it out!\nI can't believe it. I thought tonight was going to suck big time.\nShayne came over for dinner and all us kid, and nephews and mum and dad were all sitting around the table laughing when Shayne said she had a toast to make. I thought I was going to die... This is verbatim:\nLadies, gentlemen, and little dudes with grotty faces. My name is Shayne and I have been the best friend of this sweet sixteen-year-old gorgeous girl for three years now and since the first day we met and my face fell in her lap- I knew we would be friends forever. I have grown to be like furniture in your family homes and you have all accepted me for who I am, and even put up with my potty mouth here and there. Anyway, this is supposed to be about my best friend and me wishing her the happiest birthday ever.\"\nTHEN!!! SHE LACED HER FINGERS IN MINE AND KISSED MY CHEEK!! AND WHEN SHE SAT DOWN - SHE KEPT HOLDING MY HAND!\nI thought I was going to die! My parents were right there!\nTHEN!!\nMum goes (yes verbatim) I knew it! Why didn't you say something sooner! You two are perfect. Just perfect.\nAND THEN!! SHE JUMPED OUT THE CHAIR SO QUICK IT FELL OVER!! She hugged us saying congratulations and its beautiful, blah blah, blah.\nYou know what dad said - \"I don't get it?\" Turns out he was the only one who didn't know! I don't know why I thought they wouldn't understand, or why I thought they wouldn't love me the same. I’m still the same person and I’m still the same daughter and sister and aunty.\nNot one thing in my life has changed - except the honesty factor.\nYou have been with me for 1095 days now journal, you have helped me gather my thoughts, journal my dreams and ambitions. I have learned to write with the purpose to reflect.\nI have read and re-read you over the last few days dear diary, and I thank you for taking my words and keeping them precious and safe. But for a small while I will be laying down my pen to spend every minute I can growing more free every day from feeling confined in an image I thought I had to be.\nThank you, dear diary. I shall pick up my pen another day, but for now I shall spend every moment I can steal with my beautiful girl Shayne.\nTHOUGHT OF THE DAY JOURNAL:\nBE WHO YOU ARE... BE KIND...\nBE INCITEFUL... BE HUMBLE...\nLIVE IN THE MOMENT AND LOVE YOURSELF AS MUCH AS YOUR FAMILY.\n-WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN JOURNEYS TO JOURNAL-" } ]
[ { "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: Nurture and Nature\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1022\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character sowing seeds for the future (literally or figuratively)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Congratulations! I can't believe after all these years you're both finally going to be parents! I'm so super excited for you both.\"\nMum was clapping her hands like a cymbal- banging monkey and uncoordinatedly jumping up and down- until she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.\n\"I just peed a little!” And with that - she ran out the room laughing.\nHalf the family gathered around the lounge room hung their heads and shook them at their chests. The other half were slapping thighs and rocking back in laughter - I was one of the ones rocking back and forth.\n• • •\n“I stand here on this most precious of moments and share with you the story of our eternal love and gratefulness of our family. We welcome Henry, dear Henry…”\nThe entire room of gathered friends and family yelled in unison “DEAR HENRY, DEAR HENRY!” Cheers roared out, tables were banged, and glasses clinked.\nAs the ruckus dimmed, the father of the bride continued.\n“You all know me, and you all know I hate this standing round talking, so I think this is the perfect time to hand over to the real spokesperson of the family. Darling…would you like to continue?”\nShe sat for a minute, tears spilling over her lids and composed herself as she moved her napkin from her lap to the table.\n“It was my dad, the best pop in the world, that came to us the day you were born, carrying a red pine seedling with your name and date of birth embroidered in the pink ribbon wrapped around it. We weren't sure what we were to do with the gift. I knew they grew into the most beautiful giants of trees.”\n\"It's for her future. It's the tree that will keep on giving.\"\nHis voice had been soft and sincere, and his eyes had been full of love.\n\"I'll plant it for her and nurture it, as you shall nurture her. You'll see. They will both be wondrous and beautiful as they grow and reach for the stars.” He had told me.\nI asked him about the seedling, and he said he had gone to the nursery on the day we told him we would soon be calling him pop. He browsed the trees for hours until he picked the right one, the perfect one to put your name to.\nAs you grew, so did the tree. As you learnt to walk, your tree learned to sway with the wind, and true to his word you both grew and reached for the stars.\nNan made picnics for you to have under the evergreen growing branches of your tree. and when you were 6 and your tree was good and sturdy, pop hung a swing to push you in for hours.\nAnd when Nan bought you a leather-bound journal at 13 years old, you would go and sit under that tree and write your hopes and dreams in the shade of its branches.\nSometimes we would see you just sitting under the tree at 16, just being there.\nAnd as you grew further and met the man you would marry, he knew the importance of that tree and proposed with moonlight shining through the leaves.\n“It’s been a while since you have visited your tree and although the memories will always remain, pop had one thing in mind when he bought that tree the day he found out you would be coming into this world, and that was to give you a wedding gift.\nYou will cry tears of sadness and tears of happiness, dad would you like to do the honours?”\nThe sturdy old man stood tall. Feet planted shoulder width apart as if he himself were a giant of the forest. The smile he shared with his daughter as she kissed him on the cheek melted every heart in the room.\n“I love you dad.” She whispered into his ear.\nHe turned to the bride\n\"My darling granddaughter, behind you, you see the all the pictures on the screen of you and your tree and all the joy and happiness you brought to not only your Mum and Dad, but to Nan and I, always. Your tree was no longer able to protect you from the bright sun or give you cover from wind and rain in the form it had grown. Your tree is your ever evolving and everlasting gift from us to you.\"\nHe handed her a set of keys.\n\"It almost shattered my heart to say goodbye to your beautiful protector, but soon you will have your own precious child and that child deserves his or her own tree. Turn to the screen our darling granddaughter, and mind not to ruin your makeup.” His eyes glistened and he lowered his head.\nShe turned to the screen and saw a beautiful timber house. She looked at the keys and then at the house.\n\"A house? We can't accept a house!\"\n\"Look at the background.\" She looked at the background on the oversized screen. The house was exactly where her tree had stood.\n\"Grandpa! Is that my tree! You turned my tree into a house!\"\nTears streamed down her face.\n“And in the backyard, I shall plant another for your child to be, and it shall be nurtured as your tree was. It shall bring endless fond memories for all the family, and you shall be forever protected in your tree house.\"\nThe old man raised a glass.\n\"A toast to the bride and groom. May they always feel safe and secure and grow stronger together each day.”\n“To the bride and groom!”\nGlasses clinked and cheers roared out while tears were dried on napkins and sleeves and the bride and groom hugged her grandparents tightly.\nNan was clapping like a cymbal-banging monkey and jumping up and down uncoordinatedly…until she stopped dead in her tracks.\n\"Oh shoot!\" Nan said to the bride.\n\"You darn went and squeezed me too tight! I just peed a little!\nFaces fell to hands and people leaned back in laughter as nan went tottling off to the loo." } ]
[ { "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 the Father\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2990\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone living vicariously through someone else." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Dreams of the Father\n“It is a wise man who knows his own son.”\n - William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice\nIt was one of the first things imprinted in Charlie’s mind as a child, an integral part of the foundation of his memory and a guidepost for the path to be followed…followed, not blazed. The picture that hung above the desk in his father’s study showed a handsome young man with long, wild dark brown hair, holding a football in one hand and a helmet in the other. The larger-than-considered-normal for residential use photo dominated the room and brought it closer to the realm of a shrine than a workplace environment.\n Charlie was allowed to play in that room when his Dad wasn’t working, pushing a toy truck on the rug along the circular logo of his parents’ college, or spinning himself around on the desk chair until he was dizzy. He was often with his parents when they watched football on TV, which was more often than not every fall weekend, and keying on his father’s passion for the game, he understood the players were the elite, chosen people of this world. When his Dad’s old college team was on the screen, it wasn’t like church; it was church.\nAs Charlie grew older, he would study the man in the football uniform in the picture whenever he was in his Dad’s office. He was impressed by the vibrant colors and equipment, moved by the young man’s look of fierce determination, and proud that it was his Dad. He could see himself in that uniform, holding that football, unaware that the fruits of the seeds don’t always grow as intended.\nRick’s high school friends dubbed a new phrase for him as he dominated all aspects of the teenage years, from the field of play and the classroom to the dance floor of the gym and all other elements of the world of romance. “All everything” became “You can’t think of anything he isn’t”. He had the body and brain to be anything. He chose football.\nAll-state linebacker, visits from a number of nationally recognized coaches, and offers from thirteen schools, Rick was destined for fame and fortune. He was an All-Conference selection at linebacker and a fixture on many NFL draft boards. With a 6’4” 250 lb. frame, it seemed impossible that a few ounces of material could sink it all.\nThe 15-yard penalty for the illegal chop block was little compensation for the devastating knee injury, the worst the orthopedic surgeon had ever seen. A year of rehab and perhaps an over-optimistic prognosis made him a late-round pick, but the knee blew out again and shredded the reconstructed ligaments in the first preseason game. It was over.\n----------\n“I don’t have a problem with it, Susan. Soccer is probably a good activity for little boys. And he’s too young for football right now anyway.”\n“You don’t have a problem with it, Rick? Like there could be something wrong with a little boy playing soccer on a team with his friends?”\n“No, of course not. It’s just that, well you know, it’s…soccer. It’s a great sport for girls, but I always looked at it like boys’ soccer is for guys who can’t do anything else…you know, not big enough, can’t jump, can’t hit a curve ball. And have you ever seen the stands at a varsity soccer game? There are barely enough people there to account for one parent per player. Susan, Charlie’s strong, athletic, and he can run like a freaking gazelle. He may not be big enough to be a linebacker, but he could be a great defensive back…or maybe a wide receiver. Of course, we could always bulk him up. Nope, he’s destined for Friday night lights.”\n“Have you ever watched a soccer game?”\n“Not really.”\n“The players are very talented.”\n“Sure, I suppose they have some ability to play the game.”\n“And do you know what else soccer is for him?”\n“What?”\n“Fun.”\n-----------\nCharlie was a man amongst boys at those early stages- taller, more skilled, and faster than any other kid, not just on his team, but in the entire league. It was flag football until the 7th Grade and then full pads and contact with the Junior Tigers program until high school. He didn’t need his Dad to be one of the coaches to get the extra attention, but Rick was there every night pushing him to try harder, to do better. Charlie always needed to do better if he wanted to play on Sundays.\n“Rick, I think you and the other coaches take this all a little too seriously. It’s like you're trying to whip these little guys into men out there. Call me naïve, but isn’t this just supposed to be fun at this stage, an activity for children?”\n“Susan, he’ll be on the high school team in a year, and they aren’t going to be babysitting these boys. The kids will be working their butts off to get some playing time and to win some games. Coach Larson isn’t going to be taking it easy on any of them.”\nTheir backyard looked like a cross between the TV set of American Ninja Warrior and a Marine Corps obstacle course- tires to quick-step through, a 20’ climbing pole, platforms at ascending levels for standing jumps, a horizontal bar for pull-ups, a slab of concrete under a canopy for jump rope and free weights. Inspirational messages were everywhere- “Hard Work Pays Off”, “Don’t Ever Give Up”, “When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Going”, and so on.\nCharlie didn’t mind the workouts. Rick’s drills weren’t abusive, but they were disciplined and challenging, and Charlie felt good at the end of every session. The pain in his arms and legs, sweat seeping into his eyes, gave him a sense of accomplishment, and he was pleasing his Dad.\nSometimes we do things in repetition without quite grasping the purpose. Habit, routine, and direction from outside forces take command, and the action is repeated over and over again without a particular purpose in mind. Charlie liked the regimen; he was just a little uneasy about the ultimate goal.\n----------\nSoccer, football…soccer, football. The two had a bit of a match going on in Charlie’s head. He loved playing soccer, and he loved his teammates, but he knew ever since those days of pushing that little truck around under the umbrella of his Dad’s picture that football was his destiny. Up until high school, he was able to do both. Now they would both be high school fall sports. Time to choose.\n“Charlie, if you like soccer, play soccer. Your dad can’t make you play football.”\n“He’s not going to make me play football, Joey. I just know that’s what he wants me to do. I want to please him, you can understand that.”\n“Charlie, whatever you do should please him.”\nThat hit Charlie. Would his Dad support him, be proud of him, whatever path he chose? He could only hope so. He did know that running around in short pants kicking a ball would break Dad’s heart.\n“We need you, Charlie. You are a scoring machine. We could have a great team.”\n“I’ll miss it. I’ll miss you guys.”\n----------\nMoms have a way of knowing things that others cannot perceive, a special extra sense, especially for the thoughts and feelings of their boys.\n“Charlie, do you want to play football?”\n“What? Of course, I do, Mom.”\n“Charlie…”\nMoms also have a special way of saying things. One word, the tone in which his name was spoken, and Charlie knew immediately. She saw the problem, understood the conflict, and no matter what, she would support him, be a stalwart defender in his corner. She’d be the flak jacket he’d need should he walk into his Dad’s office carrying a soccer ball to announce his decision.\n“It’s ok, Mom, sure I like soccer, but I like football too.”\n“Charlie, I love your Dad too. I know he’d be disappointed, but you have to do what you want to do. It’s your life, Charlie. He’d understand it.”\n“It will be ok, Mom. Thanks.”\n----------\n“Rick, I’m not sure Charlie’s heart is in football. I think he might rather play soccer.”\nThe subject had been floating around the periphery of their relationship for some time. Now it was crunch time. Susan felt Rick was pushing too hard; Rick thought he was providing support and encouragement. Susan thought football was too dangerous; Rick saw a college scholarship and a professional career.\nThe first day of practice arrived, and Charlie, football in hand, left the house with his Dad.\n“It’ll be fine, Mom.”\n---------\nRick’s name was inscribed on the “Wall of Fame” at the entrance to the gym at Lincoln High School. His feats on the high school and college gridirons were well known throughout the town, so his son’s arrival at his first football practice drew the immediate attention of all the coaches. Charlie’s own exploits with the Junior Tigers only wettened their appetites.\n“The kid is gifted, Rick, that’s for sure.”\n“Speed, size, great hands, he’d be a great wide receiver. But you guys don’t throw much, so maybe corner or safety. I know you don’t like playing guys on both offense and defense, Coach, but you might want to make an exception here.”\nRick was at that first practice. Rick was at every practice. He had Coach Larson’s ear ever since those flag football days, and even if he didn’t want Rick’s input, Coach Larson got it.\n----------\nCharlie wasn’t the first, but he was certainly the best freshman to ever suit up for a Lincoln High varsity football game. Nothing in the high school experience matches the excitement of those Friday night games- the cool crisp air, the bright lights, the packed stadium, little kids tossing a football around behind the stands, the band, the cheerleaders, the feeling of community, as the players separated into groups for their pregame warmup. Rick was already in the stands employing an unusual twist to the popular game-prep technique of visualization. He knew all the routes, and he was imagining Charlie running an “Out-n-Go”, pulling in the long pass, and streaking into the end zone. He could see it, feel it, damn near be it.\n“Jesus Christ, Susan, our quarterback can’t throw for shit. Charlie was wide open.”\n“Watch your language, Rick! And his parents could be sitting close by.”\nRick was right. The Lincoln QB couldn’t throw for shit, but Charlie could play defense like Dion Sanders. It was an out route, Charlie timed it perfectly, cut in front of the receiver, snatched the ball out of the air, and raced 65 yards for a touchdown. Rick was with him every step of the way.\n----------\nDue to his quarterback’s obvious limitations, and because of Charlie’s rare abilities, Coach Larson soon moved his talented freshman receiver to running back where he’d have the ball in his hands all night long. Charlie did not disappoint. He could run inside. He could run outside. Their quarterback was able to get a short pass to him and then watch him run wild. And in a league not known for its passing game, Charlie had seven interceptions that first season, including two pick-sixes. The kid was a stud.\nRick saw his past and the future that wasn’t in every one of Charlie’s spectacular plays. He knew the game, the feel of the helmet, the pads, the hard hits on a ball carrier, the thrill of the cheering crowd. He wasn’t watching Charlie; he was Charlie. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; once in a while, the apple never even falls off the tree.\n----------\nThe letters started coming during his sophomore year. By the time Charlie was a Junior, he was getting visits from coaches across the country, not just from the recruiting coordinators, but from the schools’ head coaches. Everyone wanted Charlie.\n“I told you, Susan. Our boy can write his own ticket.”\nCharlie’s stock went up after every game, and Rick’s sense of pride soared. In the grocery store, the barbershop, at the gas station, or in a parking lot, Rick sang the praises of his son’s exploits the previous weekend. He knew all of Charlie’s stats without writing them down, and he could do a mental replay of every play that his son was involved in. It was his second shot at stardom.\nMeals could no longer be served on the dining room table as it was covered with college recruitment letters and Rick’s notes on the various programs and coaches. Dad, advisor, agent, and secretary, Rick played all the roles. He was already beginning to regret the day they (“they”, not Charlie) would have to decide on a school. He was in the moment both at the games and at that dining room table.\n----------\n“Unbelievable game, Charlie. Your punt return was awesome.”\n“Thanks, Joey. How’s your team doing?”\n“We suck, but that’s ok. It’s fun. But we sure could have used you.”\nFun, the word Charlie recalled from so long ago. He missed those guys. They weren’t as “cool” or as popular as the football players, but they lined up a little better with his own personality. He sometimes felt he didn’t quite fit in with the macho mentality that many of his teammates tried to exhibit. He couldn’t quite act as cool and tough as he was supposed to. \nSusan sensed it.\n“Charlie, I ran into Joey’s mom at the grocery store the other day. She says our soccer team isn’t very good, but Joey loves it.”\n“That’s good.”\n“Charlie, there’s one more year left.”\n“What do you mean? One more year left for what?”\n“If you wanted to play soccer with Joey and your other friends.”\n“Are you serious? Everyone would think I was nuts, especially Dad. I’ve played football for three years. I can’t switch now.”\n“I understand. You’ve gone a long way down that road. But if you’re on the wrong road, Charlie, the sooner you get off, the better. It’s never too late.”\n“It’s too late, Mom.”\n----------\n“Rick, I’m sure this will sound crazy, but I think you should talk to Charlie about football this fall.”\n“What do you mean?”\n“Well, I think he might like to play soccer.”\nShe might as well have said Charlie would like to take a quick trip to the moon that afternoon.\n“What?! Yeah, that is crazy. Why would you even say that?”\n“He misses it. He’s always missed it. I think he’s played football to please you, Rick. But I think he’d have more fun playing soccer.”\n“Fun? The kid is seventeen, Susan.”\nRick pointed to the stacks of papers on the dining room table.\n“Look at these offers. Ohio State wants him. Notre Dame wants him. Southern Cal wants him. Everyone wants him. No, this is too important. His future is football.”\nA visibly perturbed Rick left the room as Susan continued to stare at the paperwork on the table.\n----------\n Friday night lights, Rick was in his element. He didn’t need to feel the excitement; he was the excitement. It was Senior Night and with the team cruising at seven wins and no losses, it was an overflow crowd. Rick and Susan stood with the other parents along the 50-yard line at halftime waiting to be introduced. The crowd went wild when their names were called and Charlie handed a rose to his Mom. As they walked to midfield, Rick sucked in the applause. He was back in his glory, back on the field, shredding blockers and sacking a quarterback. He wasn’t remembering, he was there.\nThe game continued. It was their toughest opponent of the season, and it was a back-and-forth struggle for the Tigers. Rick was into every play.\nIt wasn’t a particularly hard hit, but the collision was in all the wrong places. When the play was over, the players got up and headed for their respective huddles, all save one. Charlie remained lying on the ground. He wasn’t moving.\nA parent’s heart dies at such moments. After the initial moments of shock, hoping and praying their son would rise to his feet, Rick and Susan raced out onto the field. They watched in horror as the paramedics worked on their boy, stabilized him, and put him into the ambulance.\n----------\nThe hospital waiting room, the hallways, and the elevators were crowded with players, coaches, and parents. Half the school was downstairs in the lobby or out in the parking lot. Considering the number of people present, the silence was staggering.\nRick couldn’t move. He sat in that same chair for hours, while Susan made frequent trips to the small chapel on the first floor. A palpable cloud of worry, hope, prayer, and tears hovered over the building.\nRick and Susan were called to a small room. One of the team of doctors entered.\n“Your son is going to survive. He’s in serious but stable condition.”\nThese were the words Rick and Susan wanted to hear, but there was no joy in the doctor’s voice, only sadness in his eyes.\n“But he suffered a fracture vertebrae. He will be paralyzed from the waist down.”\n----------\nTheir home had the feel of a funeral home the next day. There were many things Susan could have said, but she didn’t. At one point, as she walked through the house, she saw Rick sitting at the dining room table staring at all those offers. He swept them all off the table with one hand, pounded the table with the other, and cried.\nSusan could only lower her head and walk away. She was again searching her mind, heart, and soul for the right words to say to Charlie on their next visit. She would be strong for her son." } ]
[ { "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 Memory Box\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2387\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Memory Box\nRyan dances to the music in his head as he moves around the kitchen laying out the fixings for a sub. At 60 years old he is still limber enough to glide and spin effortlessly around the kitchen but after one too many dips he is quickly reminded that there is a difference between young at heart and young in body. Resigned to just bobbing his head with steady hands he places the top bread onto his masterpiece. Reaching for a knife he expertly holds the sandwich in place as he cuts it in half. He stands back to admire his work before placing the knife into the sink and placing the fixings back in their respective places. He grabs a soda from the fridge and a bag of chips off the counter and picking up the plate holding his sandwich he very carefully makes his way to his recliner.\nHe sets his things down on the foldaway table near his chair and reaches for the remote. He looks around for a moment to make sure that everything is as it should be before settling into to his chair. He turns on the tv and immediately finds a football game just starting. Sliding the table in front of him he arranges everything, opening the bag of chips and dumping a few on the plate and twisting the top off the soda. He clasps his hands together and rubs them in anticipation.\nHis eyes flickers to the screen and he absentmindedly reaches for a chip and pops it in his mouth. He readjusts himself in the seat and takes a swig from his soda. He watches intently temporarily forgetting the spread he prepared for himself. He screams at a failed play his knee bumping the table reminding him of his forgotten food. He steadies the table and braces for damage. Satisfied that there is no spillage he grabs half of his sub as he watches the game and prepares to take a bite.\n“Ryan.” He stops sandwich halfway to his mouth and turns to see his wife of 35 years standing in the doorway dressed in her gardening gear complete with big floppy hat holding a pair of shears. He waits. “Hey what are you up too?”\n“Well let’s see there’s a sandwich in my hand and a game on the TV I’d give you three guesses babe.” However, 35 years of marriage had taught him to never go with the first thought, so he placed his sandwich down on the plate and responded, “just watching the game while I have lunch.”\n“Oh.”\n35 years of marriage had also taught him that he wasn’t going to get to finish the game today and that his sandwich was going to have to wait as well. “Why are you looking for a lovely assistant,” he chuckles.\nShe smiles. “A lovely assistant huh, yes, I would like you to assist me. Assist me in the thing I have asked you to do for the past 3 weekends.” At 52 Melinda had aged gracefully maintaining her youthful glow and had learned patience and had gained wisdom all of which has kept her marriage going strong. So, it was with wisdom that she did not respond with the first thought that came to mind. Instead, she responded with patience, “Well I was wondering if you could go through your closet today.”\nHe furrows his brow in confusion, “for what?”\nShe took a small deep breath he didn’t register before responding, “you know go through your clothes see what you don’t wear anymore or what you can’t fit.” He sits there confusion etched in every line of his face forcing one more deep breath to escape her as she keeps herself from rolling her eyes. “The drive sweetheart, we were going to donate old clothes to the Reuse Recycle Clothing Drive. You didn’t forget, did you?”\n“Forget I have no idea what you’re even talking about.” He nods slowly, “oh yeah, the drive. Oh, sweetheart I’m sorry I did forget.”\n“I’m starting to doubt you even heard me the first three times I told you about it.” She shakes her head, “it’s ok dear but I would really appreciate it if you took care of it today.”\n“Translation get up and do it now or regret it later.” He nods, “Sure let me just put this away and I will get right to it.”\n“Thank you love. I’ll be in the garden if you need me. Oh, and there are some empty boxes in the garage,” she smiles and walks to the backyard.\nHe looks down at his sandwich and then at the game, “Sorry guys.”\nHe gets up and takes his things to the kitchen wrapping the sandwich and putting it in the fridge. He heads out to the garage and finds four boxes leaning against the wall he grabs that and after searching for a while for some packing tape he drags everything upstairs to the bedroom.\nHe stands at the closet for a moment surveying the two sides. The closet was a walk-in big enough to house both of their needs without an overlapping of their things. Both sides were neat hers was color coded and season coded from the looks of it. While that amount of detail could not be said about his side his things were still neat and organized. He blew out a breath and begin to make the first two boxes. How do you know what you’re supposed to donate?\nHe starts thumbing through his clothes. If donating means getting rid of the things that you don’t like, then he had nothing to donate. What sense did it make to buy something you didn’t like. He opened drawers and pulled out a few pants holding them up to his waist. He could admit he may have gained a few unwanted pounds but if he gained it then he could lose it right and if he donated the pants and then lost the weight, he’d have nothing to wear. He drops the pants and looks up on the shelves.\nIf you’re supposed to donate what you don’t wear anymore what if the only reason why you don’t wear it anymore is because you just don’t have the occasion to and if given the right circumstance, you would definitely wear it. He takes another deep breath as he stands on tip toe and pulls at the folded clothes on the top shelf. He tugs and after feeling resistance he does a quick yank. Losing his balance, he falls hard on his butt bringing the clothes and other items crashing down onto his head.\nHe groans and rubs at his head. He looks around and laughs to himself, “I’m pretty sure this is not what you had in mind when you sent me up here.” He starts to clean up when he comes across an ornately painted box. He picks the box up and turns it over and runs his fingers across the words Chloe’s Memories spelled out in the vines of the flowers. He settles back down with the box and lifts the latch.\nHe opens it and finds a treasure trove of things. He lifts out a picture of him when he was much younger holding a little baby with their hand wrapped around his finger. “Careful Ryan, she’ll wrap you around her little finger before you know it.”\nHe laughs as he places the picture back into the box and reaches in for another of a little girl no more than six standing beside a bike grinning from ear to ear. “I did it daddy did you see I did it no more training wheels.” He smiles and places the picture back into the box.\nHe rummages around the box finding a picture of girl about thirteen years old in a dark green formal dress and a corsage on her left wrist her hair pulled up into a bun and a big grin. “Daddy will you be my date to the Father Daughter dance.” His eyes begin to mist as he places the picture back in the box.\nHe pulls out a small teddy bear. “I hate boys. They’re dumb and stupid. I never want another boyfriend ever again.” He chuckles which turns into a full-blown laugh with tears forming in the corners of his eyes.\nHe wipes away the tears and with a smile he says, “Yeah you hating boys didn’t last to long did it.”\nHe places the teddy bear back in the box and continues rummaging through the box. He finds a picture of her at 18 dressed in her dark blue graduation gown adorned with many cords. He lightly traces the photograph of her standing there between him and Melinda “I was so proud of you baby…” he wipes at a stray tear, “so proud,” he whispers.\n“Ryan…Ryan we have to go!” Melinda yells from downstairs. The sound of his name pulls him back and he sets the picture back in the box and closes it.\nHe moves to the bedroom door, “What,” he yells down.\n“Come on we have to go,” she yells back up. He looks back at the empty boxes and takes a step back to look in on the mess on the closet floor and winces. He turns and leaves heading to meet his wife.\n10 hours later Melinda stands with tears threatening to fall while Ryan stands with an arm wrapped around her at the foot of a hospital bed. They both look on as Chloe sits cheeks flushed and hair still matted to her head with her husband by her side holding her new little baby girl.\n“Beautiful,” Melinda whispers.\nChloe’s husband nods and smiles and gently kisses the top of his daughter’s head before placing a soft kiss on Chloe’s head. She leans into him smiling and looking down at her baby. The pain and chaos of the last 10 hours long forgotten as she holds her close. She looks up at her parents, “do you want to hold her?”\nHer father moves towards her first. Chloe gently transfers her baby into her dad’s arms, and he carefully cradles her head as he brings her close. He looks down at her smiling as he traces her cheek and little fingers prompting her to stretch and latch onto his finger. Chloe sighs, “he looks just like that picture of him holding me you remember?”\nMelinda nods and smiles, “a little rounder and a little greyer but yeah just the same,” she says emotion clouding her voice. She wipes a tear away and reaches out, “ok my turn.”\nHe gently transfers the baby to Melinda’s arms and watches as she talks and coos. “You should tell them,” Chloe’s husband whispers.\n“Tell us what,” Ryan and Melinda answer in unison. Silence feels the room. Ryan and Melinda look at her expectantly.\n“We’ve finally settled on a name” Chloe responds.\nMelinda smiles, “No pressure but did you go with Isabella I really liked that one.”\nChloe looks to her husband, and he nods. She turns back and smiles, “well then say hello to your granddaughter Ryan Isabella James.”\n“Oh, Chloe that’s beautiful Ryan Isabe---” she stops and looks at Ryan, “Ryan,” she whispers.\nChloe smiles widens as she looks at her father, “What do you think dad?”\nRyan, eyes glistening and smiling, moves towards Chloe and places a kiss atop her forehead as a small tear escapes his eye, “it’s beautiful baby.” He stands up and grasp her hand. She smiles tears streaming down her face as she watches her mom with her baby.\nShe leans into her husband’s chest, “I love you always ok.” He smiles and places a light kiss on her lips.\nFour hours later Melinda and Ryan return home tired and beyond happy. They both head upstairs and when they enter the room Melinda stops. “What’s wrong sweetheart?” Ryan asks as he makes his way around her. He looks at the empty boxes in the middle of the floor. “I promise you I started then I just got distracted and then Chloe had the baby.” Melinda turns towards him and gives him a hug and light peck on the lips. “Am I forgiven?”\nShe nods and leans her head on his chest. “I just became a grandma. My baby just had a baby. This can wait.”\nHe smiles, “Translation you’re forgiven today but the moment your eyes open this mess better be straighten up and the clothes off to the donation center.” He holds her a little tighter, “I’ll get it taken care of as soon as I get up sweetheart.”\nShe smiles, “I know.” He chuckles as she moves away and heads to the bed. She looks over her shoulder as she kicks her shoes off, “you coming?”\nHe nods, “in just a minute.” He heads out of the bedroom and down into the basement. He flicks on the light and walks over to his workstation in the middle of the room. He takes a cover off a small object in the center of the table revealing an ornately painted box. He turns it over and grabs some paintbrushes and paints. He works hunched over the box for a few hours before setting the brushes down and walking away revealing the words Ryan’ Memories spelled out in the vines of the flowers.\nHe makes his way to the bed and right before he gets in he spares a glance to the mess. He kicks off his shoes and then drags a box into the closet closing the door behind him he works at separating clothes. Not sure of what he should donate he comes up with a system for every two things he puts away he donates one thing. He picks up the memory box left on the floor and carefully places it back on the top shelf. Two hours later he drags himself to the bed and passes out.\nA little after ten that morning Melinda gets up and notices the neatly packed boxes lining the wall. She inches the closet door open and sees that it is once again neat and free of clutter. She looks over at her sleeping husband lightly snoring and smiles, “I love you too Ryan.”" } ]
[ { "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: Spring Cleaning\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2133\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I should’ve known better. There is a fundamental, unspoken rule of household maintenance that every mother knows. I knew The Rule, but I broke it. My intentions were good, but since I ignored The Rule, I deserved and accepted the consequences.\n See, my family had a problem. Somehow over the years, our home had mysteriously accumulated an alarming amount of stuff that qualified us as prime candidates for a hoarding intervention. After perusing websites featuring supernaturally organized spaces where no human actually lived, I became starstruck with unrealistic expectations and decided to take matters into my own hands. In other words, the spring-cleaning bug bit me, hard. I tingled with motivation and determination to declutter my house. I craved that sweet release; the sheer satisfaction that can only be achieved through the art of the perfect purge. \n However, in my excitement, I forgot The Rule: Never attempt to declutter a house when people are actually present in that house. It won’t work! (You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Remember that time you tried to throw out your kid’s toothbrush and she cried for a week after she found it in the trash?) \n If I’d followed The Rule, this would be a delightful, award-winning, story of how I conquered clutter and saved the world’s nakedness problem by donating a box of outgrown items to charity. Instead, this is the story of the time I broke The Rule and failed to fill a box with outgrown items for charity. \n The morning of the purge started with a large, cardboard box and the word, “DONATE”, written in black, stinky marker on the side. And a cat. (Wait. What?) After I removed the cat, Barnaby, from the box, I dropped in my daughter’s outgrown soccer cleats. Dusting off my hands, I felt the triumph…the victory! One less thing to clutter up my ultimate vision of a spotless, pristine house. \n Feeling that “spring cleaning vibe”, I opened the windows and turned on some hard-core, head-banging, motivation. That’s right—Disney music. As I danced and sang along with an utterly delightful clean-up song, I ventured into my husband’s closet for a stack of raggedy, old t-shirts he’d said he wanted to donate. \n With my arms full of holey, sweat-stained shirts that any naked person would be honored to wear, I sang along with Mary Poppins about spoonfuls of sugar and danced to the box. My daughter, Rylee, blocked my path and frowned down at the discarded cleats. I watched as she leaned over and took out her outgrown soccer cleats. Barnaby must’ve been watching, too; he immediately jumped back in the newly emptied box.\n “MOM! These are the cleats I wore when I (something something soccer words).” \n “But, they’re too sm…” My voice trailed off. Helplessly, I watched her scamper back to her room; cleats in hand. \n Okay, no problem. I shook it off; proud of her for responsibly putting the shoes away where they belonged. After all, the cleats only took up a little space in Rylee’s closet. I had bigger fish to fry and plenty of other things to donate. Like, the raggedy old shirts I dropped on top of the cat.\n Barnaby jumped out of the box and scowled at me after being pummeled by the shirt avalanche. I fist-pumped the air and congratulated myself; happy to get those shirts out of the way. \n Disney’s Elsa sang about letting it go, and it seemed to fit the situation. So, I sang along and danced into the kitchen. After a near-fatal Tupperware encounter, I bandaged my head and found a few things to add to the donation box. I discovered a neglected electric skillet we’d used one time four years ago, and about fifty plastic lids that didn’t fit anything. As I ventured toward the box with my arms overflowing (leaving a trail of plastic lids in my wake), I caught sight of my husband; headed toward our bedroom—carrying the shirts from the donation box. \n The cat jumped out of the box just in time to avoid being slapped by a rogue plastic lid. I emptied my armload of unused kitchen items before I followed my husband.\n “Hello, my darling true love and handsome life-partner. I’m spring cleaning. Didn’t you want to donate those shirts?”\n “These great workout shirts?” He put his hand to his heart and looked at me as if I’d suggested he slaughter an infant. “I can’t get rid of these.” To close the issue, my 6’2” husband stuffed the shirts in the very, top of the closet; beyond my 5’ self’s reach. \n It wasn’t a total loss, though because I discovered a dusty, stuffed bear in our closet and a stack of dusty old books to donate. As long as they took their allergy medicine, someone would be grateful to find these. Thinking happy cleaning thoughts, I sang along to, “Hi, Ho”, sneezed out a nose full of dust, and marched back to the box. \n Barnaby stared up at me from his new favorite spot. He saw me and skedaddled before I dropped the books and bear into the box. Hmmm…what happened to the electric skillet and the lids?\n A weird sound came from the living room. Being somewhat used to weird sounds, due to the presence of children in my home, I felt no panic or dismay. Upon investigation of the sound, I discovered my younger daughter, Haven, leapfrog-sliding from plastic lid to plastic lid across our hardwood floor. (Shloop shhh shhh shloop shhh shhh) Who could blame her? It looked like fun and besides, I’d left a lovely layer of lily pad lids for her to leap. She giggled and grinned at me with a chocolate-covered mouth, took a bite of the peanut butter cup in her hand, and leaped her tiny, bare foot to the next lid (Shloop shhh). The trail she built from the lids she rescued from the donation box, led down the hallway to the playroom. \n “By the way, Mom, you should ask someone before getting rid of their birthday present, you know.” (Shloop shhh). \n Oh, yeah.\n The electric skillet that was mysteriously absent from the donation box had been her fourth birthday present. All she ate that entire year was chocolate chip pancakes. With fantasies of family-created, daily, delicious, homemade pancakes; we gave her the skillet. I used it the morning after her birthday. Then, she switched to frozen waffles and we never used the skillet again. \n I opened my mouth to ask Haven about the location of the electric skillet, but I sneezed instead. And sneezed again. By then, my little frog had disappeared into the playroom.\n After sneezing three more times, I closed the windows and attempted to walk to the playroom. \nBy that I mean I took a few steps, slipped on one of the plastic lids (“they’re lily pads, Mom”), and landed flat on my back. This is where most sane people would’ve given up, but not me. I listened as, Hercules sang and encouraged me to, “Go the Distance”. Painfully, I got back up and limped to the playroom. \n Deep inside the dark depths of the playroom closet, I discovered a garbage bag full of dress-up clothes. My children were small for their ages, so at 8 and 11, they physically fit in the dress-up clothes; but I was confident they’d emotionally outgrown them. I pulled out a bedazzled, princess dress just as the song, “Remember Me,” began. \n “Remember how cute she was in this at that party? They grow up so fast.” My Nostalgic Shoulder Angel appeared and reminded me it’s ok to cry. \n “NO!” I yelled and the Nostalgic Shoulder Angel careened into a box of unused LEGO below. “Alexa. Turn off!” As I stomped back to the donation box, I crammed the dress into the bag. \n Barnaby saw me coming and escaped the empty box just before I tossed the bag in it. At this point, I didn’t even remember what I’d put in the box last time. I cracked my back, sneezed, and realized my nose was stuffy. That reminded me of the dusty books and bear that were suspiciously MIA from the donation box. \n “Do you smell something burning?” My husband asked as he passed by with an armload of dusty books.\n “I think it’s dust. My nose is stuffy.” I sneezed. \n On my way to the girls’ bedroom, I passed the kitchen where both of my children were engulfed in some sort of messy project. (Is that flour on the ceiling?) Refusing to be deterred from my ultimate decluttering plan, I decided not to interrupt them. I did notice, however, that Rylee had the dusty bear. It was affixed to her middle with a belt like a baby sling. Shaking my head in bewilderment, I trudged toward my intended destination.\n The girls’ closet was one of the more organized places in my house. For practical reasons, I kept their clothes arranged by style and size. I recycled clothes in and out of their closet on a regular basis, so I didn’t expect to find much to donate in there. Also, if any of my family’s hoarding issues were due to me, it would be revealed through my tendency to hang on to their girly clothes. Not the clothes they actually wore; but the clothes I wanted them to wear. \n I’ll admit it. As soon as I found out they were girls, I clapped and giggled with glee at the thought of the frilly dresses, sparkly shoes, and giant hair bows I’d force them…I mean allow them to wear. Kids wear what their parents tell them to wear, right? Ha! That’s one of those things people say before they actually have children of their own. \n My ideas of bows and bonnets were blown away on Rylee’s second Easter when she refused to wear the dresses I’d bought her. She was polite about it as she ignored my attempts at persuasion and put on her favorite one-piece swimsuit. I’d read somewhere that if I worded it a certain way, she’d have to choose one of the options I gave her.\n “Do you want to wear the pink dress or the yellow dress, Rylee?”\n “No, thank you.” She slid her tiny toes into a pair of plastic play shoes, grabbed her Easter basket and waited by the door for us to catch up with her plan.\n Of course, I saved those dresses for Haven, but she wouldn’t wear them, either. \n “Too itchy,” she said. \n I’d passed the itchy dresses on to our nieces a long time ago, so I searched for any other outgrown item I could find. Grabbing a worn out t-shirt dress, I headed back to the donation box.\n My nose unclogged just in time to smell the smoke. The smoke alarm started beeping. \n “I’ve got it!” My husband opened windows and turned on fans. \n “We burnt a few.” Rylee emerged from the smoke-filled kitchen wearing a tiara and fairy wings. She held a plate of burnt pancakes and a magic wand. \n I felt something get snatched out of my arms.\n “That’s my naked dress! It’s so soft it makes me feel naked!” Haven yelled back at me as she tossed the dress in her room. She reappeared moments later and I saw that she was wearing a pink sparkly dress and bunny ears from the dress up bag. \n My husband emerged from the smoky kitchen with a tutu on his head and clip-on princess earrings. He handed me a plate of not-as-burnt pancakes and turned to Haven.\n “Let me show you how to unplug the electric skillet.” He gently ushered our tiny frog/bunny/princess into the kitchen for a quick safety lesson.\n This is where I finally admitted defeat and gave up on my dreams of a decluttered home. I moved Rylee’s outgrown cleats off the couch and sat down with my pancakes. Tears rolled down my face as I chewed. \n “Mom? Why are you crying?” Haven skipped over with a bracelet she put on my foot.\n “I worked so hard all day and accomplished nothing. What’s worse is that I missed out on playing with y’all.” By this point, I was ugly-crying out of frustration and exhaustion; but I didn’t stop eating. Rylee wiped away my tears and drew a smile on my cheek with lipstick. \n “Look on the bright side. You found a cardboard box to donate.” My husband attached a superhero cape to my shoulders and gestured toward the box. Barnaby meowed at us from inside the box and curled into a ball to sleep. \n “Nope! You can’t donate that box!” \n With the stinky, black marker, Rylee scratched out the word on the box. In large letters, she wrote, B-A-R-N-A-B-Y.\n And we all lived clutter-fully and (mostly) happily ever after.\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: Palmer's Box\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1099\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Watching the world around him, Palmer seemed to feel himself isolated from an unforgiving world. Emotions are overwhelming between a family who gave him love and the same family who gave him grief. Like the waters that don’t mend in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, there lived his mind and heart. Torn between a psychological war; big or small, right or wrong, clothing too short, too much or not enough, this box was all a reference to his name and how he found his identity all in itself… Palmer. Why did he matter if all he did was neglect the perception of others, try to ignore the mindlessness of those not in his realm? Yet, in this box in which he outgrew; were awaiting all the answers to his questions in small portions, as quests. Palmer needed to understand the journey, yet never wanted to face the truth, therefore he never really surpassed it in his soul but physically he did, emotionally, he’s still mending such a puzzle. Words are much stronger than materials imposed to him, although he outgrew such pieces, he never expanded the hems that were sowed into his memory, he has yet to comprehend. He continues to hold this box as he is told he hasn’t outgrown it in his mind; therefore, he hasn’t outgrown his purpose. These worlds continue to collide in the most frustrating way. Not wanting any confrontation, he eases everyone else yet fighting his own demons to appease the frame he was to mature from. How can he, feeling stuck and weary, he just runs with these memories fading every night as they become his clutch. Change is never easy, yet the contrary is much scarier because of the attacks, the verbiage, the hurtful and inconsistent responses. He only has this one wilted emotion; one only he can understand without judgement, nor deceit from anyone protects it and only with the strength, only he knows how to do so with many years of preparation. One that he can speak of and keep these secrets of thoughts. One who he one day will outgrow without a tear on his face, yet a smile of content and one he would be proud to energize with love and only then will he have outgrown it and only then, will he donate it to someone who needs to go through such a journey. The lack of recognition of the past and one to marry into the now is not a kind one. He is humbled as a result and caring, yet there is one thing they don’t have, his memories, his experiences, his journeys, and mainly, his forthcomings, this is in the box, one everyone asked to rid of as he had outgrown it. Palmer learned with time and experience to have matured it, it’s time to open this box and send a better energy someone else can grow into. It’s time to share the love, the experience, and mostly, the wisdom but this is not to be shared. It is to be learned and nothing else would grant anyone such a journey without it. Outgrowing trauma doesn’t equate to sharing it in its raw stages, such a small square of emotions may only share its healing, involvement, and love! It is not a task for the faint, it is a task for the ones who are willing to take the time to understand their inner demons and learn to tame them with kindness and understanding.\nPalmer was willing to face everything in his box and made a goal to acknowledge each episode head on but slowly and carefully. It is important to dissect each memory and emotion before moving onto the next one. In doing so, it proved to be a grim undertaking, Palmer had to relive each experience as he held his heart in his hand. Feeling all the emotions was more like walking on grass in the rain, felt the earth with each step, then the wet grass, occasionally sliding and having to catch himself as he fell, getting back up and carefully understanding how to walk through the field. Each time he fell, he learned how different paths to take, Palmer learned to take smaller steps, then wider ones, there came a point where he would just sit and feel the rain pour on his face, washing it all away. He learned to sit patiently and listened in awe. Like this field of wet and slippery grass, was how he meandered the past and mended it with the present. He began to be kinder with himself, his inner dialogue had strength and girth yet was gentle and forgiving. Creating a safe walkway for his thoughts, he opened his heart and gradually began an introduction to himself. Being mindful of all the pain he once endured, he knew this was different, this was a path he chose, no one else inflicted it on him. Having this bordering his peripheral view of what peace felt like. Palmer was certain and confident he would one day be able to give someone the gift he was never offered: a manifestation of a divine and supernatural being, an epiphany. He often daydreamed what inner peace felt like, as he combed through his emotions one by one, he was closer to being someone he has never met. This forced him to learn who he was, is, and becoming. A very hard pill to swallow as he has always walked through life with a plan orchestrated by others, it was now his undertaking to rebuild his own church. It is at this moment when he realized that he will be able to grow successfully with circumspection, foresight, and discretion. One can’t always give advice without having experienced it for themselves, this was very apparent to Palmer, and he was being cautious of his journey before having anyone else inherent his hardships and setbacks. He was to be careful and kind with himself through his journey. Palmer then had finally realized that having such consideration for the world around him, he was genuinely outgrowing his box. He was ready now to allow himself to donate the life he once couldn’t reach. In the box were clothing that no longer embraced the memories he was afraid to let go of. Palmer donated the box of his clothing and as he walked away, the smile and peacefulness not only fulfilled his heart, but it also filled him with confidence and for the first time in his life, he raised his head and saw a world he can now live in peacefully." } ]
[ { "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 aspiration of a shooting star\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1392\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My childhood was like a cadence, filled with the bases and the trebles. A memorable moment in the ocean of memories was the time when I was marking my height on the door frame during my birthday. \n2000 – 115 cm \n2001 – 117 cm \n2002 – 120 cm \n2003 – 124.5 cm \n Through the lens of an eight-year old’s eye, it felt possible to be an astronaut, delving into the milky way galaxies, or an archaeologist, discovering the ancient bones of mighty creatures who once roamed the earth. \n“Oh, how much you’ve grown this year! You’ll definitely be old enough to drive a car soon, and then a space ship in the future!” \n“Oh! An astronaut for Halloween? Adorable.” \n I would stand with my bare toes so I could appear to be higher, thinking that way I would look more grown up instead of always being patted on the head as if I was underestimated. I’d pout and scowl in ire but the next minute I’d be back smiling in my room with bright pink walls. I was blinded by the colourful furs and exquisite patterns, unaware of the muffled screams coming from downstairs during a Saturday night. \n The elegant ballerina was pirouetting in spirals as if revolving around the beautiful planets. The tranquil music swirled around the room, deafening the shouts of a broken relationship. Yes, a ballerina, wouldn't it be nice to feel the freedom of a swam as the music acted as a barrier, protecting me from all the worries. My body in sync with the melody. The stage can be a world meant for me. I can be the next Alicia Markova. \n Why were they so supportive back then, but yet diminished my dreams during my teen years? \n“You want to dance? Dancers don’t earn much, how about a math professor...” \n“You must look at reality, my dear. Be more realistic...” \n Yes, now I understood why it’s unattainable. They were just empty and hopeless dreams, just for me to escape from reality, for me to abandon my problems when I am in daydreams about expensive closets filled with luxurious clothes and an opulent mansion. \nIt felt better to be a statue, embracing the pounding rain drops and the fierce sunlight with a fixed smile, not understanding despair. The flawlessly carved face stared at me with a warm expression when it’s stone cold. Was it all a mistake? What do I do now, with a degree certificate in hand, in front of all the flashing lights, not knowing what to do next. There wasn’t even a dilemma, I was lost in the mist, unconsciously shaking and hugging everyone. Smile, just smile. I still have time to think. \n“You all can change the world, now that you’ve graduated.” \n That was what they all say. They were ugly truths disguised as beautiful lies. My head hit the pillow that night with a loud thump, the world was dark, just me, myself and I on this soft wonderland. \n And then rays of sunshine stung and pricked me, urging it’s time to get up. But then the moonlight was pouring in again. I’ll do something tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. For what purpose? Maybe for the upcoming graduation parties, hiding under layers of makeup, I wonder if they also have sad eyes on happy faces. Or am I the only one who got lost in the world of idolising plastics and absorbed in a virtual reality. I should really be doing something productive. \n January, February, May, June. \n The adults around me made me felt like a helpless, weak and vulnerable creature. No wait, I’m already an adult. It was so obvious but the acknowledgement stabbed me in the heart like the broken shards from the framed picture-perfect family. I could already imagine the bills and the anxiousness that I’m going to die owing instead of knowing. \n There was a day when the wind howled like an unleashed beast and the thunder shook the earth violently. I stared at the melancholic raindrops racing down the car window, which one will win? The one I chose lost anyways, the world does not revolve around me and I do not revolve around it too. \n The lilt of the wind went on as I ate cold instant noodles. It has been 65 days, why am I still jobless, why can’t I succeed during a young age like all those people on TV. I knew I was wasting my youth, I couldn't bear the thought of my hair going from the colour of autumn leaves to a bitter cold winter. \n“You are worrying too much. You still have TIME.” \n Nobody wanted to hire me, after a failed interview I’d just saunter down the road to calm myself. But then my pace would quicken after thinking about my failures, I needed money if I wanted to pursue a PhD. I missed those days where I wasn’t so insecure about everything. Every time I was exposed in public, it felt as if there was going to be pairs of eyes observing my flaws and silently judging them in the menacing shadows. My fragile ego and flesh. \n I was staring at the door frame, each marked line had such a complex backstory to it, because each year I was growing both mentally and physically. The old telescope laid beside me, covered it old stickers of smiling stars and planets, there was even a vestige of glitter left from the passing years. It was time to go stargazing again. \n January 10, I knew there was a full moon, outshining the luminous misplaced constellations as they blinked against the black sky. The stars bought a sense of purity to the world. Several curls escaped from my tied hair as the cool breeze sang its coronach because soon, through the lens of the telescope, I saw the downfall of a shooting star. \n“You know darling, there’s still a job at your uncle’s. He still needs an extra pair of hands at the cashier table. You can work there temporarily.” \n A shooting star also took time to grow. It was once a particle floating calmly in the immense space, but fate wanted it to enter the atmosphere, heated by the friction of air particles to ignite the night and outshine the stars. It captivates everyone, but meets a tragic death as it heats the ground and creates a crater. The meteor remains valuable, even after it became monotonous. \n It made me think about the people like Emily Dickinson, who was another unknown and forgettable woman ebbing and flowing with the crowd. But in modern days, after her death, she was part of the heart of literature and poetry, her phrases and wording struck readers in awe. By the endpoint of Nikola Tesla’s life, he died penniless in a New York City hotel room, but his inventions are now greatly seen as an important contribution to modern technology. \nIt was never too late. \n Even though these people did not have the chance to witness the growth of their popularity, their success, the respect they’ve received, they had still influenced the world. A tiny meteor was capable of bringing information about the solar system, the history and its possible future. It was a dull and ugly truth, but luminary. \n I am not capable of prophecy, but the thought of making even the smallest impact on the busy world that was whirling in the cycle of day and night, gave me the glimmer of aspiration I needed. I had wished I’ve realised this longer ago, but isn’t this what growth is all about? Our subconscious catches each tiny detail in our life without our notice, even if we were lazily strolling in a park, feeling unproductive and unmotivated, we were still learning. Oh look, I never realised the local ice cream stand added a new flavour. Oh hey, the neighbours' children were out playing again, which means their finals must be over. And what about that stray dog who was now adopted into a loving and caring family. \n2016 – 168 cm (with a smiley face shooting star) \n The next day I went to the research centre again, ready and confident with that interview. Redemptive failures coloured my life, more strokes from a brush, more series of lines from a pencil, the growth of an imperfect painting called living." } ]
[ { "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: Father-Daughter Walks\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Crunch, crunch, crunch\n\nLoose gravel crunching under the weight of her father’s feet was her favorite sound during their daily walks. Her little hand enwrapped in his large, calloused and tanned one wiggled free as she jumped and stomped, trying to emulate that specific crunching noise. She was just too little at that moment to even come close to creating such a cool noise!\n\nAs decades past and time warped their bodies and minds into older beings, that crunch, crunch, crunch never left her.\n\nDaily walks through the neighborhood turned into yearly walks on the beach, to seldom walks with the younger woman’s new puppy, to that momentous walk down the aisle.\n\nCrunch, crunch, crunch\n\n“So how have you been? How is Adam and his business going?” Scott asked his daughter, Tilly. Her little dog, Red, running back and forth on the leash.\n\n“He’s awesome! His business is booming, he actually was just asked to become the premier electrician for this huge company! He’s going to on-board as a contractor and go from there.” Tilly exclaimed, beaming about her husband and his growing company.\n\n“That’s great! How is your job? Still liking it?” Scott knew his daughter wasn’t fulfilled with her current job, but he asked anyways.\n\n“It’s not bad! It’s good money and it’s close to home. My boss is nicer than she used to be, and my co-worker and I get along great!” She added a few extra details to try to show that she really doesn’t mind her job…for now.\n\n“Oh good, oh good,” Scott glances down at her little dog and smiles, remembering when she brought him home.\n\nHer mother was so angry! She had good reason, though. Tilly was only 22 and a little bit of a mess, drinking too much and jumping from job to job. But man, did she love that puppy with everything she had. Her parents saw how great and caring she was with Red, they immediately felt at ease. That was 7 years ago.\n\nCrunch, crunch, crunch\n\n“Yeah! So how are you? How is everybody? How have you been feeling?” Tilly pats her dad on the back as they walk up the hill. She notices that he’s been slowing down and his breathing becoming labored.\n\n“Same ol, same ol.” He replies with his usual answer. “You know, working too much and not relaxing enough. We’re excited to head to the beach this year, it’ll be a good time.”\n\n“Me too! Adam and I will be there!” Tilly exclaims, her thoughts floating back to earlier family beach trips.\n\nTilly knew that her dad would wake up at ungodly hours and take walks down the beach. He would always come in from those sunrise strolls with stories of dolphins and found seashells. She wanted to be a part of these. Tilly would set her alarm just to partake.\n\n“Oh wow, you’re up early!” Scott would notice.\n\n“Yeah!” Tilly would say, rubbing the tired out of her eyes, eager to see sea animals and collect sharks teeth.\n\nStepping out in those early morning hours, the cool sand felt like a welcome reprieve from the scorching temperature of the ground from the afternoon before. Squishing the sand between their bare toes, taking in the haziness of the hour, they would start off. Stopping every once in a while to examine a lone starfish or a washed-up jellyfish, they would soak up the sunrise. Tangerine, grapefruit, and lemon hues lit up the sky as if someone poured a pitcher of fruit sherbet over the world. It was spectacular.\n\nCrunch, crunch, crunch\n\n“You know, T, there’s a reason I asked you to come to visit this weekend.” Scott clears his throat, not sure how to say what comes next. “I have a box of clothes I would like to give you and Adam. Some stuff of mine, some of your mothers, some of your baby clothes. You know, just hand-me-downs. I figured you guys could get more use out of them than we could.”\n\n“Oh! That’s fine, we can always get them another time. No rush.” Tilly obviously had not noticed her dad’s reaction to this proposal.\n\n“Till,” he looks at her, tears prickling his blue eyes, “please take them this trip. We want you to have them.”\n\n“Dad, what’s going on?” Tilly stops, mid-step, still confused.\n\n“We’re getting old, and you and Adam are so busy. Which is a good thing!” Scott interjects his own thought. “Stay busy! Do not make your lives smaller for us. Do the big things, take the trips and make the moves. We just want to be sure to give you some important things this time, you know just in case.” He clears his throat again, trying to hold back tears.\n\nTilly grabs her dad’s hand and squeezes. Trying to make light, as always, she laughs “Come on, let’s be real you and mom are going to outlive all of us. I mean look at you! You guys don’t look a day over 40.”\n\nRed tugs on the leash, trying to move forward. Tilly and Scott stand in silence for a minute, taking in the blooming trees and blossoming flowers, realizing that as the earth is coming alive again, how close they are to the end of something else.\n\nThis realization barrels through her like a bolt of lightning. As if a hand reached in and squeezed Tilly’s heart, her chest heaves, and her eyes sting. Her stomach aches and her limbs go weak.\n\nHe taught her how to fish with a Snoopy fishing rod, how to appreciate great music and how to cook a perfect salmon on the stovetop.\n\nHe was the most important person in her life. Her walking buddy. Her father.\n\nRed yips, tugging harder now trying to go back to the house.\nShaking off the heartbreaking thought, Scott and Tilly take off toward the house again.\n\n“So, Mom said you got suspenders?” Tilly, laughing, trying to change the subject.\n\nScott burst out in one of his famous belly-laughs and begins to explain why suspenders are better than belts.\n\nCrunch, crunch, crunch" } ]
[ { "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 mother's diary\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1017\n\nPrompt:\n\nFormat your story in the style of diary entries." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Date: March 27th\n\nDear diary,\n\nToday is mothers day in UK. I just want to celebrate it with my partner and keep the romanticism awake even though after pregnancy my body and confidence is not the same. I love my body for who it brought in this world, but i really look like a mess. For me today isnt just mother's day. For me its also son day as without him i wouldnt be a mother. He is growing so fast. I gave birth to him last year in january. He was 3.68kg. He was so pink. People said i was lucky as i didnt need painkillers or c section. He just came out. From the beginning, by looking at his eyes, i knew that he is gonna be a tough boy, gonna be a cheeky one, but is was gonna also make my life valueble. Time went by and he just didnt stop growing (except the hair he is still a bit bold but i guess hegot that from me as i was the same when i was born). Once he was 6 months we went to take pictures at the studio. And everytime i look at the picture and think how life was different then compared to now. He was calmer than now as he couldnt walk back then. He has grown a lot. Is cleverer. Doesnt speak much yet but he runs everywhere and really does understand you when you speak to him. We try to teach him 2½ languages (yes english greek and a bit of italian as my partner family doesnt speak english and the only language i communicate with my partner is english as we are in UK and a bit of italian because.... who doesnt want to learn italian but obviously also because im from there) then by 10 months he started walking. So since then we use the stroller less. We walk together to places or i carry him. The stroller was just occupying a lot of space so im glad is walking. But i still use it when i need to go somewhere far and he simply doesnt mind it. I love when he used to sleep on my chest, when i hold is tiny hand back then and I love it even more now as when I cuddle him he cuddles me back. When i lie down sometimes comes to me to cuddle my arm and my face. I give him a huge kiss and then he runs away ready to destroy the house once again. The more he grows the more i feel he wants to be more indipendent and i like that its a normal process of growing. Very soon is gonna start going to school and make new friends and do new sports. Having a busy schedule as every kid should, to be honest. It is better for a kid to go school and do an extra curricular activity so that they can born all that energy, than just sit at home after school, because lets be honest. They dont sit at home. They have that energy and they gonna mess up the house with it. Tornado. Thats why let them free outside so that when they come inside the house they are exhausted and they will just eat, shower and then sleep. The truth is that everyone is growing. My son made me mature as a persone. He taught me real love. He taught me real patience. But as a young mother, i am growing as well. Growing becoming the best version of myself. Avoiding negativity. Because the past is full of mistakes that we really wish that we could avoided, but are just there and thanks to those experience we are who we are. The negativity in people, in things. I used to feel upset when i receive a bad comment but now i just try my best to avoid these kind of people that all they know is how to judge others. I want my son to learn that some people are troubled in their head and instead of fixing themselves they try to find mistakes in others. I want my son to be strong enough, so that those people's words won't affect him. I want him to grow strong and healthy. I want him to grow mature enough to understand that everyone makes mistakes and to forgive me if i ever do him wrong. Today he's not feeling that well. He's teething so he has a bit of temperature. It breaks my heart thinking that at this early age you still suffer to grow up. But I guess this is all about. Suffering to grow. It can be phisically or emotionally. My job as a mother is to be there, not to prevent from suffering, but for helping heal, so that he can grow as a healthy strong man. The only thing i pray for is to be a good mother. I try my best but I think it is never enough. He is my sunshine indeed, he feels my days with joy and with craziness. But i cant just be a fun mom, i need to teach him stuff, you know, discipline him. Will I be able to do so? Will I be able to be the perfect mom? Probably not, but I will work my hardest to make sure he lacks nothing and for him to always feel loved by us. That's why I will keep you, my little diary, with me and I will read every page where I talk about him to him. I will read it as a bedtime story, I will sing it. Let my son know that his mom is an artist and that she shows her love through affection and art such as this page of diary.\n\nI will keep you updated about his reaction or if he's going to rip it off before I even read it to him as he's just one and loves ripping pages of everything\n\nGoodnight\n\n(Ps: John, don't rip off this page, mommy is watching 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: Measurements\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1440\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "*Proper names have been changed to protect against potential embarrassment ;)\n\n“Nana, measure me!”\nThe memory is still vivid; evoking the excitement of two preschoolers jumping up and down beside me as I hold the pencil and the ruler over one child’s head at a time. Oh, how I dread the day the grandkids will no longer want to be measured on the wall behind the office door. \nIt was a family tradition we had had when our sons were old enough to stand by our kitchen wall. Always excited to see what new heights they were reaching in their race to ‘grow up’. Their measurements showed separations due to a four-year age gap, then intertwined and danced along the painted wall like an earthly aurora borealis. Today, they share an almost identical height as age made no impact on growth.\nGrowth. Growing up. Grown up. Growing older. \nMy granddaughter, Celine, is younger than her brother by two years. But fiercely competitive – even with growth charts. \n“Nana, why didn’t I grow more?”\nTime for a science lesson on biology? Or time to talk about differences with boys’ and girls’ growth patterns and statistics? \n“You will grow, sweet pea. There will be a time when you will grow faster than Connor. Should we mark your line in purple for your growth today?” And with the utmost care, the tiny line just a millimeter above the earlier one was made more distinguishable.\nMeasurements were not just about growth. Our sons’ lines had been painted over in those last months before my husband and I left our home of 35 years. Underneath the coat of grey galactic winter, measurements marked the events of a family living in the 80s and 90s. The memories were tied to birthdays, new school years, holidays or just “can I see how much I’ve grown?” Thus the kitchen wall recorded and held the spirit of our family’s existence, like an indelible ink written upon parchment in The Book of Life. \nThere had been no plan to measure the grandchildren when we downsized. When they were still so very young and coming to our old home, I would trace their bodies on large sheets of roll-end newspaper. Cutting the shapes out and having them color in facial features and clothing, I taped their outlines to the wall. “We’re not babies anymore.”\nSerendipity. Connor and Celine and their very first sleepover in the new home. A time of exploration (“let’s play hide and seek, Grandad”) and excitement, sleeping in bunk beds at ages of “almost four and almost six”. The realization that time was slipping away with new activities and preschool and kindergarten and their own little friends. A comment about how they were growing so much as they were about to go home. \n“Is it ok if I measure how tall they are?” And a spontaneous decision to use the narrow space behind the French door to the office. A ruler and pencil in a nearby desk and the first lines were drawn.\nMeasuring Connor and Celine became an expectation at every sleepover. The lines were a visual wall calendar of the times they made cookies together with Grandad, some art or craft project with Nana or just enjoyed the work of being a child.\n“Can I show you a magic trick?” when Celine was determined to master the art of illusion. “Hey, Nana, knock, knock,” when Connor shared his ‘tried and true’ jokes.\nFamily meals and family celebrations. And always, the movie night with popcorn popped on the stove, root beer floats, chocolate-covered peanuts and gummy candies.\nOn one visit, Connor was so excited to show his parents his height, that he rubbed his finger over the fresh line. And because I had used a soft B pencil, the markings smeared. Both his and Celine’s. Adding another memory in my heart as I treasured his “come and see” excitement.\nThere was the sleepover that made for a mad dash to the all-night pharmacy when Celine was ill and wanted to go home. With Mom and Dad away for short trip, a little girl missed her parents when she wasn’t feeling well. “I’m ok. We can still measure me.”\nAfter that visit, there were now photos printed off at home, pulled from their suitcases and taped to the wall by their bunk beds. Photos that were switched around on the very special night that Celine achieved ‘top bunk’ status. She was now tall enough and old enough to climb the ladder to sleep on the exclusive bed that had an unique attraction. The bed lined up with a basement window that was wide enough for a six-year-old to hide on the sill; with the curtains covering her. “Nana, is it ok if I keep this notebook and pencil up here?” “Of course, you can. Is there still room for a Kleenex box and your flashlight as well?”\nThe lines in the office tell of giggles and whispers and fights between siblings. Of late nights and of too-early morning awakenings. Of times when they wanted Nana to sing their songs before they went to sleep or times when Grandad read each child the same book, over and over again, even though it was a picture book without words.\nAnd then Covid happened. \nThe lack of measurements in the office matches the seriousness and precautions that were taken by all of us. An early visit in January, 2020 (with corresponding measurements), pit stops on the door steps or backyards of our homes. Thanksgiving celebration in their garage. “Come and see the autumn tree I painted.” A masked Celine steers us to the tall cardboard tree in reds and oranges. “Watch me shoot hoops” as Connor practiced and practiced his layouts and footwork on the driveway, in the cold.\nCovid meant that Connor and Celine were now being measured at home and telling us what those numbers were in metric. Statistics that we never added to our wall of visits though. \nInstead, we had FaceTime calls. “Will you show us how much you are both growing? Stand back to back and we can take a photo, ok?” Other times, they stood back to back with their parents. And we saw just how tall they truly were growing. \nVaccinations for all of us adults and finally, for them. One overnight in the summer. With star gazing and their version of a mini-Olympics, complete with ribbons and cookie medals. That had been the summer of 2021, before they returned to school and we had all tested negative so we could have the visit. They took home ‘gold’ for their growth …emotionally, physically and cognitively.\nAt the end of 2021, we celebrated Christmas with them and they had two overnight visits with us during their holidays. That is when we discovered that I had made some poor measurements. \n“Nana, how come I was higher last summer?” Connor hadn’t failed to see the discrepancy of his last two sizes in height.\n“Well, maybe your hair was higher?!” I really couldn’t admit to fudging results that gave just a little bit more growth to either of them. “I guess I wasn’t very careful in holding the ruler straight, eh?”\nWe had a visit this year before they returned to school in January. Somehow, in the hustle and bustle of the visit, no measurements were taken. The regret of a missed measurement hits me whenever I am in the office and spy the smudged and confusing lines that have been haphazardly recorded on the wall. Why hadn’t I insisted on their parents waiting while we completed this one rite between two generations sharing a moment in time?\nToday, I am at their aunt and uncle’s home, caring for the grand-kitties, when Connor, Celine and their mother come for a walk along the river valley. Another visit that again will have no measurements; no lines on our wall at home. Just a discussion on my short story.\n“I’m writing about how you have been measured when you come to stay at our place. But I have no idea how to end the story.”\n“Just write ‘Can we measure you, Nana?’” Celine doesn’t even pause to think about it and Connor grins and shakes his head ‘yes’.\nI have to laugh. Connor stands at my shoulder and Celine is just below my shoulder. I wrap my arms around one on each side of me and say “yes, you can measure me.”\nFor in the future, the near future, they will no longer want to visit us for sleepovers. They will be too ‘grown-up’ to be measured on a wall." } ]
[ { "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: Smell of Vanilla\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2249\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains a flashback of a nightmare." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Run! Faster! Keep going. Just keep breathing. I don’t think I’m gonna make it! Maybe I should just fall down and let him get me. She can feel her heart racing, the wind blowing in her ears, her legs burning…, her hope fading. She trips on something, a rock, and ferociously scrambles to her feet, neurotically checking behind her for any sight of him. She’s only a couple blocks away from the house and she can’t see him; she starts to think she might make it. Suddenly a hand takes her by the hair and yanks her onto her back. He drags her with her arms flailing and legs kicking wildly out of sight of the street.\n“You stupid bitch. Thought you could outrun me?” he smirks and spits on her. She struggles in vain to break free of his grasp. “Stop fighting bitch!” He pulls her behind a bush and lands a blow across her face, followed by another one and a kick to the stomach. She writhes in pain and grabs at her stomach as his fist makes contact with her face again. For a second, she loses consciousness and when she comes to she can feel his hands running all over her body. He struggles to pull down her pants but can’t undo the button. She grabs at his hands and pushes him off of her and manages to make it a couple feet before he comes up behind her and slams her head into the ground and turns her over again, this time ripping her jeans so he can remove them. She feels his hands on her skin, and just as he’s about to rip her underwear, Riley sit’s up with a start. Tears stream down her face as she shakes violently wrapping her hands around her legs and starts rocking back and forth in her bed.\n“My name…is… Riley Simons. I live…in Rockville…., Ohio. I…am…. fifteen years…. old. I am in… my bed, in …my room, in… my house. The walls are…pur..ple, the floor is white-ish, the ceiling is wh..white,” she starts reciting the grounding exercises her therapist taught her. The dog, Cooper, makes her way onto the bed and cuddles up against Riley, reminding her that she’s not alone. Slowly she feels her breathing start to return to normal, and she looks over to check what time it is. 4:30am, great. I’m not getting any more sleep. Maybe a shower will help. She thinks, slowly getting up out of bed and grabbing a towel from her closet door. Cooper follows, as always. Riley closes the bathroom door and she listens as Cooper paces back and forth a few times before she curls up on the floor right outside the bathroom. In the shower, Riley fights the flashes of memories that invade her mind, each time scrubbing harder and turning the water hotter until it burns and the memory fades. She lets herself sink to the floor, crying, letting the shampoo in her hair run down her face. She doesn’t care. It’s been so hard to do much of anything lately, it’s no surprise that taking a shower has become ten times more difficult too. She feels disgusting being naked at all, wants to rip all the skin from her body, make herself look as ugly as she feels. I’m so fucking pathetic. This happens to so many people and they’re fine! Why can’t I just get the fuck over it!? Angry, she slams her fist against the wall and pushes herself up off the floor of the shower and finishes washing her hair and body and steps out the shower in a fury. She catches herself in the mirror and is enraged, “You stupid little whore. Why the fuck are you always there, just staring at me like a little bitch. What the fuck do you want from me?!” she spits while she screams at herself in a whisper. Everything in her tells her to cut or burn herself, just to get some kind of release but, I can’t. I fucking promised Jade.\n“Let’s go girls, your breakfast is getting cold!” Riley’s mom calls out from the kitchen. Riley hears her sisters scurry down the hallway yelling, “Coming!” as they go. She rolls her eyes and slowly moves herself off her bed, grabbing her backpack off the floor, & puts her money and keys in her pocket and gets downstairs just as her mom is about to yell for her again. She sits down and stares at the food on her plate, unable to stomach the thought of food. It almost makes her vomit just looking at it. “You look awful, babe. Couldn’t sleep?” her mom asks gently, giving Riley a light kiss on her forehead like she did every morning.\n“Yea,” Riley responds quietly. “I’m really not hungry, mom.”\n“I know honey, but you really should eat something. Can I get you a fruit? Or a piece of toast?”\n“No, sorry. I don’t think I could keep anything down right now.”\n“Oh, are you sick?” her mom asks, concerned.\n“Um, don’t worry mom, it’s nothing. I’ll be fine,” Riley brushes her off, hoping she’ll let it go.\n“Well, okay then. What about you two? You guys want more?” her mom says cheerfully to her little sisters.\n“I want summore!” Valery squeaks in her baby voice making Riley smile.\n“I don’t know yet, I’ll let you know,” McKenna says with her mouth full.\n“Eww, don’t talk with your mouth full!” Riley scolds McKenna.\n“Yeah McKenna,” Valery mocks.\n“Leave me alone! I can’t help it if my mouth happens to have food in it when I wanna talk,” McKenna argues. “Just because you don’t eat doesn’t mean you get to shame the way I do.”\n“McKenna!” her Mom yells, “knock it off. You don’t talk to your sister like that.”\n“I was kidding! Geez,” McKenna says cowering a little when mom gives her a death glare. ”Okay, okay! Sor-ry!” She continues to eat her food quietly for a couple of minutes and then says, “Actually, can I have some more?” Mom rolls her eyes with a smile and pushes some more breakfast onto McKenna’s plate. Riley zones out with her phone waiting for her sisters to finish eating so they can leave for school. Most kids my age don’t have to deal with their little sisters in the morning. Most of the kids my age are already at school. But my family just had to send me to a stupid Jesus school. She mumbles to herself and actually starts to feel kind of normal for a few minutes.\n“Alright girls, time to get moving,” her mom says, prompting the three of them to get up, clear their plates, and get their backpacks before heading out the door. Riley gets into the front seat and puts her headphones in and opens up Tiktok. The drive to school goes by quickly, and before she knows it they’ve pulled up to the front entrance and it’s time to get out. Exhaustion hits Riley like a tidal wave, making getting up out of the car feel impossible but she manages to do it. She says a quick goodbye to her mom, takes a deep breath, and walks inside. She makes her way up the stairs and down the long hallway to her locker and opens it up to put her school books inside. Suddenly a hand reaches out and grabs her from behind by the shoulder, and before she knows what’s happening she’s back laying on the ground fighting him off of her while he tries to unbutton her pants. In reality, she screams and does a violent 180 and starts clawing frantically at the person who grabbed her.\n“Riley! What the heck!? Stop it!!” she hears someone saying in the distance, but she can’t fully process what they’re saying.\nMore hands grab her and she starts attacking her assailants in every direction they’re coming from, because in her mind they were all him. He had multiplied and was now attacking her as an army of one.\n“Riley. I need you to listen to me. It’s Miss. Jade. Do you know where you are?” Riley stops for a second, unsure of herself. She doesn’t let her guard down but she stops clawing at everyone. “Riley, no one is going to touch you, but can you maybe do some deep breathing with me and try to tell me where you are right now?” Riley feels calmed by Miss. Jade’s voice and takes a couple deep breaths which make her start to see differently. Now it’s instead four of him standing around her, it’s her best friend, Tyler, another teacher, Mr. Schlowb, another kid she didn’t know the name of, and Miss Jade, all there with their hands at the ready with looks of concern and confusion across their faces.\n“I’m at school,” Riley says slowly as the veil continues to lift and she tries to put together what happened.\n“Good, okay. Do you know what happened?” Miss Jade asks in her silky voice.\n“No,” Riley says and she starts to panic and hyperventilate and tears start clouding her sight.\n“That’s okay. You’re fine. There’s nothing here that’s gonna hurt you,” Miss Jade reassures Riley. She shoos off the random student and mouths to Mr. Schlowb that she’s got this. She tries to convince Tyler to go to class to but she won’t budge. “Riley, do you wanna come to my office?” she asks gently, coaxing her to walk with her. Tyler seems unsure of herself but looks like she wants to follow but also doesn’t want to trigger Riley again.\n“It’s okay, Ty, you can go. I’ll come find you later,” Riley says, granting her permission to leave her in Miss. Jade’s capable hands.\n“Sorry about that, Ri, I should’ve known better,” Tyler apologizes. It was her hand that had set this whole thing into motion. She gives Riley a loving look and then slinks off to class.\nThey walk in silence to Miss. Jade’s office and she gently closes the door behind them while Riley takes a seat on the cozy couch along the wall, a spot she’s become far too familiar with over the last few months. ”Lights on or off?” Miss Jade asks, breaking the silence.\n“Off.”\n“So do you know what happened yet? Has it come back to you?”\n“I’m not sure, but I think it had something to do with the nightmare I had last night, and my lack of sleep, and what happened a few months ago, and all of that combined made me a little extra jumpy today and, oh my gawd, that’s so embarrassing!” Riley rambles, burying her face in her hands.\n“Don’t worry about it. Things happen. Everyone understands, Riley,” Miss. Jade does her best to convince Riley, but to no avail.\n“Seriously Jade? If a kid in your high school had a full on break from reality right in front of you would you just let that go and be like ’oh she’s just having a hard day’ and move on? No! Because that’s not how kids are! They think I’m crazy and they’re right!”\n“You’re right. It probably would be big news if that happened. But they’ll move onto the next thing before the day’s over, because that’s how kids are,” Miss. Jade fires back. “Listen, Riley, it’s only been a few months since it happened and you are already so much farther than most kids would be in your position. You’re back in school, you’re getting good grades, you’re able to laugh and joke around with your friends, and you’re taking the time to figure out coping skills to deal with the flashbacks and the nightmares. We knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but you’re doing it. What happened to you was awful and shouldn’t happen to anyone, but you are so strong for not letting it break you.”\nRiley stares at the floor, nodding her head in agreement but feeling like a fraud on the inside. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep going. Every day is just so hard. It’s like I’m fighting against this invisible force that always knows my next move so I can’t ever defeat it. Does that make any sense?” Riley looks over at Miss. Jade, willing her to understand.\n“Yeah, that totally makes sense. And you are fighting an invisible battle. But like I said, you’re already winning. The fact that you can even sit here and talk to me about these kinds of things proves that you are,” Miss. Jade smiles at Riley. “Come on, let’s play a game or watch a funny video or something to get you feeling better. What do you feel like doing?”\n“Honestly? I could really use a nap. Would it be okay if I just slept through my first couple of classes? I just feel really safe here,” Riley explains.\n“Absolutely. I’m glad you feel comfortable here. I’ll wake you up when it time for 3rd hour if you don’t wake up on your own,” Miss Jade says. “Do you want me to play some music?”\n“Sure, whatever you wanna play,” Riley says, already curling up on the couch, squishing a pillow under her head and closing her eyes. A feeling of safety and warmth spreads over her as she fades into sleep with instrumental music playing softly in the background and the smell of vanilla lingering in the air." } ]
[ { "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: Anonymous Helper.\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1417\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Amelia, look how much you have grown. I say, as I show her the line I had just marked on the door frame. She giggled and jumped up and down. Her curly red hair bounced till it looked like an untamed mess. Her blue eyes shined brightly, as she smiled at me. Her dimples just showing through. She was only four, but some days she acted like a teenager. My Jonathan would have loved to see her grow up. But, fate wouldn’t allow it. He died in a car accident when she was only two. Her red hair had come from him. She didn’t get my brown hair, but she did get my blue eyes. Johnathan's eyes were green. So now every time I see her with that red hair, I see him. \nI shake my head to keep from tearing up. Even after two years, my heart aches. Amelia is already grabbing my hand, and wanting to go outside to play. I took her outside so she could play on our swing set. I breathe in the fresh country air. Our little white house looks peaceful with the backdrops of fields surrounding it. My husband and I bought this place when we were pregnant. This was our home, and the thought of possibly losing it, had me wringing my hands together. I watched Amelia as she picked some of the butter cups that had started to bloom. I didn’t want this moment to end, but I had much to do before running to town. Amelia, time to go in, I call. I sweep her up into a big hug before carrying her inside. \n‘’Lindsey, I need some help here’’. I walk into the living room. My sister was already halfway in with a bag of groceries. What is all this, I ask Sarah. I figured while you were out, Amelia and I would make up a pot of spaghetti, her favorite. You really didn’t have to do that, I tell her. I know she explained, but I love cooking with my little sweetie. Fine, she is in her room playing. I will only be gone a few hours. I know she said, shooing me out the door. I chuckle to myself, as I hear her calling for Amelia. \nI make my way to the bank and take a couple deep breaths. Money has been tight lately, and making some of the payments was getting harder and harder. Jonathan did leave some money when he passed, but not enough. Amelia needed surgery last year to remove her tonsils. Now, even with me working as a secretary, it has been hard. All I needed was a loan so I could pay off some debts, and be down to just one payment. By consolidating this way, I could keep us afloat, and back on track. I checked my make up in the mirror one more time before I headed in. \nI wave at a few people I know, as I make my way to Mr. Deaton’s office. Why hello, Mrs. Bradley, please come in. Thank you, but please call me Lindsey. I wait patiently as he goes over my finances. After several minutes, he looks up, with his glasses pulled down on his nose. He runs his hand through his short brown hair. Lindsey, I know this loan would help you out quite a bit, but this is considered a risky loan. I just don’t know if the bank will be able to help you without any form of collateral. I try to keep from wringing my hands together. I understand, but the only thing I have is the house. I understand, said Mr. Deaton. But unfortunately, it is your only option. The thought of such a big gamble, made me break out in a sweat. I rub my hand over my face, and take a calming breath. I know there is no other choice. I finally agreed to use my house as the collateral for the loan. I finish signing all the papers and stand up to leave. Mr. Deaton gives me an encouraging smile, but I only half-heartedly return it.\nI walk down the street, just taking some time before I have to head home. I decided to stop in at Sally’s bookstore. The smell of old books always seemed to calm me. Why hello Sally, how is your day going? Mrs. Sally was a widower, who bought the store when she retired from teaching. She was in her late sixties, but I thought she could pass for late fifties. She was barely even gray headed. ‘’Oh, hello my dear.’’ My day has been kind of slow, but I'm sure I’ll be getting busy soon, she said. I nod my head absently, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Lindsey, I can tell you are a million miles away, she said. I’m sorry, I just have a lot on my mind is all. Sally gives me a long look. Are you having money issues, she asks. I’m completely dumbfounded by her directness. I stammer for a minute, then shake my head. No, of course not I try to explain. But, it sounded flat even to my own ears. Sally just shook her head. ‘’You know I love you and Amelia as if you were my own kin”. I smile at her already knowing this. I know, and we love you too. I have already talked to the bank, and everything is fine now. I could tell she didn’t really believe me. After reassuring her that everything was going to be fine, I was able to head out. \nAs I’m driving home, my cell rings. Hello, I answer. Yes, Mrs. Bradley, this is Mr. Deaton. I try not to let the panic show in my voice. Why would the bank be calling me so soon after I had left? I just wanted to call and let you know that everything was finalized, and the money will be in your account tomorrow. Oh, thank you Mr. Deaton for letting me know. Also, there’s one more thing he continued. I start to sweat a little at his words. Yes, I answer slowly. Are you aware that a substantial amount of money was just deposited into your account very recently. I immediately pull over on the side of the road. I was completely confused. I’m sorry, how is that possible, I ask him. It seems that an anonymous person has transferred money to your account. I try to keep my breathing from going erratic. Why would someone do that, I thought. Are you sure, it isn’t some mix up I ask. No mam, I double checked it myself. Is there any way you can tell me who it’s from, I ask. I’m afraid not, but this is great news, he explained. I thanked him and hung up. While still sitting there, I realized it had to be Sally. I quickly called her. As soon as she answered I started asking her about the money. ‘’Lindsey, slow down my dear”. I don’t know anything about any money. Are you sure, I ask. I explained to her what the bank said. Oh, she said quickly. What is it I ask? She proceeded to tell me that a young man who was in the back of the store while I was there, asked who I was. What did you tell him I asked. I talked about how you were a hard worker, with the sweetest little girl. Do you know the man’s name I asked? “I’m sorry dear, I sure don’t”. Do you think he could have been the person behind the money she asked? At this point, I’m starting to think it might be possible. I don’t know, I answer. Sally, I have to, but can you not mention any of this. Sally agreed and we hung up. \nI finally calm my nerves and start heading back home. It was very possible a complete stranger would be so kind. But, in this day in age, it was hard to believe. I decided it would be best not to mention it to my sister. At least not yet. When I got home I could hear the two in the kitchen. Amelia was already asking about cookies after supper. I stop by the door frame and run my hand along the markings. Thanks to the anonymous helper, there will be many more marks to come. I smile to myself, knowing that everything is going to be, Ok." } ]
[ { "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: Stella is not afraid of the dark\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1956\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone facing their greatest fear." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Branches scrape against the window casting long shadows across the dimly lit room. A stark contrast to the yellowing bunny night light that resides in the corner. But any warmth that might have come from the familiar object is swiftly blown away by the winds’ chill that seeps in through every wall. Far more terrifying to Stella than branches and wind is the complete darkness that blankets the world around her. Everything is louder in the dark- the ticking of the grandfather clock, the rustle of blankets, and the creaking ceiling above her bed. Her racing heartbeat is the loudest of them all as she squeezes her eyes and waits until seemingly unattainable sleep finally overtakes her. \nStella is awakened in the darkness by a particularly loud creak. As her eyes come into focus, the white numbers on her clock condescendingly tell her it is only 3:47am. She slept for twenty minutes. Fantastic. The anxiety that only comes at night slithered up her spine before she could fight it. But Stella was never much of a fighter in the first place. She couldn’t turn on the lamp, separated by a moat of inky shadows that the creatures under the bed inhabited. The only option left was to cling to the covers and close her eyes until morning, the darkness behind her lashes a familiar comfort. She breathed in and out. Inhale. Exhale. The grandfather clock echoed from the hallway. Tick. Tock. Every second in this personal hell one second closer to freedom. Simply waiting until dawn finally brushed away the tension that shook her muscles, reinstating goodness into her room once more.\nThe soft golden glow of the rising sun was accompanied by the beeping of Stella’s alarm announcing that it was finally 6:00am. Her arm bridged the gap between her bed and her table to silence the irritating noise and embarked on her morning routine. Her toothpaste tasted like chemicals and every article of clothing seemed to be just too big or just too small. She finished brushing her blonde hair into submission just as the scent of syrup and coffee made its way into her room. Her feet pounded against the wooden stairs as she hurried to the kitchen where her mom leaned against the sink, slowly sipping out of her gray mug. \n“How did you sleep, Stella?”\n“Terribly. I always feel like someones watching me.” Stella put a pancake on her plate. \n“Did you take your melatonin?”\n“Yeah but it doesn’t stop the feeling of being watched.”\n“Just don’t think about it, sweetie.”\nEasier said than done, Stella thought as she finished pouring the syrup in a cup before carefully placing it in the microwave. While she had never liked the dark, her fears had grown worse overtime. The darkness seemed out to get her in ways it never did before. Perhaps she is overreacting. Perhaps her moms right and she just needs a way to take her mind off of it. Maybe she just needs to face her fears and learn that it will be alright. Maybe- she was snapped out of her thoughts as the microwave angrily beeped at her to let her know her syrup was ready.\nThoughts of the night never left her mind for long. Not on the ride to school. Not in her physics class. Not in history. Not even in choir where the complex chords of Handel enveloped her ears. During lunch Stella only half listened as Marlee complained about her newest boyfriend and nodded absent-mindedly every so often. \n“Stella! Are you listening?”\n“Sorry, yeah, my mind is just somewhere else today.”\n“Should I give him a second chance?”\nStella paused for only a moment, realizing she did not have enough context to truthfully answer this question before saying, “He doesn’t deserve you.” This was good enough for Marlee and she continued her monologue. \nStella arrived home in a sleep-deprived daze, barely having enough energy to kick off her shoes before dragging herself upstairs and throwing herself onto her bed. She put on her headphones to drown out the dreaded physics worksheet that seemed to call her name. Her phone was brighter than necessary but Stella didn’t change it as she scrolled aimlessly through her social media, waiting in vain until she finally felt mentally prepared enough to do some actual work. \nWhile scrolling, a video caught her eye titled ‘how to get over your fears in three minutes’. A woman in a bright yellow dress instructed her to say positive affirmations while facing her fear or to simply tell herself that she wasn’t scared. The woman said if you convince yourself that you are not afraid that whatever you are scared of, it can no longer have power over you. To Stella it seemed strange and unrealistic but decided to at least try it out when she went to bed later that night. Despite how silly the method seemed, she found that for the first time in a long time she wasn’t dreading nightfall. She wasn’t dreading when the sun dipped below the horizon and all that was left in the room was the glow of the bunny night light. She wasn’t dreading the inky shadows that gripped her soul, that took her captive. Stella is not afraid of the dark.\nStella is not afraid of the dark.\nStella is not afraid of the dark.\nStella is not afraid of the dark.\nShe repeated the mantra to herself as she laid in bed that night. She said it in time to the ticking of the grandfather clock. To the beat of her heart. She was a steady metronome, not a racing heart. And for the first time in a long time, Stella fell asleep. The bunny night light once again did its job and protected her from the monsters. For the first time Stella wasn’t afraid of the dark. \nStella awoke to the beeping of her alarm clock at precisely 6:00am. The morning sun filtered through her curtains as if to say good job, Stella. Stella went through her morning routine at lightning speed and tied up her hair with a bow. Her toothpaste tasted better than normal. She didn’t get mascara on her eyelids. She felt good about her outfit. But most of all, Stella finally felt alive. Gone was the Stella who couldn’t sleep through the night. The Stella who couldn’t pay attention to her friends' conversations. Here was the Stella who listened to the morning birds chirping with a new appreciation. The Stella who noticed all the details she didn’t see before. Like the screw that had fallen off the vent above her bedroom. She paused, puzzled, wondering when the screw could have fallen out but decided not to think anything of it. She walked downstairs where her mom was toasting some frozen waffles.\n“Good morning Stella, how did you sleep?”\n“Good, I finally fell asleep last night.”\n“I told you that if you just didn’t think about it it wouldn’t bother you.”\nShe was kind of right so Stella didn’t say anything more. She simply filled up her water bottle and slipped it in her backpack pocket. \nOn the ride to school she saw how the yellow tulips were beginning their late April bloom, how the blossoms of her neighbor's magnolia tree painted the street below into a river of pink petals. Sunlight sparkled through the oaks, waving Stella goodbye. When she saw Marlee at school she told her how beautiful her neighborhood looked in the spring. In response, Marlee said she was talking to a new guy. Some things never change. \nHer physics teacher’s droning voice seemed to fade into the background as she drew on her paper. The flowers in the garden, the sun shining through her window, Marlee’s eyes and how they lit up when she talked about her latest boy. She found her pencil seemed to move without command, creating beauty in the midst of the equations. When she zoned back in she realized what she drew. She had added more to the drawing of her window. She drew the poster on her wall, her wooden desk, and the loose vent above her bedroom. Stella is not afraid of any vents. \nStella went straight to the kitchen when she got home. She made a slow shuffle through the pantry and to the fridge, its cool metal and chilly air a strange sort of comfort. She opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a shiny red apple, and after checking it for bruises, deemed it good enough and took a bite. The exhaustion of a full day of school was finally setting in. Not even a good night of sleep could prevent the fatigue from sinking into her bones. Nobody else was home so the only sound was Stella’s socks on the stairs. She shut her door behind her and decided to pick up a book. After a few minutes of scanning her bookshelf she picked a fantasy novel about magic thieves as they broke into an ice palace, whisked away into a world of powers and found family. Time flew by as the sun dipped below the horizon, Stella only noticing once it became too dark to read. She wasn’t scared. She wouldn’t allow herself to be. Stella is not afraid of the dark. \nStella laid under the covers, hoping for her luck to continue. It worked once, so why wouldn’t it work again? The swaying branches and creaking ceiling faded into the background as Stella repeated the mantra to herself, focusing her vision on the bunny night light. Stella is not afraid of the dark. Stella is not afraid of the dark. Stella is not afraid of the dark. Her heart once again beat in time to the grandfather clock. A peaceful metronome. Stella closed her eyes and let the calming waves of sleep overtake her. \nGolden light spilled onto Stella’s beeping alarm clock. 6:03am. One more night came and went without Stella waking up in fear, without laying in a cold sweat, too terrified to turn on the light. Too terrified to move. 6:04am and the alarm clock kept up its morning call, begging Stella to wake up and turn it off. But Stella didn’t wake up.\n“Stella! Turn that off!” Stella’s mom grew irritated at the monotonous noise that seemed to echo off of every surface in the house. “Stella! I will come and turn that off myself, get up!” Her hard footsteps rushed up the stairs to Stella’s room, the doorknob turned and creaked. “Stella?”\nStella was still in bed. She hadn’t moved an inch since she fell asleep. She did not toss and turn that night. She did not even breathe. Stella was no longer scared of the dark. In fact, Stella would never be scared of anything again. Not the creaking ceiling or monsters under her bed, not her mothers screams that were heard by the next door neighbor. The screams that were louder than the knock on the door, louder than the sirens that blared outside their house ten minutes later, even louder than Stella’s heartbeat three nights ago. The heart that would never beat again. Stella was dead. Her blood stained the sheets and dripped from the night light. The blood that stained the open vent red. That stained the kitchen knife that was carefully placed over the stab wounds on Stella’s stomach. Stella was never scared of the dark. Not in ways that mattered. Not in ways of any importance. Stella was afraid of what waited in the dark. The things that watched and the creatures that smiled from their hiding places. But Stella wasn’t afraid anymore. Stella wasn’t anything anymore. And Stella would never be anything 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: The Last Box\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1287\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The box was sitting in the corner of the loft. It was by itself now. The rest of the loft was empty. This was the last box. It looked lonely just sitting there. The lid had not been taped closed as on previous boxes. The handwriting on the outside was mine. In huge black, bold letters were the words, “ J’s Old Clothes.” The clothes inside were not really old. They were just too small. Jackson was born too small. They said at the hospital he was going to be small because he was going to be born early. It took me a long time to get used to the fact that my precious baby would not be in my body for the full nine months. He would not be a week late like my other son, Hunter. I needed more time. More time to prepare. But, time was not on my side. \nJackson was born a month early. He was small like they said he would be. He looked so tiny in the hospital when I finally saw him. I got to hold him and love him in the hospital and I was so thankful that I had the chance. I couldn’t wait to take him home. The wait was unbearable at times but all I could do was wait, hope and pray. I did all of those each and every day for months. I prepared his nursery with the usual things. His crib looked so small, big and empty at the same time. I used to come into his room at night and just look at the bed and be obsessed by the curtains hanging on the window. There was only one window which downed Superman curtains. I chose Superman because Jackson was my little Superman. He fought to be here and in the end he saved me like Superman probably would from myself. \nI was beyond excited when Jackson came home. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I just lied in bed thinking and planning and even pinching myself a few times to remind myself that it was real and it wasn’t a dream. That morning, Shane, my husband, put in the car seat in the back seat of the car next to Hunter’s. I smiled looking at the car seats side by side in our small Subaru car. I thought that we will need a bigger car for us soon. \nShane drove us to the hospital. Hunter stayed with my parents at their house a mile away. I smiled the whole way over there and nervously drank from a take out cup of herbal tea. I made small talk with Shane about our lives and how it was all going to change more, for the better in a few short hours. My hands were wet with sweat by the time we arrived in the visitors parking lot. My body didn’t move when Shane came around to my passenger’s door and opened it. My body had suddenly become too heavy to move. I tried to move my leg to the edge of the seat and it just would not move. I looked up at Shane who was waiting for me to move.\n“Are you okay?” He said.\nI opened my mouth but no sound came out. I tried again. I closed my lips and opened them again to speak. I was relieved to hear the sound of my voice.\n“I think so.” I said.\n“Olivia, it’s okay. We can take our time. A few more minutes won’t hurt.” Shane said as he grabbed my left hand and gently pulled me out of the car. \n“Thank you.” I said.\nShane held my hand until we got to the entrance of the hospital a few feet away. The doors automatically opened and we stepped inside. I waved to the security guard sitting a few feet from the door and signed in as we had done what seemed like a million times before. The security guard smiled and pointed to the elevators to the left of him as he had done several times. I was thinking that this would be our last ride on this elevator to floor 8 where Jackson was waiting for us. I said a silent prayer on the way up squeezing my husband, Shane’s hand. \n“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Boutte. Jackson is almost ready to go home. Are you ready to see him?” The nurse said. \nWe followed the nurse down the hallway to a small room where Jackson was waiting in the arms of another nurse we hadn’t seen before. She was a young nurse with long red hair and her face was peppered with freckles. She was sitting on a reclining chair holding and talking to Jackson. She smiled when she saw us and I smiled back. I couldn’t wait to hold Jackson again. My arms ached for him. Now, today was the day we would go home. I was more than ready. \nAfter some paperwork, and instructions from the doctor and the nurse we were ready to go. I waited until Shane pulled the car to the front of the building and a nurse wheeled me and Jackson out like I had just given birth to him that day. She said it was hospital policy when I told her I was perfectly capable of walking out on my own. I didn’t object much. I just wanted to go home with my baby. Carefully Shane took Jackson from my arms and put him in the car seat. The nurse wished us well and walked away until she disappeared through the doors of the hospital entrance. Finally Jackson was on the way home. \nWhen we walked in the living room, me carrying Jackson and Shane carrying all the baby bags the hospital gave us there was a huge sign which read: “Welcome Home Jackson.” I could tell that my parents helped our other son make it. Tears rolled down my face and I placed Jackson into the bassinet which sat in the middle of the living room floor. That night I spent the night in Jackson’s room. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and didn’t want him to leave my arms. I talked to him, cuddled him in my arms and was so happy to feed him every two or so hours. My life was so complete. I could not imagine being any happier than I was that night.\nJackson thrived. He grew and gained weight so fast. I wanted him to slow down and if I could I would have slowed down time. Time was something that could not be slowed or quickened. I looked at the pictures on the wall leading from the loft to the bottom of the stairs. I really didn’t like climbing the ladder like stairs of the loft. I always felt like my feet would slip and slide on the steps and I would end up at the bottom of the steps with my now three year old looking up at me covered with peanut butter and jelly laughing. \nI kneeled down and taped up the top of the box. I carried it to the top of the steps and sat on the top step. Inside that box was a small part of history. It was a symbol of how far our family has come. My kids were perfect in an imperfect world. They were growing and thriving and in turn so was I. \n“Olivia, are you coming? The man from the church will be here in a few minutes for the donations.” Chase said at the bottom of the steps.\n“I am.” I said, wiping away the last tear from my cheek." } ]
[ { "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: Between The Lines\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1522\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Marie had never painted before—that was always John’s job. \n\nBut the house needed to be sold and according to the real estate agent, it needed to be painted. Marie wasn’t mad at John for leaving the task to her; she was angry at him for dying. John had bought life insurance, but hadn’t anticipated the medical bills. He fought until his last breath, but the fight left Marie without a husband, without resources, and without a home.\n\nA painting novice, Marie attacked the big rooms and hallways first. They were the easiest with most of the furniture gone. Next, feeling emboldened by her success, she painted the bathrooms and kitchen. Those were a bit more difficult as she had to navigate her way around cabinets, mirrors, and fixtures. After that, there was just one spot left, the six-inch wide door frame near the stairs that contained a vertical history of their only child, Lisa.\n\nWhen Marie and John bought the home, Lisa was still four months away from joining the family. John, always the idealist, was not like other new homebuyers. To him this house wasn’t supposed to be a starter home. It was his forever home, and if there were any doubt, he put that to rest the first time he and Marie entered as new owners.\n\n“The next time I leave this home permanently, it’s going to be in a wooden box.”\n\nAt the time, the young couple laughed together at the thought. Death was for other people. John and Maria were going to live forever and they were going to live forever in their new home.\n\nStaring at the faded lines, Marie smiled softly as a tear ran down her cheek. She couldn’t help but remember the happier times when she and John prepared a room for the bundle of joy to come. John surprised her by painting the baby’s room light blue. John was sure the new addition would be a boy, talking endlessly to his friends, neighbors, and any poor store clerk he ran into about John Jr. and how his son was going to be the third baseman for the Baltimore Orioles. \n\nJohn's certainty even convinced Marie. It wasn’t until the mother-to-be was eight months pregnant that the expectant parents discussed a possible girl's name during a commercial break. Many years later when Lisa asked how they decided on her name, the couple sheepishly admitted it was the name of a character on the television show they were watching, a fact that elicited benign laughs every time it was shared.\n\nEven before little Lisa was born, John and Marie had picked the perfect spot to document her milestones, a tradition brought to the family by both parents. The small spot where Marie now stood was that magical place she was being forced to paint over, erasing the lines that had been so important for so many years. \n\nI can’t do it, Marie thought to herself. I can’t delete a lifetime of memories. Not today, not right now. Unable to finish, Marie poured herself a glass of wine, pulled up a chair, faced the unpainted wall, and remembered.\n\nThe first line, the one closest to the floor, was probably the least accurate. Baby Lisa had smiled for the first time that day, and John and Marie wanted to commemorate the occasion. Holding her little girl upright, Marie did her best to keep Lisa’s foot on the floor while John attempted to make the new mark. Lisa, thinking this was a game, kicked her legs over and over, all the while laughing and smiling. When John finally finished the task, both he and Marie roared hysterically at the crooked line that looked more like the peaks and valleys of a mountain range than an accurate measurement of the little girls height. It was almost impossible for them to look at that jagged line through the years and not chuckle at the memory.\n\nThe line from Lisa’s first day of school was also the first one Marie herself had drawn. Lisa stood ramrod straight, trying to make herself as tall as possible. Marie marked Lisa’s growth while John captured the memory using his new digital camera. The photo was the last one Marie had removed before she started to paint. There wasn’t much she had unpacked at her new apartment, but that keepsake was already mounted on the wall by the front door.\n\nA few lines further up was one labeled “Paint Day.” It was the only line not tied to a significant day for Lisa. When quizzed about the anomaly, Marie would explain that when the family first moved into the home, the walls were bland, off-white, and builder grade. However, Marie loved green and John loved Marie, so when they decided to spice the place up, green it was. \n\nJohn knew how important the marks on the wall were, so he meticulously created a template, complete with the unusual first line that he intended to use to recreate the measurements exactly. When he finished painting, he pulled out the guide and replaced each line precisely where it had been before. Every time Marie saw them, her heart fluttered, remembering how much John loved her and Lisa. \n\nTwo lines further up was the measurement from when Lisa graduated from middle school. It took a lot of convincing to get her to remove her cap before that line was drawn. Almost fourteen years since the first line, Lisa still tried to make herself as tall as possible. Every line had a unique story and a memory and Marie smiled as she reminisced. The thought of covering the markings was paralyzing so instead Marie just sat, staring in silence, until the doorbell rang. \n\nLisa didn’t wait for her mother to answer, walking in denying Marie the time to compose herself. She also didn’t have to ask what was wrong as Lisa saw the paint and the lines. \n\n“Mom, it’s going to be ok,” Lisa said, pulling up a chair next to her mother. “You have to paint. Dad would understand.”\n\n“I know,” Marie responded, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. “But I never thought this would happen—this wasn’t supposed to happen. These lines are your life, the life you and I shared with dad. How can I erase them?”\n\n“Mom these lines are just placeholders,” Lisa said, standing up and positioning herself next to the wall.\n\n“You see this line?\" Lisa asked, pointing to one just a few feet high. \"It’s about as high as my knee, the knee I hurt playing soccer.\" You and dad were there. You guys were always there, remember?\" Marie nodded her head.\n\n\"Not every kid had two parents, and the ones that did rarely had both parents at every game. But I did. You were there to comfort me that day while Dad was calling an ambulance.\"\n\n“Ah yes,” Marie chuckled, “If I remember correctly, he yelled at the surgeon before they wheeled you back. He made up for it though. Your dad wrote the nicest card afterwards, apologizing for the outburst and thanking the doctor for fixing his baby.”\n\n\"And how about this line?\" Lisa continued, pointing to a line about as high as her stomach. “This line is right at my belly button. Remember when I pierced it without your permission. You were so mad, but dad was calm, he brought the temperature down and we talked it out. I thought I was so clever when I asked you if you still loved me. Do you remember your answer?”\n\n“I do,” Marie answered and smiled. “I said ‘I’ll always love you, but I just don’t like you very much right now.’” The response causing both women to laugh.\n\n“And this line right up here,” Lisa said, calling Marie's attention to the highest line on the wall, “It’s exactly the height of my smile—the same smile that everyone says reminds them of Dad. I love when they say that. In a way it means he’s never really gone. You see Mom, you can feel free to paint over those lines because they won’t ever disappear. All of them are right here, in me. I am the memories and the stories. Those are just markings on a wall, the important things have always lived between the lines\"\n\n“How did you get so smart?” Maria asked, standing up and hugging her daughter.\n\n“I learned from the best mom ever.”\n\n“So what do you think of my paint job? Is it up to dad’s standards?”\n\n“Dad would be proud,” Lisa replied, giving her mom two thumbs up.\n\n“He was sure proud of you,” Marie said, smiling. “He loved this house and we loved this record of your life, but you're right. You are our legacy, you are the yardstick of our lives. Now do me a favor and stand against this wall.”\n\nLisa didn’t hesitate for a second, standing ramrod straight while her mother marked one last line and the date.\n\nThen, with a smile as broad as her paint roller, Marie covered over the lines, realizing she hadn’t erased them—she had finished them." } ]
[ { "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: Malediction\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1407\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who develops a special ritual to cope with something." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Abbey woke the same way she had for the last five years, on her back and alone. She could see the palest of lights beginning, peeking in through the small crack between her filmy sheer curtains. Those curtains allowed her to watch the world awaken and move. She blinked her eyes rapidly, wishing for the millionth time that she could simply wipe away the tiny grains of sleep herself.\nShe heard the soft rap on the door and Ms. Beatty peeked her head in.\n“Good morning Abbey,” she smiled warmly, as she did every morning, “It’s time to get up ok?” Her gentle manner made it seem like a question but it wasn’t. Every morning was the same. A knock good morning, followed by this plump woman in her 40s pulling her from her bed, bathing, dressing, and feeding her.\n“Morning Ms. B. Did you sleep well?” Abbey asked as her bed was raised almost to sitting. The mechanical sounds were soft whirls and the mattress crinkled softly as it bent. With a quick strong hug, Abbey was lifted and placed into her wheelchair. Protective straps where secured and Ms. Beatty wheeled her into a large bathroom, designed with her special needs in mind.\n“I did. I had the same dream again.” she laughed “One of these days I just know Ryan Reynolds will leave that Blake girl for me. I figure I wouldn’t dream it so often if it weren’t just meant you know?” She gave her a quick wink and locked the wheels next to a special bath chair.\nThe shower room had a nice chair with hydraulic lift to place Abbey either in a bath or into an open shower. Abbey loved the bath. Although she couldn’t exactly feel the water on her limbs, they looked like they moved and the heat rose right above her neck where her nerves began feeling again.\nBut today was not one of those days. Today was Wednesday and she had her painting class. So Ms. Beatty washed her carefully, dried and dressed her. Back safely into her chair, she wheeled Abbey out and they chatted as her sheets and blankets were changed. Her cheeks still flamed sometimes when she saw the thick pads laid over them. There was nothing to be done though. She was not in control of those faculties either.\nAbbey wasn’t in control of much actually. She tried hard to make the best of it. Her wheelchair was operable by her mouth, her keyboard by her eyes and voice. She painted and wrote stories to fill her days, her very lonely days.\nMs. Beatty was one of three nurses charged with her care. She also had a cook and driver. Despite her handicap she knew to many she must seem lucky and when she was feeling lowest, she would breathe and try to remember this. It was of course, not always easy.\nLately in fact it was getting harder and harder to remember that she was, at least in part, lucky. She thought of her mother, the graceful, once ballerina residing now in Dubai. Her mother, Trina Arco, was a gorgeous Prussian tigress. Almost 50 now, she was a great beauty and her father Hans was still truly and madly in love with her.\nSure they loved her, but Abbey always knew she only ever had half her father’s love. Maybe this is why he’d left her there in Brussels, kept well and entertained by a small entourage of the most skilled and loyal servants. But she missed her father. He was a rotund man, tall and jolly, always full of optimism and wit.\n“Where is your head today Ms. Abbey?” Ms. Beatty asked as she pushed her down the marbled hallway to the dining room. She sighed, not even sure herself why she felt a sudden heaviness though out her very soul.\n“Oh, in the clouds I guess. Maybe today I should paint some sky to go with my mood.” She grinned wistfully up at her.\nThe smell was incredible wafting from the table. Before her were croissants, eggs, a homemade orange jam, and crisp bacon. Johnathan had outdone himself. Ms. Beatty sat and chatted about her daughter’s new boyfriend as she fed her small bites of everything. Thanks to her mother’s metabolism, she was unlikely to get fat and it was a good thing. Eating was one of the few sensations she had left to enjoy.\nShe closed her eyes and smiled. The jam was amazing. Although she enjoyed their talks, right now, all Abbey cared about was the next bit of that in her life.\nMs. Beatty noticed and smiled broadly.\n“He is a genius.” Abbey nodded in agreement. She often wondered if there was anything between Johnathan and Ms. Beatty. They were both single now and spent quite a lot of time alone here at the estate. She wished there was. Someone should be happy and in love.\nIn her heart she knew she was just a bit bitter about missing love, children, the chance to share it all with someone that looked at her the way her father looked at her mother. She shook her head slightly to shake off the bleakness and indicate that she had eaten enough. The food had suddenly lost all flavor anyway.\nMs. Beatty wiped her mouth and gave her some tea and her medicines. They helped her muscles stay relaxed and not seize involuntarily. She couldn’t really feel it, but it could be dangerous. After a few minutes she returned from the kitchen and said merrily,\n“Well, it’s time for painting my little Picasso!”\nAbbey nodded and engaged her chair. She backed up slowly and began rolling down the hall to the garden. With Ms. Beatty by her side, the pair looked oddly happy. The garden was beautiful with smooth walks and lush green trees. Her father was not a fan of the more manicured and ornate flowered gardens. He liked things wild and natural. So did Abbey.\nDuncan was there already laying out the easels and colors. He greeted her with a soft kiss on both her cheeks making her flush. He was a handsome man but she suspected he preferred the company of other men. He arranged her easel close to her head and placed a special brush between her teeth. Working on her control, she dipped her brush into paints and slowly, very slowly began to move her head, ever so lightly touching the canvas.\nDuncan adjusted her brush and loosened her strap just a tad. This smallest movement allowed her to push harder against the canvas for more control and color. He laughed and chatted with both women, taking breaks to let Abbey rest her mouth and give her instruction.\nThe cool morning had given away to a gorgeous spring day. Her lessons were the best two hours of her week. She sighed heavily as Duncan packed away his things. She asked Ms. Beatty to place her under the largest tree as the sun was warming quickly. She heard the phone’s alarm.\n“Do you want to come in or have Mary come out here?” Ms. Beatty cocked her head. It was time for her lunch and rest break.\n“I’d like to stay here if that’s ok. I’m feeling a little tired and the shade is nice.” Abbey’s smile was a little wan and Ms. Beatty hesitated a moment before nodding.\n“Okay dear. I’ll just go tell Mary where you are and she’ll be right out to join you.” Abbey nodded and closed her eyes. She heard Ms. Beatty’s shoes grow softer and softer down the path. She sighed and tried to concentrate on the warm wind against her cheeks.\nAfter a few moments she heard someone crying. But she couldn’t see anything but light. Had she moved herself into the sun? Where was Mary? She began to panic as the light grew brighter and a sharp pain twisted itself from her eyes to her head, then down her neck.\nShe thought she heard a man’s frantic voice calling to her. Was that Johnathan? Suddenly, the pain that gripped her was gone and the light became fierce and blinding. And then… nothing.\n“Abbey, Abbey!” Mary screamed as Johnathan shook her in her chair. But it was too late. The stiffness that had turned and twisted her limbs had gone, leaving a limp doll with eyes staring sightless at the sun." } ]
[ { "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: Catching Up\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1140\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“That’s four feet - my baby is getting so tall!” her mother cried as she stepped back from the doorframe. Today was Evelyn’s fifth birthday, and she had been feeling rather grown-up until this moment. \n“I’m not a baby,” she declared, her head craned back to meet her mother’s gaze.\n“You’ll always be my baby,” she responded, trying her best to restrain from smiling. Apparently, she had been unsuccessful because the little girl’s frown deepened even further.\n“Don’t laugh at me,” Evelyn declared through the angry tears welling in her eyes. She never heard her mother say these things to Aurelie, and she was only six years younger. It was probably because her older sister could do anything - tie her hair in a ponytail, ride a bike without training wheels, swim without floaties - you name it. \nOnce, Evelyn had asked Aurelie when she would catch up to her.\n“That’s not how growing up works, Evie,” she had said. Her sister had then gone on to explain that Evelyn would always be younger than her, no matter how many vegetables she ate. \n“But mom says they help you grow!” Evelyn had retorted, refusing to believe her sister even though she knew she was probably right - she was already learning fractions, after all.\n“Well, if you don’t believe me, you can go ask mom.”\nShe didn’t. If Aurelie was willing to bring mom into this, Evelyn was sure she had no chance. \n“Is Aurelie your baby, too?” she asked.\n“Of course!” her mother responded, kneeling to meet her daughter’s watery gaze.\n“Then why do you call her a big girl and not me?” Evelyn turned her back to her mother and crossed her arms across her chest.\n“Oh sweetie, you’re my youngest, and you’ll always have a special place in my heart because of it.” Evelyn lifted her chin from where she had tucked it against the neckline of her special birthday dress. A plan was brewing - and her once tearful eyes were now filled with nothing but determination.\nJust yesterday, Sammie, her best friend since all the way back in preschool, had entered their kindergarten classroom wailing about her new baby brother. Something about a doll head - it was difficult to understand the words she managed to choke out between chest-rattling sobs. In any case, both Sammie and her little brother would arrive at her party just moments from now, and Evelyn intended to strike a deal. \nA ring echoed throughout the house. Showtime. \n“Cheer up, Evie, your friend is here! I have to go, but I don’t want you greeting our guests looking like a grump monster. Chin up,” her mother said as she closed the girls’ bedroom door behind her. Evelyn glanced in the little white mirror above her and her sister’s dresser. Her eyes were slightly red, but no one would notice unless they were looking for it. Her mother had tied her hair up in a flawless high ponytail with pink ribbon to match her dress. That was nearly half an hour ago, so naturally, it was now a wind-blown mess of flyaways and stray curls. Evelyn decided that whatever state she may be in, the time had come to consult her trade partner. She drew a deep breath, grabbed the stuffed bunny from its spot on Aurelie’s pillow, and marched straight to the front door.\nSure enough, there Sammie stood - playing with her brother in his carrier. \n“There’s the birthday girl! I love your dress, Evelyn,” Mrs. Fischer cooed as soon as she caught sight of the girl. Evelyn blushed so that her face became the same shade as her outfit. \n“Say thank you to Mrs. Fischer, Evie,” her mother said after a few seconds of silence. Evelyn complied, taking a keen interest in her toes the entire time. Eventually - thankfully - the grown-ups started talking amongst themselves, allowing Evelyn to rush over to her best friend and whisper in her ear.\n“Bring your brother to my room,” she muttered, “If she asks, tell your mom we need him so we can play house.” Evelyn didn’t wait to see the perplexed expression that had spread across Sammie’s face. Instead, she ran as fast as her little legs could carry her until she disappeared behind her bedroom door.\n“Why do you have Floppy? And why are you breathing so hard?” Aurelie asked from across the room. Evelyn was too scared to speak. Either that or the sprint had rendered her physically unable. She had been caught. If Aurelie knew her little sister intended to exchange her most treasured stuffed animal for a baby, Evelyn would never hear the end of it.\n“I…I just wanted to show Floppy to Sammie.”\n“But you have plenty of your own toys you can do that with. You’re lying.”\n“Nuh-uh! How do you know?”\nAurelie sighed, “I just do.” She lowered her voice, saying, “Evie, I promise I won’t be mad. Just tell me what you’re up to.”\nEvelyn’s eyes started to water for the second time within the hour, and she was beginning to open her mouth when Sammie walked in with the carrier.\n“Did you still want to play doctor?” she asked, her gaze jumping between the two sisters.\n“Do you love your little brother?” Aurelie asked bluntly.\n“Of course she does!” Aurelie chimed in. Evelyn shot her a death stare before turning back to her friend.\n“Sammie?”\n“Well…yes! I love him very much,” she responded, her confusion slowly turning into concern. She unknowingly tightened her grip on the carrier’s handle.\n“But you said he ate your doll!”\n“Yeah, but he just chewed on the head a little. Luckily, my mom is a doll doctor and not just a people doctor, so she could put her back together. Her hair’s a little wet, but it’s because she just went to the salon.”\n“But I need a little sibling, or I’m gonna be a baby forever!” Evelyn cried, flopping face-first onto her bed. \nAurelie crossed the room to sit on the edge of her sister’s bed. “What do you mean, Evie? You’re already five years old,” she said softly.\n“Mom said I would be her baby forever because I’m the youngest.” Her voice was just barely audible through the pillow. \nSammie perked up at this. “My mom still calls me ‘little one,’ and I’m the oldest now.”\nAurelie gave her sister’s friend a smile. “Don’t you see what that means?”\n“No.”\n“It means that you have someone who will love you forever - no matter what - just because she’s your mom. All three of us do. Aren’t we lucky?”\n“Yeah, I guess….” Evelyn said warily as she lifted her head from the tear-stained pillowcase. \n“You know what’ll make me feel even luckier?” Aurelie asked once her sister was sitting upright.\n“What?”\n“Birthday cake.”" } ]
[ { "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: Through the Valley of the High School Parking Lot\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2954\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone undertaking a long, dangerous journey." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Sam knew he had to time his escape from last period gym class perfectly. Too early and he risked getting run over by reckless seniors desperate to flee St. Anthony’s. Too late and he’d get caught by Brett and his cronies, who took gym with him but loitered in the locker rooms afterwards. He only had one ally - the ice cream truck that occasionally pulled up in the student parking lot. With enough students flinging pocket change at the truck, they’d form a line and force the traffic to slow down. With enough luck, it’d distract Brett too…\nHe’d already been caught by Brett yesterday, and the rotating school schedule meant gym was 8th period three days in a row. He shuddered at the thought of Brett pulling off a three-day killing streak against him. Sam rubbed his elbow, still sore and scabbing from when he slammed into the pavement yesterday thanks to Brett. He flung his backpack over his shoulder, still wearing gym clothes, and prepared to brave the parking lot back to the main building.\n“Hey! Mr. Baxter! You’re gonna stink up St. Anthony’s if you don’t take a shower first!”\nSam’s heart sank as he heard the gym teacher Mr. Haney yell after him, drawing all eyes to him. He froze in place at the doors, stuck in place like he was tied to a pole with the laughter of his classmates stoning him to death.\n“Oh shit, Mr. Hiney, get his ass!” laughed Brett, purposefully mispronouncing Haney.\n“Bet Sam would love some one-on-one time with Hiney!” called out one of Brett’s minions.\n“Run little gay boy before Hiney catches you in the shower!” another sneered, finishing off the Greek chorus, treating Sam like a comedy but making his life a tragedy.\n“Hey!” Mr. Haney turned his attention away from Sam. Maybe this would be it, the day someone finally crossed the line and faced any sort of punishment. But…\n“Who called me Hiney?” roared Haney at the teens, completely ignoring Sam. He lumbered away toward the rest of the class, giving Sam the chance to finally leave.\nAs the warm spring air hit Sam’s face, all he could whisper was, “Crap” - the ice cream truck wasn’t there. Maybe the principal finally questioned why a strange man was pulling up to school property almost daily to talk to kids. Haney’s temper tantrum was the only distraction Sam could rely on today to slow Brett down.\nSam rushed down the stone steps, still holding the railing though, too scared to risk hurting another elbow against the pavement. His worn-out sneakers hit the pavement, preparing to propel him through ten rows of student parking.\nHe couldn’t even get past one row of cars before he faced his next hurdle.\n“Is that the sophomore that asked you out to Froshmore?”\n“Ugh…”\nSam slowly turned around to see two girls sitting on the hood of a car right outside the gym. He didn’t recognize the one that spoke first, but the one that grunted in disgust…\n“Hi Margot,” Sam uttered meekly, raising his hand and feeling his ears burn.\n“Dude, what were you thinking asking a junior to a freshman-sophomore dance?” her friend interrogated him.\nMargot just rolled her eyes and looked away. “Just drop it, Barb.”\nSam felt sick replaying the awkward encounter he had with Margot in the beginning of the year. He just transferred to St. Anthony’s this year so the concept of a “Froshmore Dance” was foreign to him. He thought since it was a Catholic school, the dance would be a formal one, so he assumed he needed a date.\n“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were a junior,” Sam admitted, feeling guilty even though it was an innocent mistake. Margot was in his Geometry class, and he assumed everyone was a sophomore there. She also didn’t talk to anyone else, just like Sam, so he thought it’d be nice if the two loners could go… just as friends. “I just thought we needed dates to go…”\nBarb scoffed. “Even if you did need dates, don’t you think Marg would have someone else to go with?” She turned with a coy smile to Margot. “Someone like Jackson…” she teased in a song-song voice.\n“Stop, don’t tell him about Jackson!” Margot complained. But it was too late. The damage was done.\nJackson.\n“I have to go now!” Sam blurted out, turning away before they could see his face turn red with embarrassment and disappointment. He couldn’t escape in time though since he still heard Barb ask Margot behind him, “Why’d he ask you out if everyone says he’s gay?”\n“It’s fine, it’s fine, please no one look at me…” Sam whispered to himself as he trudged through another row of cars. As he paused to let a senior speed past him, he realized he had been blinking back tears at the thought of Jackson asking Margot out…\nHe met Jackson in his Spanish III class. Unlike with Margot, Sam was aware that different years could take different language levels together, and he caught on quick that Jackson was a junior. Jackson’s Spanish wasn’t perfect – he honestly still belonged in Spanish II at best – but Sam found himself hanging on every word he spoke as he did verbal exercises in the front of class. Jackson loved to talk about being on the varsity football team, never remembering to call it fútbol americano no matter how often Señora Mia reminded him. Yet, whenever Jackson made a mistake in front of everyone, just like on the field, he’d find a way to turn a fumble into a success, making the class laugh along with him…\n“Crap,” Sam sighed, realizing he had been standing still for a few seconds. He turned around to look at the gym; it was only a matter of time before Brett caught up, so Sam started to jog while turning his head back around every other second.\n“Hey, watch it!” cried Vince as Sam bumped into him. Sam realized he walked into Vince’s whole friend group as they were circling around in the parking lot. They were sophomores too, but they mainly stuck to themselves, always taking up space at the lunch tables as they played rapid sessions of Dungeons and Dragons.\n“I’m sorry, I-” began Sam.\n“Wait, it’s you, Little Samwise!” Vince taunted, ruffling Sam’s hair. Vince was lanky but very tall, and in high school, height was always a factor in social status. “Going back to your little hobbit hole?”\n“Um, I don’t know, I just wanna get home.” He knew Vince was referencing Lord of the Rings, but Sam had never watched the movies – Vince would be appalled to learn that Sam also didn’t know they were books too.\n“Oh, he’s trying to go there and back again!” one of Vince’s friends laughed, the allusion going over Sam’s head.\n“C’mon Sam, let’s go find a Mount Doom for you to climb, might help you mature and grow a bit. You know, in any places that you need to grow in,” Vince laughed, once again trying to ruffle Sam’s hair.\nEven after almost a full year at this school, Sam was confused to how even the acme-ridden geeks liked bullying him. Instead of geeks and loners coexisting, they just wanted to establish a pecking order, but the constant teasing was getting on Sam’s nerves.\n“Could you just leave me alone? I don’t wanna have to watch your shitty movies just to have a conversation with you.”\nSam knew he messed up as soon as he said that. First, he rarely cursed – he would’ve said “crappy” if he wasn’t in a rush. Secondly, the movies were on his to-watch list; Vince just kept pushing his interest in them further down the list. But most damningly, thirdly…\n“Brother Sam! What did I just hear you say?”\nSam had cursed within earshot of Brother Wallace.\nVince immediately used the teacher to his advantage. “Brother Wallace, we were just trying to recommend some movies to Sam and then he cursed at us-”\n“I heard, Brother Vince,” Brother Wallace said, waving Vince off from explaining further. He then grabbed Sam by the shoulder and said, “Come with me young man.”\n“B-but,” Sam trembled as he was being led off to the right of his destination. The Brothers’ residence was in between the gym and the main school, off to the side of the student parking lot. It wasn’t even a good distance away to serve as an escape; if Brett walked out of the gym, Sam would still be in his path and line of sight.\n“Now listen here Brother Sam,” Brother Wallace began. He wasn’t even looking at Sam as he lectured him. “You’re one of God’s children, do you understand that?”\n“Sure.”\n“Your body is a temple to God. Every part of it is made in his image – that’s what I taught you in my class, correct?”\n“I get it-” Sam lied.\n“I don’t think you do. Because that includes your tongue. It deserves more respect than being used to speak filthy language. I should have you come inside the Brothers’ House and scrub your tongue with soap like in the old days. Or at least have you say a few Hail Mary’s-”\n“I’m sorry Brother Wallace-”\n“Then look at me!” Brother Wallace commanded, stopping them before they reached the house. Sam stopped looking for Brett and turned to face Brother Wallace. But something else caught his eye.\nThe studio art room had always been on the bottom floor of the school, but near a side entrance far from Sam’s locker. There was a brick wall a dozen feet or so in front of it, obscuring it from view from anyone walking between the main building to the gym. There was a patio-like area by the art room hidden from sight by the wall, with benches and shade meant to encourage people to draw or paint outside. Now it was clearly in view for Sam since he had been pulled farther to the right than he would’ve ever gone on his own. Now he could see what he’d been missing all year.\nJackson was right there. Painting outside on an easel, still working on something even after the final bell rang. This whole year Sam didn’t realize Jackson’s art class was at the same time as his dreaded gym class. How many times had he passed Jackson without realizing it…?\nBrother Wallace was still droning on. “So many young people misuse their bodies! They think it’s all about pleasure, but our bodies have a very strict purpose that God intended them to be used for-”\nHe’d have to fake a response to get out of this fast before Jackson wrapped up. “I understand Brother Wallace. Cursing is misusing my body. God didn’t intend for my… um, tongue… to be saying those things.”\nBrother Wallace looked as though he was scanning Sam for an ounce of sincerity. If so, his scanner must be faulty. “Good. You get it.”\n“Thank you, and I’m sorry again,” Sam lied as he began to walk toward Jackson.\n“Young man,” Brother Wallace stopped him again by grabbing his shoulder. Sam turned around and forced himself to hide his impatience. But the look on Brother Wallace’s face was slightly different now that he saw Sam about to walk to Jackson.\n“Yes Brother Wallace?”\nBrother Wallace looked like he didn’t want to have to say what he was about to, but some misplaced duty urged him to speak. “Don’t go giving into the urges of the flesh. You know that’s not what God would want.”\nAnd there it was. The same way Vince used geeky references that Sam didn’t know about to taunt him was the same way Brother Wallace used doctrine to beat around the bush with his suspicions about Sam.\n“I won’t,” Sam said as he left Brother Wallace behind and walked toward Jackson. But he saw out of the corner of his eye, from a distance… Brett. Sam did a double take and confirmed that Brett and his gang were leaving the gym. He still had time to escape to the main school building if he ignored Jackson…\nAnd then Brett saw Sam and made eye contact with him. Sam saw his toothy grin from across the parking lot. His prey was in sight for the second day in a row, and Brother Wallace had already walked away into his house. Sam only had a minute or two at best…\n“Crap, crap… no, fuck…” Sam whispered, feeling defeated, alternating between glancing at Jackson painting and Brett slowly approaching. What’s the point, Sam thought to himself. What would he even have said to Jackson? They’d see each other in Spanish anyway. They don’t even talk then, so why risk it now? Besides, what made Sam think he was worth anyone talking to him, let alone Jackson…\nAnd then the wind blew Jackson’s easel over, falling flat on the pavement. And Sam saw the look on Jackson’s face. It wasn’t the happy-go-lucky face he was used to in Spanish. It was sheer heartbreak.\nSam rushed to Jackson and called out, “Is the painting okay?”\nJackson was already in the process of picking it up. Now Sam could see he had been painting a field goal post. Nothing too fancy, just green grass and a blue sky with one cloud. But the yellow paint for the post must have been fresh – it splattered a bit and lost its clean shape.\n“Ah, damn it,” sighed Jackson. He then turned to Sam and tried to smile. “Hey you.”\n“Hi. Um, hello. Hi, Jackson.”\nJackson chuckled at Sam’s poor intro. “Well, you’re just in time to see my masterpiece ruined.” Though he was smiling, Sam knew he picked up on hints of sadness in his voice.\n“Hey. Um. You’re really funny in Spanish.”\n“Uhhh gracias I guess?”\n“I meant… You always find a way to turn your mistakes into something funny. Something positive…”\n“So… how do I do that here?”\n“Um… the yellow splotches? You could make the post like a darker yellow, like almost orange. Then add onto the yellow splotches since it’s a lighter shade. So that way it looks like the post is glowing. Like a halo.”\n“Oh… why?”\n“Because you just kicked a field goal into it and won the game.”\nJackson’s mood instantly changed. His eyes widened and brightened as he looked excitedly down at the canvas. “Yoooo, that’s actually cool as hell! I’m not the kicker but whatever!”\nSam’s heart pounded. He could almost feel Brett catching up to him. But he was finally doing it. He was finally talking to Jackson. He was making him smile. But what else could he say? He only had a few precious seconds with him; it felt like he wasn’t allowed to enjoy the moment since he was so desperate to say the right things, to keep the conversation going, to get him to laugh again because that’s the only way he knows he’s likeable…\nSam just spoke the truth.\n“I gotta go, Jackson. If Brett catches up to me… I’m not gonna enjoy talking to him like I did with you…”\nAnd again, Sam managed to change Jackson’s mood. Jackson became concerned, then looked behind Sam and saw Brett coming closer. Then he became stern.\n“What’s up, Sam? Trying to have a date with your boyfr-” Brett called out, stopping once he realized Jackson was the one standing next to Sam.\n“What’s that Brett? Wanna finish that sentence?”\nBrett’s face turned pale as he and his friends stopped smiling.\n“Go ahead, I’m listening,” Jackson continued.\n“Sorry, nothing,” Brett said, walking away.\nBut Jackson wouldn’t let them go easily. “Hey, I saw you try out for the team this year. Sucks you didn’t make it. Wanna know why?”\nBrett looked back, but before he could answer, Jackson put his arm around Sam’s shoulders.\n“Because you’re not a team player. I don’t wanna hear anything about you picking on Sam, or anyone else, or else I’m telling Coach Q you’re not ready for any team sport next fall.”\n“Sorry Jackson,” Brett relented before walking away, finally defeated by someone bigger than him.\nSam was hoping with all his might that he could remember this feeling perfectly for as long as he could. The weight of Jackson’s arm against him made him happier than he’d been all year. And then he hoped somehow Jackson couldn’t feel his heartbeat all the way up in his shoulders.\n“Ah, damn, I should’ve gotten him to apologize to you instead of me,” Jackson admitted, letting go of Sam and snapping his fingers.\n“Thank you,” Sam whispered.\n“Don’t sweat it dude. Just let me know if he bothers you again.”\n“Thanks… we have gym last period again tomorrow, so he might try to-”\n“Then I’ll just walk with you.”\n“Wait, what?”\n“Yeah, at least for the days that we have gym and art last period. Practice doesn’t start right away, so I’ll have time to kill after school. I don’t mind. Plus, Ms. Coolidge sometimes lets us out early from class anyway, doesn’t really care to look at her watch.”\nSam had to do his best to not look at Jackson. He was blinking away tears. He couldn’t bring himself to believe he deserved this.\n“Thank you for being with me.”\nJackson bumped Sam’s arm with his fist. “Hey man, I need you too. You’ve got some cool art ideas.”\n“I could help with your Spanish too.”\n“Hey, my Spanish is muy perfecto dude-o!”\nAnd together they laughed in the parking lot, restoring Sam’s soul back to peace." } ]
[ { "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 Face in a Room\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1178\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character sowing seeds for the future (literally or figuratively)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Marlo makes his way into the auditorium, pulling his hat down and glasses over his face to avoid being noticed. Being famous tended to stunt the normal aspects of his life that he used to enjoy. It had also caused him great anxiety but he had managed to fair well between some therapy and medication. This book made him want to know who wrote it, to him it was something on the level of a great author even if the general public did not see it that way.\nThe young actor looks down at the paperback copy he has in his hands of a book that reads Heretics and Iconography. The spine is badly bent from him spending hours reading it and annotating it. He flipped it open one more time and scanned through some of the passages he underlined, as he closed it he looked at the picture on the back. A young woman with dyed blonde hair had a slight smirk on the back cover. She had an odd name, Dunya Peters, as he read it the name stuck with him. Her biography seemed like any other author, graduated with a bachelor’s of some sort, had written all throughout her life, and decided to become one during college.\nPart of him had wondered what the mind behind this novel was like. What had inspired the dark subject matter? Who was the person behind this cunning sense of humor? Who was this person? As he asked these questions to himself, the picture on the back of the book seemed to appear before him at a long table on the stage. As the lights hit her and several of the other authors on the panel her features were displayed like a painting in a museum, where a specific sort of luminance was shone on them. She was tall, at least in comparison to the other authors. As she pulled out the chair to sit down, her blonde hair swept to one side. The gaze she gave the audience was saturated with an intuitive judgment, taking the darkened member of each face in.\n“Hi, yes, my first question is for Dunya Peter’s,” a young man walked to the front of the mic. Marlo recognized him from events around Los Angelos, he had been interviewed by him at premieres and red carpet events. The man’s questions were often invasive, belittling, and even difficult for the sake of media attention. If one could manipulate a celebrity into saying something off putting or weird, it would be prime for clickbait and a nice paycheck.\n“Yeah, shoot,” the blonde pulls the mic forward and leans into it looking a little bored. Her eyes looked sharp and decisive, if not a little dead. The smirk of the woman on the back of the cover is replaced by a straight-lipped glare awaiting the question.\n“What inspired the idea for your book? It has some distinctly religious undertones to it, and I wanted to know if it was criticizing it or praising it. This is interesting since you were raised in the church.” As the reporter asked this, Marlo noticed the writer become slightly disheartened at the mention of the church toward the end, as he emphasized it as if it was odd or bad.\nThe eye-catching woman sighs, picking up the mic and leaning back against her chair. She was stone-faced with one eyebrow cocked and crossed arms. “There are aspects to it that mean to put attitudes surrounding religion in America under a microscope, and there are aspects to it that mean to praise the core principles of it. The main criticism of the book is the idea that a person can be spiritual, but not religious. We always find ourselves saying that, but to have any true sense of spirituality it must be put into actual practice.”\nThe young woman is about to put down the microphone as the reporter pipes up again. “Well, what would you say to those who disagree with you?”\nHer eyes are narrowed at the figure standing in front of her like a dragon that met an intruder in its den. “I’d say they're welcome to disagree with me, but they’re fundamentally wrong,” she spits in a curt voice before passing the microphone to the next writer.\nMarlo can feel his heart beat faster. Between the response, she gave in response to the first question and the deadpan shrewdness exhibited in the second he had developed a small crush on the woman upfront. He wanted to meet her.\nIf there was ever a time to use his fame as a net benefit it was now. He had to talk to her.\n[...]\nMarlo walked back to a hallway of dressing rooms with a security guard. He knocked and opened the door, telling the young woman that someone wanted to meet her. The security guard nodded to Marlo and closed the door.\n“Who’s there?” Her voice has a raspiness to it. It could be heard as she projected into the microphone but was softer in the quiet room. She made her way out, instead of business attire she was now in a pair of sweat pants and a rough-looking t-shirt.\n“Hi,” Marlo shoves his hands in his pocket and grinned with sheepishness. She stared his down from across the room with the same judgment that she had scrutinized the audience with at the beginning of the panel. \n“Hi?” The unconventional beauty echoed back. She had a sternness to her that was neither cold nor warm.\n“I’m Marlo Géroux. I’m a big fan of your work,” As he introduces himself the flaxen blonde’s face softens into receptiveness.\n“Yeah, I can tell,” she laughs a little in a warm raspy tone. “I’ve seen some of your stuff, I really like it.” Her smile gave him the same butterflies that he got from the answers she gave.\n“Really? I like your books a lot, they remind me of Dostoevsky,” Marlo’s face is crimson at this point looking at the writer. He can’t wipe the grin off his face that has grown from both fanboying over this girl and her writing and how ethereally pretty she was up close.\n“You said that already, and thanks that’s a really high compliment for me,” she smiled leaning against the wall. She seemed to be a little caught off or awkward in nature as he did.\n“So, I was wondering, would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” He spits out awkwardly, half-expecting Dunya to reject him. As much as it would have barbed him in the side, he assumed it was better, to be honest than to beat around the bush.\n“Yeah sure, can you get out to get a coffee?” Her smirk from the back of the novel lit up on her face in a receptive manner.\n“I’m sneaky, I can do it,” he smiles back and looks around. All he can hope to do is sew the two of them together for the future, making a long-term companion out of each of them." } ]
[ { "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: Code Red\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1796\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone seeking revenge for a past wrong." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Trigger Warning Note: Story includes a school shooting, Mental Health issues, violence, weapons and suicidal thoughts\nJackson\n \"We are gathered here today to honor those who have passed in the FlockMore's High School shooting.\" I stare, blankly, at the five caskets-trying not to remember what caused those students to end up there. My hands shake and sweat-eager to get away from this funeral. My mind fills up with the sound of a Ruger nine millimeter going off, the yelling of my peers as they try to escape the terror, and sirens of police cars ripping through the atmosphere. It does not stop and the memories keep coming back. The feeling of someone tapping on my shoulder wakes me back to reality. I turn around to see a tall man with gray sideburns standing behind me. \"Excuse me, are you Jackson Clark?\"\n Swallowing hard before I respond with: \"Yes sir, thats me.\" I grip the belt loop on my white skinny jeans-terrified of what is to come. \"Hello, I am Detective Charles McGee, didn't mean to startle you but I am afraid I am going to have to take you downtown for investigation.\" My throat becomes dry and I sigh. \"Alright, but I need to be home before nine.\" Detective Charles nods and places his hand on my right shoulder blade-guiding me back to the car. I never thought that I would ever be in a cop car unless I was the one driving it. Being there was something I did not deserve but at the same time I did. Gazing out of the window-watching family members sob and moan over the ones that they lost. It all made me cringe from how much emotion could pour out of one event.\n The car ride to the police station was abnormal. There was upbeat music, laughter, and even-eye contact through the rearview mirror. The average actions that you would never see in movies. The entertainment faded as we pulled into the parking lot and Detective Charles escorted me into the building. Before I could even sit,there was a strange looking woman with a badge on her hip taking my blood. \"Wait, what is this for, can you at least start asking me questions first?\" The woman squeezed my finger, tightly, drawing a drop of blood from my index. \"It's fine, just a couple of tests, nothing harmful.\" Replied the woman with a lipstick stain across her two front teeth. \"Just sit down in this chair and explain to me what went down at your school last Monday.\" gestured Detective Charles. \"Oh, by the way, you can just call me Charles-if thats better for you.\"\n My hands began to shake again, this time, more vigorous than the last. It seemed tougher to remain eye contact when talking about something so frightening. Charles gathered a few papers and a pen, sitting up straight, and intertwining his fingers as if if was his first day on the job. \"Well, it started in World History. Mr. Johnson had an idea for a project about Buddhism. He wanted us to find our own path to enlightenment. But I had no idea what my path was going to be. So, during lunch, instead of sitting with my friends, I got my lunch and walked straight out. I ended up going to this shopping center in Orange County-just to look around and see if I can get any ideas. Unfortunately, I ran into trouble-it, actually, ran into me.\"\n Charles chuckled and placed his chin in the palm of his hand. \"Let me guess, was that your first time skipping? I mean, come on, who skips just to work on something for school?\" I roll my eyes and leans, forward, against the desk. \"Just let me explain, it gets better-promise.\"\nTaking a breath before I continue. \"Anyways, the trouble was from a guy named Jeremiah Parker and the rest of his gang: Kevin Kwok, Jennifer Conway, Kennedy Overholt, and Leonard Holiday. They would always pick on my friends and I but mostly me-not sure why.\n \"That day, in particular, the boys decided to stomp on my stomach until I was coughing up blood while the girls held me down by my hands and feet.\" I raised my shirt so Charles could see all of the bruises that marked my whole torso. Tears started to form. \"They didn't stop until it was time to get back to class and that seemed to take forever. I was in so much pain that I didn't bother to go back to school. Instead, I walked home. Good thing, my parents where at work or they would be asking too many questions-you know how parents are. As soon as I walked into my house, I sat on the couch and stared at this bronze, plastic, statue of Buddha that my mother brought back from India. I never saw the point in it since my parents never stopped arguing, but at that moment, I realized what my path was going to be.\"\n Charles\n Listening to Jackson's story made me feel bad. I wish I was there to help him out when he needed it but it all had to happen for some reason. Before Jackson could finish what he was going to say, Officer Nelson walked up to me with a clipboard. \"Sorry for interrupting, may I talk to you for a second?\" I excuse myself from jackson and walks towards a corner in the room. \"Sure, whats going on?\" Officer Nelson hands me a piece of paper and says: \"We found out that he has the beginning stages of Skitsophrenia. I don't even think the, poor, kid knows. But dont say anything, he already has so much on his plate.\" \n Jackson\n Charles started walking back to the desk with this sad look on his face. Even the way he walked sounded depressing. As he sat down, I ruffled my hair and asked is he was ready to hear the rest of the story. Charles nodded slowly. \"So, where was I? Oh right, after about 2 hours of staring at the Buddha statue I fell asleep to this weird voice. It said: \"Do it.....do it.....make your path.....find your enlightenment.\" (I am pretty sure it was Buddha talking to me). The expression on Charles's face changed from wanting to laugh to something unrecognizable. As if he remembered something and decided not to share his true feelings.\n \"The next morning, I got up to get ready for school. I remember stuffing something in my pocket but not sure what. Anyways, when I got to school, class had already started. So, I just sat down and watched everyone take notes. After about 10 minutes, we all started hearing gunshots and some of the students started ducking their heads, instantly. I couldn't tell where the shots were coming from. It sounded as if they were actually in the classroom.\n \"After that, I remember sneaking out of the class so I could alert the other teachers. I found the nearest classroom and saw that Jeremiah and his friends were all huddled together with the rest of their class. I thought that, maybe, we could all work together and escape even after how bad they treated me. (I didn't want my past to interfere with trying to help out as many people as possible). So, I walked into the classroom and tried to get the students out when I heard our principle over the intercom. After she announced that it was a Code Red, no one seemed to want to leave with me. They all had these terrified looks on their faces.\" A couple of Officers started gathering near Charles and I with cups of coffee in their hands like children listening to a fairy tale. \"Before I could try to convince them that everything would be okay-there was another gunshot.\"\n By this time, about 20 other officers were gathered, listening carefully. \"It was Jeremiah....he was the one who ended up getting shot first. I looked behind me and didn't see anyone with a gun so, for protection, I huddled up with the rest of the students. I remember Jennifer crying over her boyfriend's body and me telling her to be quiet or the killer would hear us. I guess I spoke to soon because right after I said that, she was shot.\" Most of the, instigating, officers gasped and leaned forward. \"A bunch of blood had splattered on my face and I jumped back. Unfortunately, Kevin, Kennedy, and Leonard all scream and just like Jennifer-they were shot too. It was, absolutely, ridiculous. It was like the killer was invisible or something because you could never see who was the one holding the gun.\"\n \"What happened after that?\" shouted an Officer from the back of the group. \"The rest was vague. I just remember running home, locking myself in my room, and turning on the news. They said that the killer left behind a, red, high top with the initials J.C. carved into the sole but I don't know what that was all about. Anyways, I couldn't tell you who the killer was if that was what you were looking to hear come out of my mouth.\" Charles nodded his head and stud up, shooing away the other Officers so he could drive me home.\n As we pulled up to my house, Charles looked back at me and said: \"I appreciate your help, Jackson, and I'm sorry about what happened.\" I got out of the car and leaned in the passenger seat window. \"Its fine, everything happens for a reason, good night.\" Charles smiled and sped off as I walked up the porch steps and into my house. Walking past the plastic Buddha and rubbing its belly before I headed towards my room. I could instantly hear my parents arguing again but then a familiar voice flooded my mind: \"You did it, jack! You found your path, congrats!\" I shook my head and walked past my parents bedroom. My mom stepped out, wiping her face with tears. \"Hey, sorry you had to come home to that but I wanted to know, did you find your other shoe?\" I kept walking as I answered \"Not yet, but it's no big deal, they weren't my favorite anyways.\"\n My mother turned to go back in the bedroom and the arguing, immediately, began once more. I walked to my room and opened the closet. Staring down at my shoes to find the one I was looking for. Picking up a single, red, high top that was covered in blood and the initials J.C. Carved into them. \"Looks like I won't be needing this anymore.\" Tossing it into the trash and smiling as I realized that I had accomplished my path to enlightenment." } ]
[ { "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: \"Grow up\"\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 2623\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with the words: “Grow up.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "15 years-old\n“Grow up,” my little brother, Danny, mutters angrily as he shakes his head and quickly passes by me to take the remainder of a pizza downstairs to the basement. \nI flash him a huge grin, attempting to contain a laugh bubbling to the surface. \n“What?” I say innocently, acting as if I have no idea what he could possibly be talking about. \nDanny’s upset because I picked all the pepperoni off again; it’s a game I like to play – a comforting routine, even. I somehow have a sixth sense to whenever my brother comes home; I emerge through my bedroom door on the other side of the house, and quietly sneak into the kitchen with the 10-minutes or less I have to diligently and meticulously take every single piece of pepperoni off the pizza he makes every day. I think it’s hilarious; Danny always gets pissed. But he never fails to take the new and improved cheese pizza with him and eat the entirety of the disheveled slices.\nAs I’m watching my brother leave the premises, a giddy feeling encompasses me as my phone vibrates against the counter. \n‘I hope it’s Kyle,’ I can’t help but think. I make myself wait 2-minutes before finally flipping my phone over –\nCarol: Hey, do you have any hairspray?\nUgh, it’s Carol, my best friend. She also lives a few blocks away.\nMe: Yeah, want me to bring it when you pick me up?\nCarol: That’d be great. Thanks!\nWe’re both on the dance team, (as are most of our friends in high school), and we have a half-time performance tonight at the football game where my boyfriend, Kyle, is playing. I never took dancing or cheerleading seriously, even though I was on both teams, so I relied on Carol to tell me when we were and weren’t performing and what ridiculous outfit I had to put on for the night. \nMe: Does the French braid go on the right or the left?\nCarol: Right! And remember to bring your white boots.\nMe: Gold glitter? Or no glitter tonight?\nCarol: Gold \nMe: Thanks\nI walk into my bathroom and stretch my arms above my head, opening my mouth wide to let a long yawn escape. My shirt rides up my stomach, and I notice pleasantly how tanned my body is from laying outside all summer. My dark hair almost reaches my belly-button now, and glides through my fingers as I pull three strands into a braid. I make it loose and free pieces around my face so it looks more effortless. The bathroom vanity lights catch golden flakes as I drop my gaze from my hair to my eyes; I study them as I contemplate how dark I should do my makeup for the evening. Kyle once told me he loves my eyes; I think they are quite boring. I wished they were green, or bright blue, or anything but brown. \nI don’t like to wear any face makeup, so I rub in a little concealer for my dark circles and draw black eyeliner around the shape of my eyes, smudging the bottom along the lower lash line. After I curl my upper lashes, I open my “Better than Sex” mascara bottle and stroke the brush slowly across my lashes, beginning at the inner corner and moving to the outer. Lastly, I open a drawer to my right underneath the sink and pull the glitter out. I wet a makeup brush and dip it into the gold sparkles, and then rub the brush across my eyelids just above the eyeliner. A few dozen glitter flakes cascade down my face, onto my cheeks and nose, giving my face a luminescent appearance. I take a step back and inspect my work.\nThe dark eyeliner combined with the gold glitter make my eyes look lighter – almost hazel – as they reflect the vanity lights. My lips are naturally a few shades brighter as I had slightly sunburned them last week at the pool, matching the color of my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. Secretly, I love getting just the right amount of sunburnt…it reminds me of times I vacationed in Florida with my family, and an ocean or a salty breeze. \nMy phone vibrates on the bathroom counter and I glance at who texted me.\nKyle: Hey beautiful, good luck at half-time tonight. I’ll see you after – Bdubs?\nI can’t help but do a quick happy dance before I respond.\nMe: Good luck to you!!! Yeah I’ll text you after – I’m sure there will be a group going. I’ll be cheering for you!\nKyle: Sounds good, thanks. I loooooveee youuuuuu\nMe: I looooveeee youuuu too \nThrowing on a pair of yoga pants, some Uggs, and my friend’s basketball t-shirt I had borrowed, I stuff my dance outfit and white boots into my yellow, beaten duffel bag and text Carol I’m ready. All I’m thinking about is tonight. I recite the routine in my head – ‘Double-kick, roundabout, high kick, high kick, ball switch…’ \nMy mind ends up wandering…My family will be cheering for me in the stands. I can’t wait to hug my sisters. I hope Kyle plays well. I wonder if anyone is getting asked to homecoming tonight. Is Carol still thinking about going with John? I hope we’re in the same group. Hopefully Katerina’s parents let us use her hot tub tonight after Bdubs. Maybe I’ll ask a Senior to get us some whipped cream Smirnoff again from a gas station…\nCarol rolls up in my roundabout driveway in her blue Honda, honking the horn to signal me to come outside. When I step through the side door, I hear country music blaring through the windows. Darius Rucker – “Wagon Wheel.” A classic Carol song.\nI flash her a bright smile that stretches from one side of my face to the other – the kind that makes your eyes crinkle - waving one arm with the other struggling to carry my duffel bag. A feeling of joy bursts inside me, along with gratefulness. For what? It’s difficult to describe…I guess I’m just thankful for tonight, for my friends, for my boyfriend, for my family – for my life. I don’t care about the C- I received on my pre-calc test, and haven’t thought about college yet. I don’t care that I’m not the best dancer or cheerleader; I’m just thankful I made the team. Instagram and Tik Tok aren’t around yet, so I rarely compare myself to other people. I don’t care about how much I weigh, or how my clothes fit. All I’m thinking about is tonight – how much fun it will be, and that I can’t wait to hang out with Kyle – a boy who thinks I’m beautiful.\nCarefree, without a worry in the world. 15-years old, and truly happy. \n25-years old\nI’m standing along the edge of a rooftop bar in Los Angeles, California. The lights of the vast city stretch into the far distance; horns and sirens of traffic running beneath me fill my ears with the sounds of nightlife mixed with house music the DJ is playing. I’m two tequila sodas deep (my signature drink of choice now), so a familiar buzzing sensation is ever-so-slightly present in my excited mind. Standing beside me is the guy I’m talking to – Walter. He’s an engineer at the company we both work for, staffed a few ranks above me. I’m an intern at said company, hoping to get hired once I finish graduate school. I love when he’s around; I can literally do or say anything and he’d still look at me as if I’m a queen that should be worshipped. \n“What are you thinking about?” His soft green eyes search my deep blue ones (I had bought colored contact lenses). He’s standing so close; I imagine how soft and warm his burgundy sweater would feel wrapped around me. I flash him a wild smile and run my fingers through my dyed, dirty blonde hair, flipping it over my shoulder, then look out into the beyond.\n“Don’t you just feel like you’re living the dream? Right here, right now – we’re in the center of the world, Walter. Los Angeles, baby! Don’t you just LOVE it here?”\nI laugh effortlessly, leaning against the clear railing and stretching my arms out as if attempting to envelope the whole city.\n“This is all ours. People DREAM about this – this life. And we get to live it. We worked hard for this. Ah, God I frickin’ love it. Don’t you just feel like you’re living the dream?” I ask him again.\nInstead of looking at me like I’m a crazy person, Walter shakes his head up and down, laughing along with me. His laugh is pure and sweet; I can always decipher if a guy is honest by the way he laughs. He’s giving me that doting look – the one that makes me feel as if he’s in love with me and understands every emotion I feel (to his credit, it’s a lot of emotions).\nI turn back to him, grinning stupidly, and study his light green eyes. The rim of each pupil is outlined by the brightest gold I have ever seen – almost yellow. God, I love those eyes. How is it that someone can make me feel so safe with just one glance? \nI wrap my arms around his neck and from behind him, my best friend, Helen, walks up with a huge smile. Her chocolate brown eyes are outlined in thick black eyeliner, and her dark, Greek skin almost blends into her black sweater and jeans. She also works with Walter and I; her father is the COO of the company we work for in the Americas. We became friends instantly once she moved from New York; we parallel each other perfectly. I bring out the fun side by making her dance and get a little tipsy, and she’s the responsible one who always ensures we make it home okay. Wild vs. sweet. My ride or die.\n“Becca, Walter, where have you guys BEEN?! I heard from Aric you bought seven street dogs last weekend, Bec, WTF” Helen exclaims, looking as if she is going to burst from laughter at any moment. \nI think back to last weekend and a vague memory of me purchasing street dogs, a homeless man on the side of the road, and Walter in an Uber passes through my mind. \n“Helen, I gave threeee to a homeless person, okay? I’m not some psycho.” I gave her a look as if asking: ‘Who? Me? Never would I ever eat seven street dogs.’ \nA mischievous grin tugs at the corners of my mouth when I finally say without looking at her, “The rest I ate in Walter’s bed.” \nShe pauses a moment, stares at me, and then we both start laughing hysterically. I really had eaten four street dogs last weekend, the remainder of which (ketchup and mustard included) lay all over Walter’s sheets in the morning. It’s a miracle he still likes me.\nI pull one of my arms from around Walter’s neck and wrap it around Helen’s. I look up at Walter with unwavering confidence and say, “This is my best friend, Walter, you know that? Aren’t we the cutest best friends you’ve ever seen?” \nHe looks between the two of us, baring his white teeth as he breaks into a grin. \n“You two are trouble,” he jokes. \n“C’mon Walter, don’t give us sass,” Helen responds. “Yeah Walter, don’t give us sass!” I laugh cheerfully. Then, I pull each of them tight so each of their faces are right next to mine and turn them toward the city lights. Three shadowed silhouettes outline the floor behind us. The rooftop bar is louder now, as drinks flow and more of our friends and coworkers begin to show up. \n“Isn’t it just wonderful, you guys,” I say with a distant look in my eyes, completely enraptured by the beauty that lies before us. I had coined a phrase a long time ago for special moments like this – I always call them ‘pieces of heaven.’\n“We’re free. Free to do anything – to be anyone. Isn’t that beautiful?”\nMy blue eyes meet Walter’s, and then switch to Helen’s on the other side. I don’t know if it’s the drinks, or the lights, or the fact we don’t have work tomorrow, but I throw my head back with a smile and yell with cocktail glass in-hand, “To never growing up!”\n“Cheers to that, Bec!” Helen yells back, and her, Walter, and I clank glasses as we’re all still close together, wrapped in my arms. \nA few hours later and two more drinks deep, a nostalgic thought passes through my mind…a distant memory of a football boy in high school, my childhood best friend, dancing, glitter, long dark hair, brown eyes, country music, and none other than pepperoni-less pizzas. \nI had watched my parents go through a brutal divorce, moved on from Kyle after seven months of dating him, left all my high school friends behind, and only saw my family twice a year back in Ohio whilst I was chasing a career of becoming a big-time consultant in the city of dreams. Everything I had ever wanted was coming true – the good grad school, the high-paying job, the smart boyfriend, and the loyal best friend. But sometimes, here and there, I would remember (and even miss) being 15-years old, texting my childhood best friend, getting ready to go dance on the field, wishing my boyfriend good luck, seeing my sisters cheering in the stands with my mom and dad together, and waiting for my little brother to come home so I could ruin his pizzas. \nAnd now, thousands of miles away and 10 years later, everything was different. Not bad – just different. It’s bittersweet, this feeling. But somehow, I’m still grateful. \nA lot of people become adults and begin to spend too much time in the past or in the future. They chase money for years, stepping on people to get what they want. Or maybe, they just give up on everything they love. They stop having goals; “purpose” is now a word that’s only heard in eLearnings and required seminars for CPE credit. If only they knew the secret to living a fulfilling life. That childlike wonder – that curiosity – the present moment - is what keeps a spirit alive. Not having to conform to society’s standards of beauty and success and following one’s intuition is a choice. And thus far, I’ve been quite careful with my choices, and I’m proud of that. \nAs I sit beside Walter on a couch next to the pool on the rooftop and lay my head on his shoulder as he talks to another coworker, I’m overcome with a feeling of gratefulness – the same feeling I had felt 10 years ago. I glance at Helen a few feet away. She’s talking to one of our friends, Katie, and waves once she catches my smile – her 20-or-so silver charm bracelets glinting in the darkness. \nI wave back and then look down at the pool, mesmerized as the pale blue turns into purples, then deep reds, and finally evergreen as the lights from the bar reflect off the water. \n“God…” I whisper, turning my sleepy gaze up to the stars.\n“Let me stay like this forever…” I pray. \n“Cheers…to never growing up.” \nRaising a glass to my sunburnt lips, I sip the last of my drink.\nCarefree, without a worry in the world. 25-years old, and still truly happy." } ]
[ { "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: Growth of a Bond\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1115\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Permanent marker scent still lingers in the nursery after a short while ago it had squeaked against the molding of the doorframe marking the height of our, now walking child. His crystal-clear, deep ocean blue eyes looking back at me in delight; but with a wondering look. Always curious. Absorbing everything around him. I think to myself how lucky we are to have such an inquisitive little guy.\n“Look how much you have grown since you first started walking!” It is just me and him in the book themed nursery where we share most of our days. As he walks over to his rocking horse and climbs on, I sit down in the gray cushioned glider and watch him laughing. Still thinking to myself about all that God has planned for this little guy. For now, just remembering the importance of imagination and play.\nThe squeaking of the felt tip permanent marker pierces through me as if it was a siren. The scent irritates me. The migraines continually get worse and trying to stay motivated to entertain his growing mind gets harder. Then there is a giggle and I turn around.\n“Mama, look!” He says as he tries to climb his tall black bookcase.\n“Look what I can do!”\n“Bubba! Stop! That is not a ladder!”\n“But it looks like one! See all the animals that are climbing it too?” He points to the stuffed animals along the edge of the shelf above him.\n“Climb down, now! I don’t want you to get hurt.”\nHe slips and tumbles down. He stands up and rubs his head.\n“Mama, my head hurts.” I immediately run over to him and check for any injury.\n“That is why I told you not to climb the bookshelf love.” I pick him up and head on over to the glider with the gray cushions. With a stream of tears falling slowly from his ocean blue eyes, he wraps his arms around my neck and whispers something so faintly. If it wasn’t for the sensation of his breath on my cheek, I may not have known he had said anything.\n“Are you okay? Speak louder please. I didn’t hear what you said.” I pull him onto my lap so our gaze can meet.\n“I just was saying I love you.” He wipes his eyes and then rubs his head.\n“I love you too. So much honey.” Then we just rocked. Both of our heads resting on one another’s. Each of them throbbing but the comfort of each other makes any trouble subside. I take in the conversation like medicine for the soul.\nRunning my finger across the red mark left by a pen on the white paint of the doorframe, far above my eye level. The smell of cleaning products tickles my nose. I hear stomping coming up the stairs and a voice echoing. I look at each individual mark and think about the journey we have been on together. The nursery has turned into a teenagers’ room. Full of music, books and airplane models. Those deep ocean blue eyes still inquisitive, still learning whenever he can. I place the folded laundry I have for him on his unmade bed. Just like his Mom.\n“Mom! Didn’t you hear me? I can’t find the car keys and I have practice in a half hour.”\nI just stop and stare at this grown boy in front of me. Wondering where time went.\n“Did you check on the counter by the coffee pot? I saw them there this morning. If they aren’t there, check your coat pocket.”\nI hear the stomping continue as he runs down stairs. I turn to leave his room and help him round up the keys, when I catch a glimpse of a little framed picture. Two hands intertwined leaned against a children’s book.\n“Where did my little baby go?” I say to myself out loud.\n“I’m right here.” He says smiling at me as he jingles the keys.\n“Are you okay Mom?” He walks over to me and gives me a hug.\n“Yes Bubba. I’m okay. Just reminiscing.” I take in the embrace and feel the same comfort and love that I did so many years ago as we shared the gray glider.\n“Okay Mom. I have to go. I’ll be late.” I gently squeeze his hand three times, a family way of saying, “I love you.” He squeezes back and then leaves.\nNo new line on the doorframe. Just a young man, hurrying to get ready. I sneak in his room for one quick reason. \n“Come on! One last mark. For your Mom.”\n“Mom, I think I’m done growing! It would be ridiculous.” He bantered back as he grabbed his portfolio from his desk. As he was adjusting his bow tie in the dresser mirror, I noticed a small toy dinosaur sticking out of one of the model airplanes. I laughed out loud.\n“What is so funny? Is my bow tie crooked? Is it my hair?” All his questions just make me laugh even harder.\n“No, you look great!” I try to reassure him through bouts of laughter. “It’s the dinosaur! Is it wearing flight goggles?” I am now in hysterics.\n“It can’t fly a bi-plane without it Mom. Seriously, do I look okay? This interview is super important.” He is just getting more nervous searching his reflection for something out of place.\n“You look perfect. You are perfect. I love that you never lost your sense of imagination. Keep it that way kiddo.” I brushed off his suit jacket.\n“Okay Mom, one more mark. I love that you never stopped me from using it.” He pulled me in for a huge hug. I then pulled the marker I had in hopes he’d agree, hid in my back pocket. He laughed and walked over to the doorframe.\n “I will use a thick marker this time. You know, to make it final.”\n“Need a chair Mom?” He asked teasingly through a grin.\n“I’ll just stand on my tippy toes.” I stood as tall as I could. The smell of the permanent marker starting to take me back to the very first time we did this. It squeaked across the molding for the final time.\nA final bold tick mark is visible on the doorframe. The scent of permanent marker, non-existent. The scent of dust lingers. Imprints are left from the tall black bookshelf which held all the little boys’ treasures. The gray glider that had been replaced by a computer desk, too has left tracks in the beige carpet. An empty house full of memories with a doorframe highlighted by a sons’ growth marks and the growth of a bond." } ]
[ { "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 Charm\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1624\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story during which two conversations happen simultaneously." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Coleen eyed her parents’ house from the shade of the tree a few doors down. They hadn’t lived there long, but today she began planning her move out.\nPreparing for the ‘big reveal,’ Coleen draped her sweater over her ring finger and walked resolutely to her home.\nThe family had lived there since the beginning of her senior school year. Her parents, Michael and Heidi, bought it along with the Sunny Day Café behind them, on the next block. Michael loved the convenient commute, mere steps away, across the alley.\nColeen found her ‘new kid’ worries had been for nothing. She’d made many friends. And today, her boyfriend, Aaron, asked her to marry him. She said ‘yes.’ She couldn’t wait to tell her parents.\nWaiting is boring. And being patient gets so complicated. Hours become days, become weeks… She couldn’t wait any more. She’d deal with whatever happened.\nHer dad hated surprises. Michael liked things regular and predictable. Change meant disruption and almost never an improvement.\nThis would be for the good, though. But she needed to phrase things so they could see it and avoid a ration of heartache for everyone. They’d come around. Waiting was for losers. She wanted to live.\nColeen set her jaw. Opening the door to the kitchen, she called out.\n“Mom!”\nNo answer. ‘Strange… her car’s here.’ She could smell dinner in the oven.\n“Mom!”\n~\nDoing his daily slow burn, Colleen’s father, Michael, watched the high school punks enter his café and occupy his largest booth. Every afternoon after school, they trooped in and camped out. Jackson, their leader, held court right through the dinner rush.\nMichael never expected his main clientele would be these under-aged, soda drinking bums. They’d sit laughing and talking for hours. And ordered endless refills of cokes. Food? An occasional order of French fries, split amongst half a dozen slackers.\nShirley, the waitress hated them for their snarky comments and minimal tips, usually whatever coins remained after paying the check.\nMichael picked up the phone on the first ring.\n“Sunny Day… Yeah?”\n“Mike, it’s Heidi.”\n“Who?”\n“You know, your wife. I live with you…?”\n“Oh, hi. Sorry. Distracted by these…”\n“I need you home. Now. We have a situation. Shouldn’t take long, but it can’t wait.”\nMichael swore under his breath. “Right now?” She didn’t respond. “Okay. Guess I can break free...”\nHe hung up, signaled Shirley, and headed out the back and across the alley.\nMoments later, Aaron entered the café. His friend, Jackson, hailed him, the long lost hero. Everyone scooted over so he could sit.\nJackson asked, “Where you been? What’s wrong?”\nDowncast, Aaron scanned the booth crammed with his best friends. Lumpy swiped at his cell phone. Snoozy dozed. Lucky read the sports page. Chalky worked his ever present crossword puzzle. George, known as Drippy, mopped up a spilled coke.\n“You’ve gotta help me, guys... mucked things up royally. Super dumb.”\nShaking his head, Jackson said, “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.” Aaron’s face said it all. Jackson hit the table. He calculated, counting fingers. “What is this, ten?”\nAaron nodded slightly. Jackson pounded the table.\n“He did it! Guys, he did it again.” They murmured curiously.\nDrippy said, “Not again…” He reached for another napkin.\nConcentrating, Chalky marked his puzzle and murmured, “Betroth…”\nJackson said, “That’s right.” He addressed Aaron. “Who? Who’s the lucky girl? Is she a ten?”\nEveryone laughed.\n“Coleen…”\nJackson nodded in admiration.\nLucky looked up. “What happened?”\n“Our friend, Aaron, did it again. He just proposed marriage, get this… for his tenth time. And not twice to the same woman…” Jackson held his hand up for silence. “Now, this doesn’t count the nun you proposed to, does it?”\nAaron shook his head.\n“What was her name again?”\n“Sister Hortense…”\nEveryone pounded the table and booed.\nAaron protested. “I was eight. She was beautiful.”\nJackson added. “She doesn’t count because she wisely declined his proposal.”\nWhile marking his puzzle, Chalky mumbled, “Horned…”\nJackson slapped Aaron’s back. “So, tell me, do you win a prize on reaching a dozen?”\nAaron had to take it. There was no escape.\nThe waitress approached to refill glasses. She gave Aaron a fishy look.\nJackson said, “I heard St. Marino’s formed a ministry dedicated to helping girls he’s proposed to.”\nAaron said, “Alright, stop. Guys, I need help here. I really meant this one.”\nJackson was on a roll. “Aaron, are there any girls at school you haven’t proposed to? Who’ll Coleen get for bride’s maids? How will you keep them from telling her about how their former fiancé jilted them? For her!”\nThe laughter got so loud that Snoozy woke up and asked, “What happened?”\n~\nHeidi had Michael sit. Coleen felt like she was under the tree on Christmas morning.\n“Coleen has some news.”\nHe looked at her expectantly. Grinning, Coleen displayed the ring on her finger.\n“I’m getting married. Aaron asked me…”\nThough not good news, this was not the crisis Michael had feared.\n“You pregnant?”\n“Daddy! No! Why do you both expect that?”\nHeidi dove in. “How long have you known him? I mean, do you know him at all? Where will you live? How? Does he even have a job? Have you met his parents? Where do they live?”\nColeen shrank from the deluge of questions.\nMichael said, “Wait, Heidi. We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He leaned in. “Coleen, you know you can’t take this seriously.”\n“He gave me a ring.” Coleen stretched out her hand again.\nHeidi said, “From Cracker Jacks? He’s a kid.”\nMichael said, “He’s high. Or psychotic. I won’t pay for it.”\n“Thanks Dad. Nice to know what you really think.”\n“This isn’t about you, baby doll. But he’s not thinking with his brain. Trust me, at that age, thinking wasn’t my strong suit.”\nHeidi nodded. “No lie… I mean, Coleen, what’s the rush?”\n“Right… Keep dating but finish your education. Get on your feet.”\nHeidi said, “We struggled in our first years… And we’d graduated. Honey, have you thought this through?”\n“Broaden your horizons. Find a career, so you’re independent.”\nThis sounded too familiar. “Like pharmacology?”\nMichael nodded. “You could do worse. Steady, practical, meet people.”\n“Sick people…”\n“Whatever… Better that than these goofballs hanging out at the café. I call them the Society of St. Ne’er-do-well. Rejects with no agenda besides spending hours at my biggest table.”\nHeidi said, “That’s terrible…”\nColeen looked at the floor.\nMichael continued. “Once actually set up a game of Risk.”\n“No… What happened?”\n“I told them to order food, or clear out. ‘This is no gambling den.’” He looked at Coleen and cocked his head. “Wait, is Aaron one of that bunch in my café after school?” Coleen hesitated and nodded. “I don’t want you falling for some jock, but this bunch? You’re not marrying a lout or lay-about.”\n“Daddy, I’m not marrying them all. Just Aaron.”\n“You can tell a lot about a man by his friends, kid.” Michael said, “Listen, Sweetheart, I get it’s not easy at your age. You want freedom. But think, in five years, will being tied to this guy feel like freedom?”\nThat hit home. Coleen leaned back and nodded. She said nothing. Heidi took Michael’s hand.\nShe walked out to the front yard.\n~\nChalky marked his puzzle. “Cuckold…”\nAaron said, “What kind of puzzle is that, Chalky?”\n“Just a crossword…”\nAaron said, “Help me out, guys. What have I done? How do I get out of this?”\nJackson said, “Why get out? Everyone thinks you’re the perfect couple.”\n“They do?” Several at the table nodded or shrugged. “Get real. I’m eighteen. How can I marry her?”\n“Aaron, everyone can agree you’re an idiot. But an extremely charming one. Ten women thought so… I wish I were so charming.”\nAaron felt he should thank Jackson, but wasn’t sure why.\nJackson indicated those occupying their booth. “Have you considered the current dating pool? The seven dwarves would beat out these guys.”\nLucky said, “And there’s only six of us.”\n“Exactly. And not one Prince Charming in sight.” Jackson peered into the distance. “Toss her and she’ll land in someone’s lap… Lumpy, Snoozy, Drippy… Chalky, Lucky…”\nAaron looked at Jackson. “Or you?”\nHe attempted innocent surprise. “Aaron, you know I’d never go after your ex. She’s out of my league. And you’re my best friend.”\nHoping to diffuse any tension, he nodded at the others. “I’m saying this is the cream of the crop, unless she gets snagged by some BMOC in college.”\nChalky filled in another word on his puzzle. “Dickwad… No! I’m sorry. Duckweed.”\nJackson ignored him. “But you’re kidding yourself if you think no one will pursue her. Coleen won’t cloister herself away. You sure you want to kick her to the curb?”\nAaron took Jackson’s advice to heart. “Okay then. She is the love of my life. I’ll stick by her.”\nHe left the café. He walked to Coleen’s house and saw her standing outside.\n“Are you waiting for me?” \nColeen smiled and took his hand. “I need to tell you... We need to…”\n“Slow down?”\nSurprised, Coleen nodded. “I need more time…” She took a step. “Walk with me?”\nHe said, “Anywhere.” They walked in silence. Aaron stopped. “Coleen, I need to tell you…”\nShe smiled at him. “About your previous, uhm, dalliances?”\nAaron balked. “You… you know?”\nColeen laughed. “Your whole saga is documented in the girl’s locker room. With quotes and extensive citations. You thought that was secret?”\nResigned, he sighed. “No. Of course… I have no secrets from you…”\nShe nodded and taking his hand, started walking again. “So, tell me about that nun…”\nThey laughed together, embraced and then kissed.\nAaron thought, ‘It’s actually true… ten’s a charm.’" } ]
[ { "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 Read It, You Can Keep It\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1067\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character sowing seeds for the future (literally or figuratively)." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Grandfather's have an irritating way of dying on you. When we got the phone call from his neighbor, mom cried and dad went silent. Mister-always-has-an-opinion suddenly didn't have one. Death doesn't care if you have an opinion. You can't argue with death. I was Gramp's only granddaughter. I didn't know what to feel. \nThe last time my dad and Gramps talked was three Thanksgivings ago. It wasn't a stupid thing like you see on social media where some kid turns over the table while everybody's still eating. It was my dad and Gramps raising their voices slightly as they stood outside on the deck. I heard my dad say something about Mexicans taking people's jobs. By the time mom got up and opened the door, Gramps walked through it, face set hard, and walked silently through the living room and out the front door. That night, mom's and dad's voices were raised as well. Gramps never set foot in the house again. \nGramps and I never spent a lot of time together, but we did fish at least once a month in the spring and summer. For those last three years, we never talked about what happened. Gramps talked about books. Always books. He even carried books fishing. Had them in a ziplock bag. I never saw him read once on any of our fishing trips, but he brought one anyway. I'm not sure why people who read are always trying to get other people to read.\nThree days after Gramps died, we had the funeral. We all went to the reading of the will at some lawyer's office. Gramps left his tiny old house to my dad and uncle. He left some personal items that wreaked of nostalgia to my mom and aunt. He left me all his books and their contents, along with a small, black leather journal. It was smooth, but worn, and smelled like old people. For some reason, that little black notebook reminded me of the books he would take fishing. I hate crying in front of people. \nI was sad Gramps was gone, but a little miffed at being left all the books. His last attempt at getting me to read, which I was never going to do. Period. I wasn't one of those fancy-shmancy people that sips coffee and talks about politics and philosophy and stuff. I went out with friends. I had a life. I read over some of his journal entries. Notes on stories and a few entries that hinted at the old man liking his old, neighbor lady. Gross. I skipped to the last pages and there were two entries: \n1 - Read, my love. Every chance you get. Read.\n2 - When you read it, you can keep it.\nA few months later, my dad lost his job of twenty-three years, not to Mexicans, but to Covid. First they cut back, then they shut the whole thing down. Just like that. In four, short months the voices were raised again in my parent's bedroom. My dad couldn't find a job and we were two months behind on our mortgage payment. My dad and uncle finally came together on selling Gramp's house. \nMy job was to box all the books. I could sell them for whatever I wanted. I'd seen books at yard sales for one or two bucks apiece. Gramps had two bedrooms, and the second bedroom was all books, floor to ceiling. I could probably make three or four hundred dollars at a weekend yard sale.\nI stood in the middle of that miniature library, smelling the mustiness that all books eventually carry. I didn't understand why some people liked books so much. One day, when I mustered the courage to ask dad what he and Gramps had argued about, he mumbled something about Gramps reading one too many books and walked out of the room. So here they sit; the very reasons a father and son didn't communicate in their last few years together. I shook my head and grabbed one at random. It had a colorful spine. Amusing Ourselves to Death was the name of it. I carelessly fanned the pages.\nSomething caught my eye. I did it again; slower this time. I stopped. Flipped back a couple of pages and spread the book open. I had almost missed it. In the crease of the book, at the start of chapter 6, was a crisp ten-dollar bill. I slowly flipped through to chapter 7. Another. I turned to the front and went chapter by chapter. Eleven chapters. A total of $110. I plucked a ten out and was about to pull out the rest when I remembered what Gramps wrote in his fancy, little leather journal. When you read it, you can keep it. I had thought he was talking about the stories. I put the ten back. Fine, old man. I'll read this stupid book for $110. No problem.\nI was reveling in my good fortune when it struck me. I looked around the room at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I spied a thick book and plucked one out called 1Q84. Thirty-one chapters, $310. I picked five more at random and began crying. It's funny how tears can mean different things.\nThere was $20,000 in the first two bookshelves. Dad had wanted to grab money from a few books to get straight on the house payments, but I said no and so did mom. Gramps left me the books and their contents. I told dad if he wanted the money so bad, he could read some books like I was doing. He refused, so he had to wait on me to finish. I took my time. I was feeling like maybe I understood Gramps a little more each day.\nIt's been a couple years. Gramp's house never sold, so I'm living there now. I just finished Russell Brand's Revolution and I left a bunch of crisp, five dollar bills for whomever checks it out at the library next. I read a lot nowadays. I also write down my thoughts and ideas in my little, black leather journal. Mom called yesterday and told me she caught dad flipping through one of the books I gifted him last Christmas when he thought no one was looking. He also got a new job last month. His new boss is Latino. I am so happy. \nThanks, Gramps." } ]
[ { "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: Still Here\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1041\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about light returning to a place that has been deprived of it for a long time, literally or figuratively." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The church basement is dark. The nursery school teacher asks if there are any questions. My three year old hand shoots up. She calls on me. I might be the only one with my hand up. My question is sincere and simple. Why are you round like a planet? The teacher has no verbal response. She leaves the room as her assistant takes the helm. I know something’s wrong with my question. Still I’m disappointed to not have an answer.\nGive it all to Jesus is the sermon du jour. I find Jesus a bit grabby. I have a blue toy iron, a doll with one eye missing and a few worn out toys. Jesus needs these things? I barely want them.\nThe duet this Sunday is a bit gory.\nEat His body.\nDrink His blood.\nAnd we'll sing a song of love.\nHallelu\nHallelu\nHallelu\nHallelujah!\nIck. The lilting happy melody doesn't match the macabre lyrics.\nMovie night leaves me scarred and sleepless. The Battle of Armageddon. Houses on fire next to a lake on fire and the world crumbling around us. I ask my mom over and over again through tears in the wee hours of the morning why God wanted to burn our house down. Even the water is on fire in the movie so that won't help me put the fire out if I use my plastic bucket which I will hang on to despite the \"give it all to Jesus\" pulpit plea.\nThere's no time to change your mind. The Son has come and you've been left behind. The threatening lyrics stay in my mind as fresh as a daisy. The church movie portrays a young girl just like me who doesn’t make the Rapture. She blows it. And if we blow it, we will face unspeakable horrors that are spoken of more than any hot topic.\nAfrica is always calling. Preachers tell us that maybe God wants us Africa bound as missionaries. Hey, young college bound girl! Guess what? God might send you to Africa with your new preacher, pastor husband to serve God and evangelize whether you like it or not. Stop studying for those SATs and start packing!\nThe list gets really long for teenagers. Don’t be unequally yoked. Only date church guys. Save yourself for marriage. No dancing. No parties. No inappropriate movies. The big story on repeat is told ad nauseum about a teen who didn’t submit to God and on the way home from church, wraps his car around a telephone pole. Could that be the start of my intermittent fear of driving?\nMeeting your mate on a pew is like meeting someone in an emergency room. Both venues attract desperate bodies and souls who are often in pain. If life gets hairy as your vices begin ruining your life, head to the nearest church or wait a little longer and you’ll find yourself in the emergency room. Unsuspecting christian girls sitting in pews are vulnerable. Maybe this is God's Will for your life. Maybe. Maybe not. Not!\nYears go by and I am driving my forest green mini-van with two sleeping babies safely strapped into their car seats. I’m on the highway on a beautiful Spring morning and I find myself talking to God. Is it a prayer? No. Is it a moment of gratitude? No. It is a jeer. Unfathomable!! Deacon’s daughter, Thumb-Through-\nThe-Bible Champion. Life long church goer. \n“You can’t get me now”.\nWho talks like that? And to God? You’re on the HIGHWAY! What nerve!!\n“You can’t get me now” was the phrase that changed my life. This is how I saw the God I was raised to trust. The God that was all knowing. The God that conquered death. He was after me from day one. But why? What did I do? Any goodness or faithfulness was never up to par. And the Rapture, Armageddon and God’s wrath were hunting me down.\nSo my two little babies were my protection. He wouldn’t hurt them. They’re babies. They might grow up to give it all, heed the call, head to Africa, yada yada yada.\nSince they were safe from his wrath. by proxy, as the driver I was safe for the moment. Safe and living on a prayer that sounded more like a jeer.\nThe conversation continued. In tears, drivable tears, I talked to God from parkway to bridge to connector to interstate. I declared a truce. I will reread and re-learn and unlearn until I see God in a new light. I had nothing to lose. \nThe woman at the well is the first place I start. I reread it with compassion, understanding and love. I no longer comprehend it as a “gotcha” story of judgment.\nI bask in the beautiful, poetic scriptures that soothe, calm and point to a loving, kind, benevolent Heavenly Father. God becomes Godlike. Love becomes lovely.\nTough love becomes adults bullying adults. Please stop calling it love. Call it controlling through fear, intimidation and ultimatums. STOP being so mean in the name of God and Love. Please!!! Love is a superior teacher. Love is more effective than fear.\nGive it all to Jesus means something new. I give back all the misconceptions, the harsh teachings, the fear tactics, the messages of unworthiness, the mistakes the teachers and the preachers make. They are only human. I forgive them for they know not what they do.\nMass on Sunday is solemn. No music. Nothing like the casual church I recall. I’m here with a close friend who suffered a loss. She is like a sister to me. Robes are pristine. The faithful genuflect, kneel, recite and repent. I just sit and stand in stillness, fixated on the beautiful stained glass windows diffusing the light of the setting sun. My ear bends to any straight from the scripture scripture. I also keep my heart and mind open to any sound, practical, love infused teachings.\nI feel like an outsider since I did not go through the rites of passage for this body of believers. But I know the truth and it did as promised. The truth set me free.\nI’m still here. You’re still here. I am healing. I hope you heal 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: Freezer\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1336\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that involves a character donating a box of clothes which have been outgrown." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Only one more day to go,\" Thex says, rubbing a comforting hand on my shoulder. \"You got this.\"\nLooking up at him, I give a smile-but it's pained, stressful. Hovering over where I lay on the couch, he leans in, needle in hand. The last injection before our IVF retrieval. One of many such retrievals, a hope for the future we've dreamt of since we met as kids. Two weeks of injections, three years of trying. One would think I'm used to it by now, but maybe this is something I'll never get used to.\n\"This time, it'll be good,\" I murmur, more to myself.\nThex looks at me, a sparkle in his brown eyes. Eyes I fell in love with years ago. Eyes that hold me together when things threaten to fall apart.\n\"Whatever happens, Beautiful, you know I love you.\"\nI know. I've always known. Smiling back at him, I close my eyes. There's a tiny prick and I find myself pleading silently. Please. We're almost there.\n\"Only one more day to go,\" Thex says, a hand rubbing my swollen belly.\nI smile at him, only slightly pained this time. Our little girl doesn't sleep much, which means I don't either. But it's okay. It's a reminder that she's there and growing. Our little girl, finally on her way here after three years of struggling. A little flutter knocks against his hand, and the gentle smile on Thex's face transforms into one of pure wonder and elation. He lowers his head, brushing soft lips onto taut skin.\n\"You hear that, Thella? One more day. Then, we get to meet you.\"\nDanathella likes the idea, because she kicks another kick-more forcible than before. Thex chuckles deeply, thumb moving gently over the spot her foot hit. I glance at the box of clothes in the corner of the room. Taken from the donation bin outside the fertility hospital. Part of me feels bad we can't offer more, but then I look at the joy on Thex's face. We may not have the most expensive stuff, but we've got plenty of love.\n\"Yeah, we're excited too.\"\nI smile at him. One more day is repeated in my head like a mantra, as though chanting the words will make it come true. We're almost there.\n\"One more day to go!\" Thex sings as he dances around the kitchen, Thella on his heels.\nShe giggles and claps as he shimmies from head to toe. Leaning on the counter, I smile, chin in hand. From day one, Thella's been Thex's shadow. Mirroring his frowns, his deep-belly laughs, his playful pranks. Our little girl-our miracle. A pink backpack hangs from thin shoulders, the image of a princess and her animal companion splashed across the front. Curly black hair bounces in her pigtails as she follows Thex to the front door, myself bringing up the rear. We practice loading up in the car, driving past the first-grade school. Thella waves at the building, blowing kisses as we disappear around the corner. She turns around, grinning ear from ear.\n\"I can't wait!\" She squeals, displaying her missing front tooth.\nI can, I think to myself, but I shake my head. She's growing up. That's what little kids do. It's natural. Beside me, Thex catches my hand as he drives, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. I smile at him. The thought is heavy in my heart, but seeing Thella's excitement is enough to override it-almost. We're almost there.\n\"We're almost there, Thella, just hang on,\" Thex's voice is panicked over the phone.\nShe retches in the background, soft sobs coming through the speaker. My knuckles are white around Thex's hand, clinging it like it'll make everything okay. Lights of the city race past as we speed along on the highway, on our way to the seedy part of town where everyone knows kids get up to trouble.\n\"I'm sorry, mom, dad,\" Thella whispers.\n\"It's okay, darling, just stay on the phone with us,\" I tell her.\nMy voice is stronger than I feel. The buildings turn from glamorous skyscrapers to dark apartment complexes. Glass covers one side of the sidewalk, cardboard boxes in the window above. How did a high school kid without a license end up here?\n\"There,\" I whisper, eyeing the tiny form curled up next to the street lamp on the left.\nThex pulls over without hesitation, leaping from the car with keys still in the ignition. I follow on his heels, heart racing. Thella's tear-stained face looks up at us, a little bit of bile on her chin. With the hem of my shirt, I wipe it away.\n\"They said it was something everyone did,\" Thella whispers, arms around my neck.\nI meet Thex's eyes over her shoulder, brows narrowed.\n\"It's okay, you're safe now. We'll always come for you, baby,\" Thex tells her when words fail me.\nBecause how could anyone think dragging a sixteen-year-old to this place was okay? My fingers dig into her shirt, holding her close. As though nothing has changed since she was born, Thex scoops her up in his arms and carries her to the car. He buckles her in with such tenderness, it squeezes my heart. I climb back into the car and he turns the ignition on. Behind us, Thella rolls down the window and hurls once more. Fighting back tears, I take her hand.\n\"We're almost home, Thella,\" I murmur. \"Everything's okay.\"\nOne more day of high school. The graduation passes in a blur. Thella's beautiful, laughing face fills up the picture frames in the house, and then it's only one more day until she leaves for college. Then, she graduates with honors and it's one more day until she moves out west, taking some fancy job with a prestigious company. Everything's packed up, memories tucked away in boxes, her room nearly as bare as the day we started our journey with IVF. One more day until we move to be closer. Humming to myself, I pack the last-minute things, items forgotten until I opened Thella's closet. Old clothes dot the shelves, things she'd never gotten rid of or forgotten about before her big move. I lay the moving box on the ground. Picking up old clothes, her old favorites: A shirt with the words Straight out of the Freezer in bright pink, some old band t-shirt from a concert she'd forgotten about long ago. The I'm In Trouble t-shirt Thex made her wear when she was 'in trouble' with him-not that she could ever do wrong in his eyes. I smile, putting them in the box.\nWhen it's full, I stand, bringing it with me back downstairs. Thex sits at the counter, looking over the plans for the house he had designed. He looks up at the sound of my feet in the hallway.\n\"Whatcha got there, Beautiful?\" He asks.\nThe nickname has stuck all these years, despite the many changes. I smile.\n\"Old clothes of Thella's,\" I answer.\n\"She sure left a lotta things,\" he says, eyeing the bulky cardboard box.\n\"I know. I was thinking of donating it,\" I answer.\nThex pauses, looking up from the plans. He pushes up his wire-rimmed spectacles, eyeing me closely.\n\"You sure?\" He asks.\nI shrug.\n\"Someone else who's struggling will get more use out of it,\" I answer.\nStruggling. The magic word. A callback to our struggling days. Thex's face splits into a soft smile.\n\"Well, then. I'd be happy to accompany you,\" he offers.\nAnd so we take the old truck together, driving down the street with Thella's box in my hands. Beat up and rusty, the clothes donation bin next to the fertility hospital may be older than when we needed it, but it still sits proudly on the corner. With Thex's hand in mine, I walk up to the donation bin, pulling it open. Clothes drop into the bin, and I smile. I look up at Thex.\n\"One more day until we see Thella.\"" } ]
[ { "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: Cap and Gown\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1607\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that experiments with tone — perhaps a difficult subject dealt with in a playful way, or an ostensibly happy scene that hints at darkness lurking beneath." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They are very excited to graduate.\nWhen the diplomas have been distributed, they will step out onto the sidewalk that stretches far enough to accommodate the audiences that typically pour out of the downtown theater where, once a year, Joseph Silberman High School has their graduation. The sidewalk has seen the tuxedo crowd turn into the shorts-and-a-t-shirt crowd after tours headlined by stars from Broadway became non-equity three-show stays. The sidewalk had opinions about theater, but we have no need to interrogate a sidewalk.\nWe have a graduation to review.\nThis was the class of 2002. A class made up of a hundred and thirty-eight students. When they started as freshman, this class had over a hundred and fifty students in it. The expectation was that some would not make it to their senior year, and this assumption was--and always is--correct. Some were expelled for various infractions. A few moved and went to other schools in other districts. None died, and that was a wonderful thing. The teachers at the graduation remembered other years when students were in car accidents or drowned in the ocean over summer break or went to sleep and didn’t wake up because even young people sometimes go to sleep and don’t wake up.\nThat didn’t happen with this class, and for that, the teachers were grateful. It was always difficult at graduation when names had to be read of young people who never got to stand onstage and shake the hand of a principal. Wave to their parents. Move the tassel on their cap from one side to the other. A graduation is a solemn occasion, but it must avoid being somber at all costs. Much like any ceremony, it carries with it a kind of grief no matter what. Death can easily dip it into a kind of overwhelming breathlessness. Parents have passed out during graduations. Grandparents have had heart attacks. An uncle once had an existential crisis as the valedictorian was comparing college to a warren of rabbits. A bad analogy can create an inner spiral, this is true. When mortality must be addressed at graduation, the graduation can deflate like a souffle. There was no death needing to be addressed this time.\nThis was lucky.\nA year later, the first member of the class of 2002 from Silberman High would die after going on a ski trip in northern Vermont. They would not die of skiing, but rather, of getting drunk and wandering out of the beautiful cabin they were renting with their girlfriend. The girlfriend made a comment about the man working at the ski rental place, and an argument ensued. The graduate from Silberman High stormed out wearing nothing but basketball shorts, a Red Sox jersey, and a pair of red sneakers. When a hunter found his body the next day, the only thing he had left on were his sneakers. Sometimes when people are freezing to death, they think they’re burning up and they take off all their clothes. The body and the mind go to war against each other. A year is a long time. A year is nothing. People graduate and they get a year to enjoy being a graduate of something. They go camping over the summer. Then, they go to college. They decide they don’t like it. They drop out. They go skiing. They never come back.\nOne graduate was in the top one percent of the class. They could have possibly come in first, second, or third, if not for the fact that the top three students in the class were all trying to get into Harvard and Harvard won’t take more than one student from a school no matter how much smarter those students are than other students at other schools all over the country. Harvard takes one. The number one student is doing fine. She got into Harvard. She’s a lawyer. No surprise there. She’s happily married, but she’s never having kids, and that’s fine. The number two went to Columbia and now they’re a weatherman, which is respectable, but we’re not sure how that happened. That wasn’t the trajectory. The number three we never kept up with, but we’re sure he’s fine. Then there’s the graduate who was in the top one percent, but drank too much at their very first college party, wound up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, and was not allowed to come back to school. Their parents installed them at their empty house in Jefferson while they were living at their new place in Florida, and the graduate sat in a house that wasn’t theirs anymore, but would be until someone bought it, and they drank and went on dating apps, and invited people over, and tried to get them to spend the night, but only one or two did.\nOne got married and then divorced and married to the same person and then divorced again all before they were twenty-six, but they were also named one of Vogue’s Hottest Young Designers and so they were content with their life--love shambles and all. They never talked about high school or where they were from, and in all the profiles done on them (and there were many) they would simply say that they grew up in New England and their childhood was happy and there wasn’t much to talk about beyond that. None of it was a lie, but one time, in high school, they got the solo in the school chorus and it was the first time people looked at them with any kind of admiration, and it set the course for the rest of their life, but they didn’t want to tell anyone that, let alone have it documented in print, because it sounds crazy to say that you became a famous fashion designer, because a chorus teacher let you sing a verse of “Make Our Garden Grow” all by yourself.\nTwo of the graduates married each other even though their parents demanded that they go to different colleges. They stayed in touch, and when both graduated from separate universities, they reconnected on the West Coast and immediately became engaged. They take photos of their vacations. They go on vacation endlessly. One always wishes they could just stay home and the other would give anything to never go home. It’s not about liking home or not liking home. It’s about a kind of restlessness that lives within some and not in others. One of them was the editor of the school newspaper, and that was the last time they felt important.\nIt’s all right to spend some time in the future, but the graduates are spilling out onto the elongated sidewalk in their caps and gowns. It dawns on them as they hug their family members and each other that this is the last goodbye in what has been a series of goodbyes. Yearbook parties, prom, an honors society dinner, a dinner for athletics, an arts soiree, a spring production of Our Town, and a senior trip to Six Flags.\nThey have cried and made promises destined to break and laughed and reminisced and confessed crushes and apologized for unkind words and rumors. Now, they have nothing left to say and not much time even if they had another word or two worth sharing. They tried to memorize each other’s faces. There were reminders about graduation parties over the summer. Graduates scheduled to attend the same colleges were already forming deeper connections by virtue of their next chapters coinciding. Those who were not going to be at the same parties or arriving at the same institutions of higher learning in the fall or set to meet again somewhere down the path tried to find a way to honor this ending. Two had lockers side-by-side for all four years of high school, and now they’d never see each other again. Actually, in ten years, they’ll be in the same aisle at the supermarket (cereal and rice) and they won’t recognize each other. That might sound sad, but it’s not. It’s just a story.\nAnd there are so many stories.\nAt midnight, the sidewalk is deserted. Most of the graduates are still out at parties, or even, in some cases, downtown bars. Caps have been left in backseats of beaten-up cars that suit first-time drivers. Gowns are already hung up in closets or hung on hooks on the back of bedroom doors leading into bedrooms that will soon be vacated. The mother of one graduate can’t sleep. Her daughter is out at a bowling party, and the lane has agreed to stay open late in honor of that night’s graduation. The daughter won’t be home until close to one, but that’s still thirty or forty minutes away.\nThe mother takes the gown off the hook on the back of the bedroom door and lays it down on the bed. Then, she lays down next to the gown and brings it to her chest. When her daughter had her wisdom teeth out in the tenth grade, there would be moments throughout the following two days where her daughter would wake up, her pain medication worn off, and she’d cry until she could swallow another pill to dull the ache. When that happened, her mother would get into bed with her and cradle her and try with all her might to absorb her daughter’s pain. On this night, she simply wanted to absorb her daughter’s potential. Not to steal it from her, but to spur it on. To expand it. To turn the tassel.\nShe is very excited for her daughter.\nAfter all, who wouldn’t be?" } ]
[ { "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 Mystery of the Bread Bag Drawer\n\nGenre: happy\n\nWord Count: 1203\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone having their height marked on a door frame." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Knowing my height was marked many times over on that dark, brown door frame; I can still recall my Grandma Louise’s kitchen quite vividly before my Uncle Carl did the remodel enclosing the old back porch. In Grandma’s kitchen; tucked in between the sink and the old electric stove, that may or may not have had all of its burners working at any given time, were three wooden drawers that us kids thought had been made outta wood straight off of Noah’s ark.\nThe top drawer, the smallest of the three, was for silverware. Known by outsiders as flatware, but I am pretty sure there was not one ounce of silver in any piece of our silverware. If there had been any silver in our silverware, we kids would not have been able to use it except maybe when the preacher would have come for dinner or some of our kin from up north had been in for a visit.\nNext down, the middle drawer had been crammed full of dish rags probably made out of clothes left behind by every loved one that had gone to be with the Lord over the past 50-years or more. I think us kids had gotten this idea about those dish rags because it seemed every time one of the rags got pulled outta the drawer, Grandma Louise would say something like, “Lord, I have had this rag since dear so and so passed away...” The middle drawer was also home to what Grandma Louise referred to as potholders. We kids, not certain how a potholder was supposed to work, didn’t think that Grandma Louise’s potholders were real good at their job because it seemed every time she used one to pull some hot pot off the stove; she would do it real fast, sometimes jumping back shaking her hands exclaiming, “Child, get back, this pot is hot!” So, those so called potholders held somewhat of a mystery to us kids…\nLastly, the bottom and largest drawer, as I recall, was crammed full of all different colored, plastic bread bags....And as memory serves, us kids knew they were bread bags because that is what our loaf bread came in for sandwiches. See now to paint a picture of how full this drawer was at the time – imagine, every time the drawer was opened Grandma Louise would have to take the time to cram way more bags back into the drawer than what she had taken out. Us kids never did see Grandma Louise have to use her feet or anything to smoosh the bags back down in the drawer, but sometimes she was breathing pretty hard after getting the bread bag drawer closed again. So you can just imagine the curious mind of a child watchin’ the goings-on around this mysterious bread bag drawer. As one could imagine, us kids had some serious conversations, outta earshot of Grandma Louise of course, about the confounded bread bag drawer. What on earth does Grandma Louise keep all of those bread bags for in her drawer..? I mean, we always knew when Grandma Louise went to the bread bag drawer something important was gonna happen. Important things like, storing the leftover hot dogs from Sunday dinner. Which obviously, from our observation, it was very important to remember that to store the hot dogs properly in the bread bag, the hot dogs had to be put in the bun before going in the bread bag. Just another reason us kids believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that those bread bags were very important! Now we were also amazed that those bread bags could hold hot soup to be taken home for somebody else’s supper! I’m telling you we saw those bread bags crammed full of scraps for the neighbor’s dawg or maybe their hawg! We even saw Grandma Louise fill those bread bags full of leftovers and put them in the freezer for a future meal. Come on, really – those bread bags could even be frozen! Us kids were simply amazed at the many uses Grandma Louise found for her bread bags. Probably the one use of the bread bags that really pushed it over the top for us kids, was when we discovered that Grandma Louise’s bread bags were waterproof! Yep, sure enough; waterproof! You know how we know..? We tested ‘em. We tested ‘em every time Grandma Louise would wrap those bread bags up around our shoes to play in the snow. I’m telling you those bread bag covered shoes kept our feet dry and warm. You didn’t get real good traction in the snow, but man our shoes stayed dry! Still, us kids had questions about Grandma Louise’s bread bag drawer...serious questions. Where did all those bread bags come from in her drawer? I mean, we all knew that a family our size could wipe out some loaf bread on a Sunday afternoon when the bologna, cheese and hot dogs started flying like they were going out of style. Yet still...It seemed as though that bread bag drawer had a never ending supply. The drawer was always full, I mean plum full! Yes, plum full! You may be asking yourself...plum? Well to this day, the word plum is still used frequently in my family – because if Grandma Louise said it, well, it must be right. Anyway, I’ll let you ponder on plum in your own time.\nSo, did people give Grandma Louise bread bags? Surely, Pa and Grandma Louise didn’t spend the small fortune on the amount of loaf bread that it would have taken to kept the bread bag drawer full..? Had Grandma Louise been in to collecting different kinds and large quantities of bread bags? Maybe Grandma Louise had been collecting bread bags for other people? At one time we had decided maybe Grandma Louise’s bread bags were valuable..? I mean we had seen Grandma Louise use her bread bags for so many different and important things...Naw, it was decided at the time the bread bags couldn’t be valuable because Grandma Louise put stuff in ‘em all the time and just gave ‘em away! So, the bread bag drawer continued to be a mystery for us kids. Once, we had even imagined the bread bag drawer didn’t have a bottom to it. We supposed the bread bag drawer may somehow have been connected to a path that would lead to where someone was making empty bread bags. Actually the idea of no bottom in the bread bag drawer kinda scared us kids. Our bottomless, bread bag drawer fear kept any one of us kids from ever being brave enough to climb in the bread bag drawer to see. So for kids and adults alike, the mystery of Grandma Louise’s bread bag drawer still lingers to this day.\nAlthough Uncle Carl’s great kitchen remodel has long since displaced the old, bread bag drawer made out of wood from Noah’s ark. I am beyond certain, there is still a new, fancy, store bought drawer full of bread bags somewhere in Grandma Louise’s kitchen...Well, in today’s world – it’s probably Walmart sacks because Grandma Louise was in to recycling long before recycling was cool!" } ]
[ { "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: Fallin' Apart at the Seams\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1445\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about how a single event affects a seemingly unrelated area of a character’s life (their friendships, career, romantic relationships, etc.)" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Walking through the halls of West Wherever High School was never one of my favorite things. I was big enough to not get bullied, most of the time. I was brash enough for people to be wary of, most of the time. I was solitary enough for people to wonder why.\n\nWhile most people walked through the halls to meet up with friends and share a two-minute laugh between classes, I raced through them to avoid those encounters. I’d enter a classroom, find my seat early, open my books, appear ready for class, and hope that those efforts would divert my teachers’ attention from the fact that the minute they started talking I usually zoned out completely.\n\nI didn’t really have any new friends. Most of the friends I began high school with were ironically the same friends I started elementary school with. I had some success making new ones in middle school, more out of survival than desire, because they had pulled my circle apart and scattered us across buildings and rooms. But, by high school, all those new friendships had soured and, on rare occasions, I’d look up to find an old friend standing in front of me.\n\n“There’s a concert tonight!” Mike said. “Want to go? We’re heading down to the Video Plus after school to pick up tickets!”\n\nI didn’t really know what to expect. I had never been to a concert before. I listened to music constantly, as Mike knew because it was he who would spend hours copying cassette tapes for me. My parents would say yes, even though we were no longer very close he was my oldest friend, since kindergarten and if his parents were allowing him to go my parents would assume it was fine for me as well.\n\n“Sure,” I said, opening my wallet and handing him a twenty-dollar bill. He took my money with a promise to call later and took his seat across the room. We were indeed victims of seating by alphabetical order.\n\nI was anxious. But, then again, I’m always a little anxious. As the day went on I found my excitement building. I had no idea what was about to happen, no idea what to expect. I’d seen music videos on MTV. An older cousin had told me a story or two of her experiences at concerts, but they were all abstractions. \n\nI didn’t bother changing. I was wearing what everyone wore, jeans and a T-shirt. The familiar car arrived at the house, my mother waved to Mike’s dad from the doorway and shouted “Thank you!” I piled in with the other concertgoers, some old friends, others faces I’d seen but hadn’t met. There were nods of recognition, eager, anxious raises of eyebrows, and toothy grins asking, “What will happen now?”\n\nThe Coliseum was big, but I had spent time there in my childhood. Wrestling matches, circuses, ice hockey games, and any number of somethings on ice. This was very different. An army of black T-shirt-clad fans, loud in their enthusiasm, called to everyone across the parking lots so that the echoing voices all seemed to meld together into one massive experience shared by all.\n\nOnce inside, we snaked through the crowd. We passed merchandise booths and Mike quickly veered off.\n\n“You need a T-Shirt.” He said. Mike was an old pro. This was his second concert. I didn’t argue.\n\nI bellied up to the counter and looked at the many offerings. I saw it as if a shaft of light from the heavens had descended fully upon it.\n\nAcross the front was scrawled the band’s name in colors evoking the rising heat of the desert. Beneath the name was the sand-pitted, dry-boned skeleton of a departed cowboy in a black leather trench with a studded but ragged cowboy hat. The fraying end of the rope from which they hung him still dangled from the noose hanging loosely from his neck. In his hand? A six-shooter. On the back, a wanted poster, weathered and tattered with all the dates and places on the tour. And there was mine! Ours! The Coliseum! April 20th! I gave that man my money and quickly put my arms through the arm holes.\n\n“Woah!” Mike said, “You never wear the shirt of the band you're going to see.”\n\nI didn't think to ask why, I just nodded and tucked the shirt into my front right pocket so that it dangled from my waist as he did. After all, he was wise! I was lucky to have him helping me through this induction because that’s what it felt like. That’s what it was. Thousands of people joined together in their love of this band! I was thankful I had not ruined it and made a fool of myself by putting on that shirt. He was a good friend indeed!\n\nThe two opening bands were great, but my senses were overwhelmed. The sound from my tape deck or through the TV speaker was nothing like this! The lights, the stage show, the energy! This was amazing! I looked to the right, a stranger. He looked at me and raised his hand for a high five, which I provided enthusiastically and we thrashed our mulleted heads to the beat, air guitars playing killer riffs, and sang along until their set was done.\n\nMy heart sank as the lights came up, as they always did between acts, but I was still learning. The standard rock soundtrack played over the PA. It was a tense half hour where we laughed with everyone around us. They shared stories of shows passed and I was dubbed “Concert Virgin”! It was immediately embarrassing but for some reason, this made everyone else whole-heartedly invested in making sure I had the most amazing time. \n\nThe term would have meant social ostracism in any other setting but here it made me a minor celebrity to be shown the greatest of kindnesses. The stranger next to me explained what was happening right now behind those closed curtains. A mysterious army of roadies and techs executing all manner of secret maneuvers, that he was somehow privy to, and would allow the band to “blow the roof off this joint”.\n\nThen the pre-recorded soundtrack went silent, the lights went down, and the electric hum of amplifiers engaged and sizzled through the rafters. The bluesy twang of guitars and the grizzled drawl of the lead singer echoed through the darkness but they were nowhere to be seen. The drums hit and the Coliseum exploded into light. The blues was replaced by hair metal shredding and they came up over the back risers, descending their wall of amplifiers like a staircase and I think I lost my mind. But found something so much more valuable. This feeling! This!\n\nThe show was a whirlwind of sound and lights and solos. There were cigarette lighters swaying like stars against the nighttime sky. There were chants and laughter and singing and everything! It was all a blur!\n\nWe piled back into Mike’s dad’s car and made the ride home yelling at the tops of our lungs. We couldn’t hear a thing over the ringing in our ears and our energy had not yet fled. We relived the entire show on that twenty-minute ride. As I rolled out of the packed car and onto my front walk Mike shouted, “Make sure you wear your shirt tomorrow!”\n\nI nodded, ran up the walkway, and plunged into the house.\n\nThe next morning my mother’s face was grim. She did not approve of the T-shirt. But, there was nothing inherently offensive about it so she found no plausible reason for asking me to change. I made it to school, passing several other T-shirts in the hallway. We nodded in recognition of each other.\n\n“Wait,” I said to myself. “This lasts?”\n\nAnd it did. Every T-shirt from the night before was associated with a new face and a nod of recognition. We weren’t friends, we didn’t eat together in the cafeteria or sit together in class, but each time we passed each other in the hallways there was recognition that we had experienced something amazing. We were a part of something larger than just our year at West Wherever High School. Regardless of how tenuous, we now had a connection.\n\nI found my desk and flung myself heavily into the chair, still exhausted from the night before. The guy sitting in front of me turned and looked at the shirt.\n\n“You went?” He asked.\n\n“Yeah!” I answered. “It was awesome!”\n\n“I wish I’d been there.” He said regretfully, “What song did they open with?”\n\n“Fallin’ Apart at the Seams.”" } ]
[ { "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: Olivia\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2115\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two friends who were once inseparable, but now find themselves growing apart — or even friends turned enemies." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Author’s note: Finished but not edited! Busy week and I didn’t get to edit this as much as I wanted. Hopefully I will be able to tweak it before it is approved!\n\nIt’s strange how well you can remember seemingly insignificant moments with crystal-clear recollection while big moments are a little fuzzy around the edges. Whenever I think about playing in my first concert, for example, it feels quiet and far away, like I’m watching it on one of those countertop TVs my grandparents had that never had very good reception.\nBut then I think about an early Saturday morning when I was five. I watched cartoons with my Dad and ate a bowl of Lucky Charms, promising I wouldn’t only eat the marshmallows with no intention of following through. That memory is short, but it’s vivid like I’m reliving it whenever I think about it. I feel like I can smell the living room of our old apartment. Me, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my cereal bowl on the coffee table in front of me and my Dad, bleary-eyed and barefoot, sipping a cup of coffee. Hell, I could probably tell what episode of Loony Tunes I was watching if I thought hard enough.\nThat Saturday was like maybe hundreds of others, but that one sticks out in my mind. I would say that maybe it was a highlight-reel memory, my brain smooshing Saturdays together to save space, except that it’s so vivid.\nI’d had one of those memories stuck in my head all day. It was of Liv and me at our family cottage. She used to come with us all the time before she moved away, but this one stuck out. \nWe were eight years and it was early, but it was hot. It seemed strange just how hot it was while the sun shone so low in the sky, casting long shadows westward. The sky was pale with the haze of heat, the blue fading to near grey the further away you looked. \nEven with all of the curtains drawn, the cottage would get unbearably hot, the ancient yellow ceiling fans doing little more than twisting the hot air around. The only way to stay cool on a day like that would be to swim in the lake. You knew that it would be so sweltering by noon that you would be bone-dry in ten minutes and jumping in the water again, in need of relief from the blistering sun overhead. \nLiv and I had woken up early. The porch was all windows except for one wall and the curtains were only lace, letting the early morning light in as soon as it peaked over the horizon. \nBefore breakfast, we had talked about riding our bikes to the general store up the road to see if they had any water guns. But by the time we’d eaten, we knew that the ride would be unbearable. Our tires would zip against the pavement, and we’d fear them sticking so badly to the hot asphalt that our bikes would get stuck, and our heads would ache from squinting against the bright for so long. We’d be able to feel the heat through the bottoms of our shoes when we dismounted to walk into the store and the ride back would feel impossibly long. \nWe discussed our plans over bacon and eggs and decided that it was best to just get into our swimsuits and spend the day jumping off the dock.\nWe burst through the screen door onto the landing, our feet slapping against the cool concrete, which hadn’t yet been assaulted by the sun. Liv was three or four steps ahead of me. “I’m gonna beat you!” she shouted, giggling.\n“No, you’re not!” I cried as a lept over the garden that lined the walkway in my best action-hero impression and onto the dewy grass.\n“Cheater!” she called after me while following suit. I had a good lead but it wasn’t long before she had caught up to me; she was always faster than I was.\nThe brush of our feet on the grass was replaced by the thunk of our feet on the dock while our laughter echoed off of the cottage and the glittering green water. Our steps became smaller and closer together in rhythm as we readied ourselves to jump. Then, a few brief moments of silence as we flew off the end of the dock and took our breaths before hitting the water. \nWe’d agreed without saying a word that we were competing for who could jump the farthest and I tucked myself into the smallest ball I could, hoping that’d be enough to carry me further than Liv. \nThe silence ended as we broke through the surface of the lake. The volume was still peaking when my head went under and out splashes were muffled and warbled by the water filling my ears. Before impact, I saw Liv ahead of me in the air before I closed my eyes and I knew I was beaten.\nWe came up out of the wet dark at the same time, Liv already gloating that she’d beaten me and laughing. “Yeah, yeah yeah,” I said, wiping the water out of my eyes. “I saw you. It’s because you cut me off before we jumped!” \n“I did not! You’re just a sore loser!” she said before sticking her tongue out at me. Then she threw her head back and laughed, her new adult teeth sticking out big and awkward. I splashed at her and she squealed before laughing harder. “Thought you looked thirsty,” I said before Liv sent a big wave back in my direction.\n“Funny, you looked thirsty too!” she said laughing.\nWe both started splashing at each other and laughing, our eyes closed against the spray. I realized I couldn’t hear her and I wasn’t getting splashed anymore. I reluctantly opened an eye, anticipating that the pause in the war was a trick. But Liv wasn’t there. \nThat’s when I felt a tug on my foot that made me jump and scream. Liv came up out of the water. “Gotcha!” she laughed.\n“Oh, now you’re dead!” I yelled, winding up for the biggest splash of my life. I imagined her being pushed back into shore with the force of it.\n“WAIT!” she cried, too late. I splashed with all my might and followed it up with as many fast and furious splashes as my arms could muster.\n“All right, all right, we’re even! We’re even!” she pleaded with her back turned. I relented as she wiped the water from her freckled face.\n“Let’s play ‘Picnic,’” she said.\n“Ok, you go first.”\n“I’m going to a picnic,” she said. “And I’m going to bring…” We both took a deep breath and plunged under the cool water. \n“A PITTA A EE-WA UH NWA!” Liv screamed under the water. \nWe surfaced, giggling. “What?!” I asked, wiping the water away.\nLiv rolled her eyes. “Don’t you speak English?” she said. “Try again.”\nUnder we went. “!!! A PI-CKA AN EE-NA UHWA ANWA !!!” she cried again.\n“A pickle and peanut butter sandwich! A pickle and peanut butter sandwich!” I said, bringing my head back above water, trying not to gulp the water in my laughter\n“Yeah!” Liv said. “I know they’re your favouriiiiiite!” she sang before laughing. She knew how funny and gross I thought they were and we joked about them all the time. \n“Ok, my turn!” I said. “I’m going to a picnic and I’m going to bring…” I said before taking a big breath.\nThat’s all I remember. The rest just fades into hundreds of hot summer days just like that one; laughing, joking, running, and jumping. \nMaybe it was because my Dad and I planned to go to the cottage to close it for the winter, making sure the fridge was empty, the power turned off and all the doors and windows locked. \nIt was always sad to close the cottage down. As a kid, the feeling was simple; I liked the cottage and would be sad that we wouldn’t be there for a while. \nBut as I got older, the sadness changed. It signified the passage of time and getting older. My grandparents, who spent nearly every weekend there when I was small, were too old for that now and only made it up for a few weekends. My grandpa, who always did so much of the upkeep himself, didn’t do much of anything there anymore except drink coffee. Once an avid fisherman, I hadn’t seen him cast a line in years. \nDuring our closing duties, I stopped for a moment to take the landscape in. The sky was grey and the water was steely cold and dark. It’s November, and the trees along the lake were grey and empty, their branches and twigs stretching outwards, creating fractal patterns against the light. Their leaves that covered the ground had lost their vibrance and lay brown and lifeless.\n I’m eighteen now, and I don’t race down the steps and have ‘who can jump the furthest’ contests off the dock and I don’t play ‘Picnic’ in the summer heat. I don’t ride my bike and I don’t think pickle and peanut butter sandwiches are very funny anymore…\nOr maybe it was because I heard that familiar laugh at school today, high and clear above the usual murmur of the hallway. Olivia’s (she hadn’t gone by Liv for a few years) laugh was older and more womanly, but it was the same. It flicked something in my brain and I couldn’t help but stop and turn, just for a second, to see her standing in a locker bay with a couple of her friends. \nLiv and her family had lived in the house next to us. We moved in when I was five and we became fast friends. They moved out the summer we were ten after her parents got divorced.\nThe day she left is one of those foggy memories that feels like it should be clearer and more significant. I don’t really remember what we said to each other, something about seeing each other before summer was over I think, before we hugged and she left with her mom.\nBut we didn’t see each other until school started and we were in fifth grade. Even that brief lapse in time spent together made our reunion a little strange. \nDrifting apart didn’t happen overnight. It happened little by little every day. Liv, a gifted athlete, started spending more time playing sports, while I started to get involved in writing and music. \nWeekend hangouts became less and less frequent, and we didn’t see each other much at recess. At twelve or so, our interactions became little more than a quiet ‘hello’ in the halls or being grouped in projects.\nDuring those longer interactions, we would start to fall into old routines and it would feel like we were friends again. One time in the library during a history project we were working on together, she even made a joke about pickle and peanut butter sandwiches. But, it wouldn’t be long before we fell back into our casual acquaintance. \nHigh school is when we stopped talking altogether. Liv was always good at science and math, two subjects I hated, and that’s how she filled her course schedule. That, and playing on every sports team our school offered.\nI took as many writing and music classes as they’d let me take and I joined the band. We simply became ghosts to each other and would stare at the floor if we passed in the halls. There were times when I just wanted to stop her and ask how she was doing, how her parents are if she remembered those lost summers at the lake the way I do…\n\n“What’s the matter? You haven’t said anything in a while,” Dad asks. I turn my attention from the trees passing by. We’re driving home from the cottage in the twilight, the road twisting and turning into the dark.\n“Nothing,” I say, “I was just thinking about pickle and peanut butter sandwiches.”\nHe smiles. “You always thought that was so funny. I remember Liv making you crack up with that all the time.”\n“Yeah,” I say with half a smile, turning back to blurring trees. \n“How is Liv doing? I haven’t seen her in a long time.”\n“Good, I guess,” I say. “I don’t talk to her anymore.” I can feel his eyes darting between me and the road.\n“Getting older is weird isn’t it?” he asks after a few moments.\n“Yeah,” I say. “It is…”" } ]
[ { "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 Of The Bright Young Things\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2002\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in the form of a letter, or multiple letters back and forth." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Friday 7th October 1932 - Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool\n\nDearest darling Herbert,\n\nWhat excitement we have had! \n\nMother and I boarded our train on Thursday. The conductor was a charming man. I swear he held my hand for just a moment too long. The weather was terrible, of course, but we were heading for the sun, and neither of us cared one jot. Then the thunderstorm started, which terrified Mother. She shrieked like she had seen a dozen mice with every rumble and flash. It was good fortune we shared our carriage solely with a group of nuns from a silent order. Their luggage labels showed they were heading on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. One wonders how they afforded first-class travel. Mother was distraught, but the ladies were charming and prayed for us throughout the storm. At least, I think they included us in their prayers as they constantly waved their crosses and prayer books at us. I'm sure they did not mind my cigarette smoke. They were only menthol, after all.\n\nIt was a disappointment you could not be with us. What a comfort that would have been. Such a shame you could not leave your poor Mr. Ross. If only the dear old thing had passed away when expected. Oh, how terribly callous that must sound, but you know, Herbert, our dear neighbour, is suffering so much. I wish you could ease his pain. Well, I shall say no more on that subject.\n\nWe arrived safely in Liverpool just in time for dinner at our hotel. It is a divine place. If the weather had improved, I should have joined a group of handsome young men for tennis. We met them in the hotel lounge last evening. One of them is the cousin of Ronnie Montagu. Do you remember him? The red-headed chap who flirted with me outrageously last August. I'm sure you were jealous, as you did not say a word to me all evening. Instead, I tested the water in the swimming pool this morning. I have a daring new costume! Do you like the photograph, and are you shocked by your brazen fiancee? Perhaps you will sleep with it under your pillow and dream of me. \n\nEarlier this afternoon, Mother and I took a walk, but several men were begging in the street! Can you believe it, darling? Why were they not at work? One of them said to Mother that he had not eaten for two days. He had the most dishevelled and unpleasant appearance, so we returned to the hotel for afternoon tea.\n\nTomorrow, we will board the ship at 3.00 pm. I do hope you will write soon.\n\nYour adoring Dorothea.\n–0–\nSaturday 8th October 1932 - London\n\nDear Miss Dorothea,\n\nThank you for taking the time from your busy day to write to me. I am glad you and her ladyship arrived at your hotel without incident.\n\nMr. Ross is much improved today. Dyspepsia is a most painful condition, but I do not believe it to be fatal. While I appreciate he seems, to you, to be of advanced years, I have no reason to expect his imminent death. I would be most distressed if you thought I cared about the legacy I shall receive on his passing. I assure you; Miss Dorothea, I do not need the money. It is sad Mr. Ross does not have a family to benefit from his generosity.\n\nThe photograph you enclosed was indeed daring. I will keep it locked away as I would not wish the housekeeper to see it. She is subject to heart palpitations.\n\nI am very grateful for your friendship Miss Dorothea, but may I politely request that you not refer to me as your fiance? Her ladyship would not approve. I am sure this is your wonderful sense of humour at play, and in time, you will find a suitable young man of your own social class.\n\nI have heard people are starving in the streets of many of our northern cities because of the depression. Exports of coal have fallen, and the mines have closed. They report that one million men are out of work. As a result, the ports have fewer merchant ships, and the Liverpool dockyards are laying men off. I am sorry that you and her ladyship had an unpleasant encounter.\n\nToday I am driving Mr. Ross to the House of Commons to meet Mr. Ramsey MacDonald. The Prime Minister wishes to discuss further limitations to importing foreign goods. I shall take a walk around the National Gallery while I wait.\n\nI wish you a pleasant voyage.\nYour humble servant, Herbert Morris.\n–0–\n\nMonday 10th October 1932 - RMS Lancastria, Cartagena\n\nDarling Boy, \n\nI had to share the news, such excitement as I have ever known. We have had a rescue at sea! Dozens of dear little Belgian sailors surround us. Their ship sank this morning. I do loathe the Bay of Biscay. It makes one feel a little drunk, reeling from one side of the boat to the other, and poor Mother could only keep down a little turtle soup, a small portion of pheasant pie, and only one dessert! I believe the crew is sharing their rations with the Belgians. \n\nThere has been an appeal to the passengers for donations to help the sailors, who will be ashore tomorrow morning. Mother has a fur coat that has a little blight. I am sure she will not miss it. The change to our itinerary has upset Mother very much. She is looking forward to reaching Lisbon. She has instructed our steward to fetch the captain at once.\n\nMother tells me that Mr. Ross is worth some £100000! I am delighted for your good fortune, my darling. We shall have great fun when we are married. When do you think that might be? I hear that Mr. Ross has a diseased heart. I am sure you take great care of his medication. It would be sad if he were to overdose accidentally. \n\nWrite soon, my beloved. I long to hear your news.\n\nYour adoring, Dorothea.\n–0–\nFriday 14th October 1932 - London\n\nDear Miss Dorothea\n\nYour letter arrived 'par avion,' this morning. It was most exciting to receive the post with a Spanish stamp. The housekeeper, Miss Harris, was delighted to have the postage stamps to give to her nephew.\n\nWe heard the news of the SS Scheldestad on the radio. How tragic that some 40 sailors lost their lives. I feel a sense of great sadness for the mothers who have lost their sons and wives that will never see the return of their husbands. We in the servants' hall have donated a small sum of money that the vicar will send to the bereaved. Reverend Jones knew several Belgian refugees from his parish in Folkestone during the Great War.\n\nIt surprised me to hear that some 250000 Belgians arrived in England when the Germans invaded. How sad they lost their home to invaders, only to return home, without choice, when the war ended. The Reverend said the government wanted the jobs back for returning servicemen. Miss Harris had a niece who was a conductress on a tram. She also lost her employment, as a soldier required the job. Miss Harris believes they will one day pay men and women the same wages for the same work, but I fear that is most unlikely.\n\nMr. Ross met with the Prime Minister. Mr. MacDonald is a good man but in poor health, and Mr. Ross says he can not remain in power for much longer. The Tories dominate the National Government, and his Labour policies have little support. The newspapers once again reported that his son was a conscientious objector during the war. It did not reflect well upon him.\n\nMy employer is enjoying good health. The rumours of his heart's weakness are ill-informed, and he is not currently taking any medication. I would most respectfully beg you not to consider me as an object of your affection, Miss Dorothea. I believe some may have exaggerated my expectations, and I would not wish to disappoint you.\nYour humble servant,\n\nHerbert Morris.\n–0–\nTuesday 18th October 1932 - Villa Santa Maria, Lisbon\n\nDearest Herbert,\n\nI am so glad to hear that Mr. Ross is well. I hope he is not overdoing things with all his political work. Mother says he should not concern himself with the north when things are so bad in London. I swear we waited over half an hour for a porter to collect our bags at the station. Why are men unemployed when clearly there is a need for essential workers? But enough of political matters, I am sure I will exhaust myself with such thinking. Dolly Matthews says I worry far too much.\n\nMother and I were reminiscing this morning about your dear father, how he carried me on his shoulders when I was a child. It was such fun galloping around the yard pretending he was a pony. Oh, how we laughed when he lost a shoe. Happy days. He was a great valet and a staunch friend to dear Mr. Ross. It is honourable that Ross should regard you as a son and heir. I describe you this way to my dearest friends.\n\nWe are staying here until April. If Mr. Ross should succumb to the winter influenza, please join us here, my darling. I would love to write more, but Mother and I are going to a party with some film director and his chums. They smoke the most delightful Turkish cigarettes.\n\nUntil we meet again,\n\nYour adoring Dorothea\n\n–0–\n\n24th October 1932 - London\n\nDear Miss Dorothea\n\nThank you for your most entertaining letter.\n\nThis morning I drove Mr. Ross to Trafalgar Square. There was a most deplorable scene when the National Hunger Marchers met with Mr. Mosley's British Union of Fascists. Mr. Ross instructed me to use the motor car to take several injured men and women to the hospital. Many of the marchers had left Glasgow in September. Their boots were little more than scraps of leather, bound with rags. Blood ran from their torn feet. They intend to address parliament about the abolition of the means test. There is much concern that government agents infiltrated the march, wishing to discredit their peaceful aims.\n\nHere we have exciting news. On Saturday evening, Mr. Ross introduced us to Miss Ethel MacDonald. They are engaged to be married. Farley Hall may indeed yet have an heir. A band played in the garden, and Miss Harris and I danced a celebratory jig around the kitchen table. Despite the 30 years between them, I believe this is a sincere love match. \n\nI am sure Miss MacDonald will take excellent care of Mr. Ross' health.\n\nIt will be a pleasure to see you next April, Miss Dorothea.\nYour humble servant Herbert Morris.\n\n–0–\n\n30th October 1932 - Villa Rossini Lisbon\n\nDear Mr. Morris\n\nAlas, my one true love, you have sadly deceived me. I wish you and Miss Harris a happy future together, and of course, I release you from any obligation toward me. I was not expecting many years of happiness; you being so much older than me, Herbert, but I had hoped to be a bride before considering a lonely widowhood.\n\nMr. Ross, it appears, has had his head turned by a pretty ankle. Ah well, there is no fool like an old fool. And no doubt he will keep you, and the future Mrs. Morris, in service together.\n\nRonnie Montagu arrived in Lisbon yesterday. Mother and I are now his house guests. Dear Ronnie's father is seriously ill, and Ronnie may have to return to London soon to be at his bedside, as a most thoughtful son should. It is my duty to be there to console him.\n\nI must ask you, Herbert, not to write to me again. I should find it too upsetting.\n\nYour heartbroken friend, Dorothea." } ]
[ { "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: Looking Different\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1029\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story at a wedding reception, where a group of high school friends are meeting for the first time in years." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Are we at the wrong wedding?”\nThere was no point in denying it any longer. Violet looked way different from what Clara remembered. She didn’t think Violet even remembered her, let alone the rest of her friends at the table. They were in different classes, physically, socially, and economically. She wouldn’t have gone if the baby skin invitation didn’t reek of an open bar.\n“Why do you think that?” Max asked. “She looks pretty normal to me.”\n“Do you ever remember her being super religious? Or that blonde?”\nHe shrugged. Hallie made a good point. The wedding venue was out of place. The First Baptist Church of Clearview wasn’t exactly everyone’s dream destination. The hallways stunk of baby powder and mildew, the rotting ceiling beams were decorated with chipping white paint, and the little Jesus hanging above the altar looked solemnly at the sea of guests instead of gazing at the Heavens.\nAnd Violet’s roots were too good.\n“Jack was pretty controlling,” Finn said. “He would always talk about wanting a blonde like Cindy Shallcross.”\nClara watched as Violet’s new husband smeared velvet cake over her face. The crowd cheered and laughed. Despite not knowing who this girl was, Clara couldn’t help but be jealous. She glanced over at Max. Her left hand ached.\n“I swear it’s not her.” Hallie stood and grabbed her bag. “We should go. I feel guilty.”\n“Go where?” Finn asked. “Not like this town is up-and-coming. That rotting gas station on Main is still up.”\n“I used to hang out there. It’s not that bad,” Max said. The vodka cranberries lurched in Clara’s stomach. “And if it wasn’t her, how did we get invitations?”\n“I don’t know, the same way you miraculously graduated on time?” Hallie sighed. “I just feel guilty, okay? I don’t want to be at someone’s wedding I don’t even know.”\n“Fine,” Max groaned. “But if we leave now, we’re going to that gas station.”\n“Clara and I wouldn’t go there with a ten-foot pole. Especially not with you.”\nClearview Gas N Go was once the town’s main income stream until its untimely demise. Danny Welch had quite a spill while the manager was on his cigarette break. The front walls were seared, and the front windows were shattered. Inside, the plastic ceiling tiles had melted onto the cashier’s desk and the snacks. The manager had taken the insurance money and buzzed off to the town over. The empty boarded-up building attracted a lot of delinquent kids wanting an out-of-sight spot from their tattletale siblings so they could do big kid stuff.\nMax prided himself on being the King of the Clearview Gas N Go because of all the big kid stuff he did. It made Clara sick.\n“I don’t know-”\n“Come on, Clara! You’ve never even been,” Max insisted.\nClara took a final glance at Violet and stood as well. “Fine.”\nHallie trailed behind as Max and Finn sauntered out the wooden double doors and onto Main Street. “You alright?” She asked.\nClara watched Max and Finn trot carelessly down the street, laughing. “Wasn’t expecting my little schoolgirl crush to make an appearance.”\n“I’m sorry. He’s still clearly an idiot, and you don’t want to be with a guy like that.” She paused. “Besides, I never heard of anyone having a good experience with him. He was kinda creepy.”\nThey walked the rest of the way in silence until Max abruptly stopped and turned around. He grinned, and another pang rang through her chest. He must have done more big kid stuff than she thought. “Just like I remember.”\nHallie stopped beside him. “Dilapidated and gross?”\nBlack hoses snaked across the parking lot, diving past broken bottles and piles of cigarette butts. Mother Nature had tried to cover the offensive graffiti with a thick layer of green foliage. All the windows were boarded, and a KEEP OUT hung sideways on the door.\nMax motioned them forward and continued walking down toward the back of the building. Here the vines had yet to cover up all of the graffiti markings. Next to the measly gray metal door was a spray-painted stick figure man with curly black hair. Atop was a gold crown.\nMax nodded proudly as he opened the back door with ease. “I was the King of the Clearview Gas N Go.” He gestured inside.\nFinn followed first, with Clara and Hallie trailing hastily behind. Max closed the door behind them. They stood in what appeared to be an old break room. Three plastic chairs surrounded an old table with playing cards strewn across the tile floor. The only light came from the crack between the wooden boards on the windows.\n“This is gross.” Clara looked at Max. He stood in a small puddle of what was hopefully water. Mosquitoes buzzed around his feet.\n“God, it smells like something died in here.” Hallie stood with her arms around her torso. The air was cold and damp. “Maybe that wedding wasn’t so bad.”\n“Oh, come on, you’re fine.” Max again motioned them to follow him out of the break room and into the hallway. The smell of death was stronger. Clara held a hand over her mouth.\n“I think we get the point.” Max didn’t acknowledge her and disappeared through another door down the hallway. Finn fell in step with her and Hallie.\n“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “He’s got some macho thing to prove, I guess? We will leave A-S-A-P.” Finn continued ahead and stopped sharply in the door frame. “Max what —” His voice caught.\n“What’s the matter?” Clara marched forward and peered over his shoulder.\nThe girl, or what appeared to have been a girl, leaned backward in a plastic chair. Her head lolled to the side at a painful angle. The pants she wore were chewed up to the knee. A few stringy muscles were left in her arms, and clumps of brown hair were swept with the dirt and cobwebs on the tile floor.\nIt was the vest she wore that scared Clara the most. The cloth was stained black with dried goo, but the name tag was still pristine on the side of her chest.\nViolet." } ]
[ { "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: Come In Spinner\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2827\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that hinges on the outcome of a coin flip." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Thommo rammed a bayonet into the rocky clay and tied a string to it. Thommo, the only one of us over thirty, and therefore responsible, was our Ringie, the supervisor of the Two-up ring. He attached a second bayonet to the other end of the string and, using the bayonets like a giant school compass, drew a perfect circle in the clay soil.\nIt was the 23rd May 1915, just months since I'd left Australia, to fight for my country and our King, George V, King of England and the British Empire.\nWe were perched on a small section of rock on a hill high above the Aegean sea, at a place called Gallipoli. Sheltered from the Turks above by an overhanging rock ledge, Thommo had declared this an ideal place in which to have a bit of fun before, as he said, we went \"up'n over that little hill and then non-stop to Constantinople.\"\nThommo had managed to find a small, flat bit of wood to use as the kip. He'd pulled it off a beam holding up one of the few wooden shelters available for the officers. He'd also managed to find some sandbags he'd lugged up from below to make comfortable seats for us while we waited to be sent to our likely doom over the top of the cliff.\nWe called Two-up the \"Fair Game\" then. You might think it was a simple-minded game created by our convict ancestors and the poor Irish settlers, but Two-up has a code of conduct stricter than the Queensberry boxing rules. Once Thommo had placed the two pennies on the kip, no one could touch them until they'd been flipped correctly, landed inside the dirt circle, and a winner declared. Our Ringie had already carefully checked the pennies to make sure they hadn't been filed down, although he'd had those same pennies in his pocket since we left Egypt. Two-up pennies must be highly polished on the \"heads\" side, in this case, the magnificent head of George V, and left dirty and dark on the \"tails\" side, so the winner is known instantly when they land.\n\"Come in Spinner!\" Thommo screamed at the top of his lungs, signifying he was ready for the Spinner to toss the coins.\n\"Jesus Thommo, could you keep it down?\" Stretch said in a stage-whisper. \"You may as well send up a flare to let Johnny Turk know exactly where we are.\"\n\"She'll be right mate, they'll think it's a battle cry and waste their ammo shooting at the rocks over our heads.\"\nStretch was our Spinner. In true Australian tradition, his nickname reflected his physique. At 6ft 6\", Stretch had been a spin bowler for his local cricket team, so Thommo figured that qualified him to toss two pennies at least 10 foot into the air and make sure they whirled like a spinster at a country dance. It was a miracle Stretch was still alive. His head and shoulders, towering above us, should have been a magnet for the bullets of the eagle-eyed Turks, yet he had defied the statistics by not only surviving the beach landing, but a full three weeks on the cliffs.\n\"All right, Gentlemen,\" Thommo said, \"As we are under certain time constraints due to our obligation to go over that cliff and have Johnny Turk take pot shots at us, we have new rules unique to the situation in which we find ourselves. Bets on odds will be permitted. The winner will be the first to make the correct call, and if no one makes a correct call, we will carry on until someone does. If you make an incorrect call you're out. Agreed?\"\nWe all nodded. There was only three of us to play. We'd also agreed on the winner's prize. We were positioned halfway up the cliff, with the Turks lying in their trenches just beyond the top. The route upwards was a hand-over-hand mountain goat track which could take only one man. The prize was going first.\nWith no disrespect to my fellow competitors, I suspected they were true amateurs at the game. I'd seen them play before and both of them were clearly of the view that good tactics involved only betting on tails. In fact, there is a 50% chance that the pennies would fall on odds, being one head and one tail, 25% on both tails, and 25% on both heads.\n\"Heads,\" I called. For possibly the first time in their lives, both Mick and Stan called \"odds\".\nStretch flung the pennies from his kip. The coins gyrated in the air, the polished heads of King George catching the sunlight and glinting like a lighthouse beacon. A bullet screamed past and hit one King George full on, sending him spiralling downwards towards the Aegean.\n\"Excuse me Gentlemen, while I confer with my Spinner.\" After muttering for a bit with Stretch, Thommo asked if anyone had a spare penny.\nI had a couple of Two-up coins in my pocket. I handed one over.\n\"She'll do,\" said Thommo. I called heads again, Stan and Mick called odds, and the coins were flung into the air, although not quite so high as the previous throw.\nThis time, it all seemed much more real to me. The coins floated down in slow motion, and once they hit the ground, they rolled endlessly around on their edges before coming to rest. Two shiny, goateed images of King George V blinked up at me.\n\"And we have a winner!\" cried Thommo, letting me know from the firmness of his hand on my shoulder and the regret in his eyes, that no outcome could have been a good one.\nI was slinging my rifle over my shoulder when the head of a messenger poked up from a rock below us.\n\"Pass it on. Message from headquarters. Both sides have agreed to a short ceasefire to bury their dead. You'll be given details soon, but until then, it's business as usual.\nBusiness as usual, so I climbed slowly up the cliff face, plastered against the rocks like a gecko, and tried as best I could to blend in behind bushes and stony outcrops. Occasionally, a sniper's bullet peppered chips off the surrounding rocks, but I emerged unscathed at the top.\nThe first waves of our boys to go over the top had taken up a position just past the top of the ridge, and had already dug rough trenches in which they lay. The Turks had taken up their positions on higher ground a short distance away, complete with their vicious machine gun nests, waiting for us to show our faces. I didn't suppose anyone on our side had been able to carry one of our machine guns up the goat track.\nAs soon as I reached flat ground, I flung myself into the nearest foxhole, occupied by two other soldiers, Johnno and Max. The No Man's land between us and the Turks was a stinking swamp of bloated, maggot-infested corpses. Laying where they fell, the bodies of the soldiers of the British Empire were melded with those of the enemy. Embracing each other in death, the soldiers' clothing was now a uniform shade of dark brown from blood, decaying flesh, and putrid mud. It was difficult to tell whether a body was Turkish, English, German, Australian or New Zealander.\nMy new friends in the foxhole had been on the ridge for two days and two nights. They had news of the ceasefire. From up high, they'd seen a Turkish officer being led blind-folded on a donkey along the beach, to where our officers were waiting, and had been told a one day armistice had been negotiated to bury the dead.\nJohnno had made his pack into a pillow and laid his head on it, his feet resting on a smooth rock. He'd fashioned a dirty rag into a kerchief, tied over his nose to help against the stench.\n\"We only have to avoid getting shot for one more night, boys,\" Johnno said, \"and then tomorrow the sun will shine, the details will remove those stinking corpses, and we'll have a peaceful rest for nine hours before Hell opens its gates again and the Devil puts out the Welcome mat.\"\nAt nightfall, I curled up into a ball and slept fitfully. I dreamt of the going-away party my parents had thrown me when I was about to be deployed.\nMy mother had organised a farewell afternoon tea, with all friends, relatives and neighbours invited. I had never been out of the country, so it was a celebration of the glorious event of my deployment to the exotic Middle East. Even my old history teacher, Miss Busselton, came. Tucking into my mother's famous sponge cake with raspberry jam, she decided to give me some advice.\n\"Watch out for those Ottoman Turks, my Jack. They've had centuries of practice and are some of the most ferocious warriors the world has known. They have managed to overcome every invader. First, they threw out the Romans, then the Crusaders, then the Mongol hordes-\"\nMy mother stood up, frowning.\n\"So sorry, Doris, I think Jack is probably needing to get some rest before his trip.\"\nAs she ushered Doris out, my father came over and put his hand on my shoulder. \"Pay no attention, Jack. The war will probably be over before you even land. The papers say the Turks are running out of ammunition and are disorganised. They're basically just a bunch of misguided goat-herders, with the Germans leading them astray.\"\nThe sun woke us the next morning at dawn, when we slowly ate our chow, dreading a call to advance on the enemy line. Perhaps due to lack of time, it never came. At 7.30 am, the ceasefire began, and men from both sides started to emerge from their trenches and converge on No Man's land.\nAustralian officers were sharing their chocolate with German and Turkish officers. We stretched our legs and wandered over No Man's land, hoping we might learn what sort of terrain we might be faced with in the coming days.\nA Turk walked towards me. He was clean-shaven, unlike his compatriots, who mostly wore full beards. He was just a boy, his face fresh with youth. Like many of the Turkish infantry, he wore a pointy woollen cap, with a heavy buttoned jacket, and a leather bandolier criss-crossing his chest. His trousers were tucked into soft, knee-length leather boots. Most of the Australians were in loose shirts, with the sleeves rolled up, and broad-brimmed hats to protect us from the sun.\nThe young man held his right hand over his heart, said something in his strange language, and inclined his head towards me. \"Mehmet,\" he said.\nI guessed that was his name. Or maybe it meant \"Hello\". Or perhaps he had been saying \"May you die a thousand deaths by a thousand cuts, you dishonourable infidel.\"\nI didn't know if it was the right thing to do, but I held out my hand and he took it in both his and roughly shook it up and down.\n\"Jack. From Australia.\"\n\"Smoke, Jack?\" He offered a Turkish cigarette.\n\"You speak English!\"\n\"No, just few words.\" We both sat down and enjoyed the excellent, pungent tobacco in companiable silence.\n\"You from around here, Mehmet?\"\n\"No, long long way. They make us come.\" He gestured to the German officers in charge.\n\"Me too, English make us come.\" We both laughed.\n\"Both same, maybe,\" he said.\nI rummaged in my pockets to find something to give in return for the cigarette, and found a ration biscuit. He took it when I held it out and scoffed it down. He was hungry. Perhaps he'd only come over hoping I had some food. He stayed though, after he'd eaten, with no indication he wanted to leave.\n\"Many days here Jack?\"\n\"No, just arrived. You?\"\n\"Yes, many days, nights. We see you, in water, then coming up mountain. Crazy we say, but brave soldiers.\"\n\"You a good shot, Mehmet?\" I gestured as though shooting a rifle.\n\"Yes, since boy I shoot deer, rabbit, anything, for family to eat. No good shoot no eat.\"\n\"Remind me to steer clear of you then.\" I don't know if he understood, but we both laughed again.\nI thought of the city boys I'd met on the ship over, who had recently been enlisted. Young boys who, if you'd made them cut off the head of a chicken and gut it for the Sunday roast, would probably throw up. They weren't ready to stick a bayonet in a charging Turk and disembowel him.\nI took a worn photo out of my breast pocket and showed it to him.\n\"My wife, my baby.\"\n\"Very beautiful,\" he said.\n\"You?\"\nMehmet held up ten fingers and then eight to show he was only eighteen. \"Soon, maybe, if I can go home.\"\nHe reached under his coat jacket and pulled out a curved knife. I instantly flinched, but he sliced off one of his coat buttons and gave it to me. \"Soldier like these, for remember.\"\nWe had been told not to cut off our buttons. I pulled the coin out of my pocket.\nHe looked at it with amazement. \"Don't worry, Mehmet, it's not worth much, just for playing Two-up.\" He didn't understand, but gave me a broad smile and pressed it to his lips and then forehead before tucking it in his jacket.\nAn officer yelled something in his direction, motioning him to return to his position. Perhaps he thought we were discussing secret battle tactics. I didn't think either of us had a clue about what the next tactics in this battle might be.\n\"Goodbye Mehmet.\"\n\"Goodbye Jack.\"\nI held out my hand, but he clasped me in an embrace, and then he was gone.\nAt 5.00 pm the ceasefire finished. Red flares exploded and bled their brilliant colour into the sky. The Turks' deafening cannon resumed their barrage against the ships waiting below. Their machine guns started up their death rattle. When a body did not absorb the bullets, they hit the rocky ground, creating billowing dust clouds with sharp fragments of rock. Snipers raised their heads, just long enough to pick of one by one, and with uncanny timing and accuracy, our soldiers who had also raised their heads from their trenches and prepared to fire, but not always fast enough.\nEven so late in the day, the order came to advance. Crouching, I had run less than a couple of yards into No Man's land when I saw Mehmet's unmistakable smooth face. He was running far from the Turks' trenches. I saw him far to my left, raising his rifle towards me, and then I felt a sting to the back of my left calf, and I went down. I got up again, dragging my left leg. I could see Mehmet had changed direction and was running to my far right, aiming his rifle at me again. Another sting, this time to my right leg, and I stayed down.\nSoldiers ran by me, firing at will. Mehmet was exposed, far from the trenches. It was only seconds before I saw him fly backwards and then he was down.\nThe pain in my legs came and went in dizzying waves, sometimes excruciating, sometimes, if only for seconds, stopping as though it were withdrawing to gain strength for an even greater assault. I crawled on my belly back to my foxhole and tumbled in. I could feel my boots fill with blood. There were some men still fighting with bad wounds, but my legs refused to hold me up.\nI drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, then felt the hand of a medic, shaking me.\n\"Where are you shot?\"\n\"Both calves, I think. I can't walk.\"\nHe cut off sections of my trousers and inspected the wounds.\n\"Looks like a bullet went straight through one leg, but the other's still in there. Your fight ends here Matie. We'll get you down to the hospital ship. Lucky, seems you got shot by the only Turk who can't aim.\"\nA lifetime has gone by since then, and I try not to think of that terrible war. The only mementoes I want to keep from that time are the deeply puckered scars in each of my calves, and a button from a Turkish soldier's jacket.\nMy little granddaughter, when first seeing my bare legs at the beach, asked me \"Why are there dents in your legs, Grandpa?\"\n\"A present from a brave soldier called Mehmet. He did it to save my life.\"\n\"We should write him a thankyou letter then,\" she said.\n\"Tell you what, when we get home, you write him that letter for me, and we'll post it together. We'll send it all the way to the other side of the world, to Turkey, Mehmet's country.\"" } ]
[ { "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: SOUTHBOUND\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2992\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with someone looking out a train window." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "SOUTHBOUND\n\nby David M. Sweet\n\nDoralea looked out the window of the southbound train. Mid-October leaves dappled the Kentucky hillsides in fiery oranges and burning reds, dull yellows and rusty browns with a few evergreens peaking through the canopies. Colors were made even more vivid by the morning sun and clear, blue sky. Flaxen sedge grass along with green tangles of weeds, brambles, and even a few autumn flowers blurred together as she shifted her gaze downward toward the edges of fields and fence rows speeding by next to the railroad bed. They were somewhere between Cincinnati and London, finally going home. Her young husband, having recently returned from the War in the Pacific a year after the Japanese surrender, slumped next to her, snoring. He was somewhat unshaven with his Navy jumper wrinkled and unbuttoned, his tie undone. A silver flask with the initials 'JB' inscribed in a flourish of calligraphy peeked from the inside of the jumper pocket. Her curiosity was piqued because those were not his initials. He had cocked his white sailor's hat over his eyes. She huddled under his dark, navy peacoat. She wore a plain, beige cotton dress and scuffed matching pumps that had seen several seasons of wear. The coat completely covered her small form. At seventeen she was still quite petite, not even five feet tall, so she was able to curl up into a small ball under the woolen peacoat. She had forgotten how cold autumn mornings could be. Her breath fogged up a small section of the window. She tentatively reached one arm from under the coat to quickly scribe a happy face and her initials, MDJ, on the window with her index finger. Mrs. Doralea Jackson, she thought. She quickly tucked her arm back under the coat.\n\nShe loved riding the train. She adored the mournful cry of the steam whistle, the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the rails, the way the cars undulated up-and-down and side-to-side, giving the conductor, and anyone else walking the aisles, comical movements. Unfortunately, none of her outings on the rails had ended happily so far. She was hopeful this one would be different.\n\nHer first trip had been with her mama and five brothers to Indiana five years ago to live with her dad. Richard Hood was a small man with a poor constitution. He had not been able to find steady work in London. Almost no deep mines operated in the county. Though many areas of the country had started to see brighter days ahead at the end of the depression, Eastern Kentucky still lagged behind. For the United States, war was still a few months away. For the last ten years, her dad had left home several times, traveling throughout Cincinnati, Hamilton, and Indianapolis to find some factory work here and there, but layoffs were common. He finally landed a steady job with the Hobart M. Cable Piano Company in La Porte, Indiana. His family had remained in Kentucky. He sometimes came home for Christmas. The family had grown to seven children, and even though Annie, the oldest, had recently married, six children was too much for Adeline to handle on her own. Richard tried to keep himself afloat in Indiana, but couldn't manage himself and his family in Kentucky. The family would have to move. Doralea, the second oldest and twelve-years-old, would take her first train ride North. \n\nShe had grown up within sight of the L&N Railroad. It ran down Mill Street near the old house. Her uncle owned it, and they had been fortunate to live there, but it was time to leave it behind for now.\n\n\"Doralea! Denver wandered off again. \nGo find him. Hurry up, we're going to miss the train!\"\n\nAdeline, already exhausted, wrestled two small suitcases that held all they could take with them. The family had relied upon Richard's meager wages for the last several months. They also depended upon the kindness of family, but that time had now come and gone. She once lived with Richard in Cincinnati a few years ago and hated being so far from home and family every minute she was away. Annie and Doralea were the only children at the time. They left the girls behind with her sister. Adeline begged Richard to go back home, eventually taking it upon herself to return because she didn't want to give birth to her third child away from family. \n\n\"Mama, I got him and Stanton.\" Doralea walked around the corner of the house balancing the toddler on her hip and holding Stanton by the hand.\"Now, Harold, hold Cliff's hand. You all stay close to me and mama. We get to ride the big choo-choo today!\"\n\nThey made their way down cold streets to the depot. February winds cut deeply, and flurries scattered in the early morning air. Blue patches of sky peeked through low, grey clouds. Adeline managed to herd her gaggle to the depot and onto the northbound train.\n\nDoralea was elated about her first train ride. Up close, the blue and vanilla L&N passenger cars seemed almost magical. She spent many evenings after supper watching trains pass their house in the gloaming, dull yellow lights of the passenger cars revealing shadows through the windows. Who were they? Where were they going? Why were they on the trains? So many questions. \n\n\"Look, Harold, there's our house!\" Doralea pointed excitedly. The boys smashed their faces against the windows. It was an amazing experience to see it from this side. The house looked smaller somehow. She was now one of the shadows in the train and could finally answer some of those many questions she had asked herself so many times. They left London behind, and soon Kentucky. When the boys finally settled down, she watched the icy world pass outside. Winter clouds gathered again creating a monochromatic panorama. Patches of snow clung to frozen ground along fields and forests, the snow nearest the tracks made dull and grey by coal soot from many passing steam engines. Rusted leaves clung stubbornly to oaks. The only real color in the landscape were from evergreens and occasional mistletoe hanging high in the skeletal arms of bare trees. Fogging up the window with her breath, she slowly traced her initials onto the cold glass: \"DH.\"\n\nThe most amazing moments of the trip had been crossing the long iron bridge into Cincinnati. Doralea had imagined big cities, but this was like something out of a storybook: paved streets everywhere with so many cars and people! Mama had hated living here; however, Doralea could imagine herself in a fancy dress on the arm of a handsome young man going to the movies and out to eat in a nice restaurant. She wanted to live here.\n\nReality quickly beset her. She spent most of her trip to La Porte helping her mama wrangle the boys, especially when they changed trains. She kept a close eye on them in bigger stations and crowded depots. The boys wanted to constantly run up and down aisles and hang from the backs of seats. Over the course of the more than 400-miles, Cliff threw up three times, Stanton sang nonsense at the top of his voice, Harold randomly pulled her hair and made stupid faces at her, and Denver cried off-and–on the whole trip. Her mama spanked all of them at least twice, which Doralea didn't find fair since she was trying her best to help. By the time they reached La Porte, she noticed bruises starting to show on her mama's legs and feet where they had stepped on her so many times. As the train pulled into the station, the large red sandstone clock tower of the La Porte courthouse gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The city was near The Great Lakes and not far from Chicago. Perhaps bigger adventures awaited, especially since it wouldn't be long until Doralea was a teenager. \n\nHer dad met them at the depot. He was much thinner and paler than the last time she had seen him. His light brown hair wisped in the cold breeze. His worn woolen coat seemed to swallow him. He grabbed the suitcases and turned toward town. His words were harsh and few as they made their way to the tiny apartment. Most conversation was kept between her parents. They spoke in low tones where Doralea couldn't hear. Mama carried the baby. Doralea wrangled the rest. The apartment was tiny and cramped, but they would make due.\n\nFortunately or unfortunately, they wouldn't make due long. In March, her dad, caught in a spring rain storm on his way from work, soon became extremely ill and missed two weeks of work. Mama tried to get a job cleaning houses, but no one would hire someone they didn't trust from out of town. Her dad lost his job because he missed too many shifts. They would be taking the train back to Kentucky. \n\n\"Doralea? Doralea, honey. Are you okay?\" Her husband's deep, rich voice broke her reverie.\n\n\"Yes, just drowsy.\"\n\n\"We're almost home. I've been thinking. Once I get my next paycheck, we'll be right back on the rails, and we'll take The Flamingo to Jacksonville. I owe you a proper honeymoon.\"\n\n\"I would love that.\"\n\n\"I need to stretch my legs. You want something to eat? I need coffee.\"\n\n\"No. I'm okay.\"\n\nDenvil Jackson straightened his uniform and made his way down the isle. She heard a man call him \"Lefty.\" She couldn't hear their conversation. Obviously someone he knew from London. After speaking briefly, the two men exited toward the dining car. Doralea stared at the countryside drifting along as the train continued southward. She worried about the upcoming reunion with her dad. \n\nThe few years after returning to London from La Porte, her dad worked sparingly. They received monthly commodities. Her mama took any job she could and was still there for the children. Once Doralea turned fifteen she started working as a waitress at a local diner, The Hob-Nob. That's where life really began to change just over two years ago.\n\nDenvil strolled in one day near dinner time. Doralea had briefly dated his brother, Charlie, but her dad put a swift end to the relationship. Richard Hood didn't care for the Jackson family. They were rough. They didn't go to church. Their daddy played banjo at barn dances. Denvil's grandfather, a known gambler and rounder, had been killed by a train on Manchester Street on his way to a poker game a few years ago. Cards weren't even allowed in the Hood household, even if used to play Old Maid or Slapjack. Cards were a sin, as was cussing and drinking, which the Jackson's were also notorious for doing. In fact, Denvil seemed a little tipsy when he entered The Hob-Nob that fateful day. He was handsome, though. \n\n\"How about a little coffee, Doralea?\"\n\n\"Sure. You want anything else?\"\n\n\"Just to talk to you would be fine.\"\n\nDoralea covered her mouth with her right hand, hiding her smile. She was self-conscious about her front teeth. Kids at school often made fun of her. \n\n\"Denvil, I'm workin' and my daddy don't really want me talkin' to boys, especially you Jacksons.\" She couldn't agree to go out with him even if she wanted to, and she really wanted to.\n\nDenvil grinned. \"Now listen Doralea, I ain't Charlie—\"\n\n\"No, you're worse,\" she quipped. \"I'll be right back with your coffee.\"\n\nStunned and slack-jawed, he stared at her as she defiantly walked away. He didn't expect this. She was usually quiet and non-combative. He wouldn't give up, putting on his best smile when she returned.\n\n\"Why don't you go out with me before I ship off to war?\"\n\n\"Why, you can't run off to war. You're only sixteen.\"\n\n\"My mama said she doesn't remember what year I was born; it could've been 1925 that would make me eighteen.\"\n\n\"My daddy was right, all you boys do is lie. I don't think you should go, I hear it won't last much longer.\"\n\n\"Too late. I've already joined the Navy.\"\n\n\"Lord, why? You ain't never even seen the ocean.\"\n\n\"Old Man Buckhart told me all about the ocean. I want to see it. I've even dreamed about it. I'd rather do that than be a ground-pounder.\"\n\n\"Well, here's your coffee. I'll ask my daddy to see if I can go out with you.\"\n\n\"Don't do that! He'll never let you. Just meet me at The Reda for a matinee on Saturday.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it. Besides, I can't stand here and talk to you. I'll get in trouble.\"\n\nDoralea stepped to another table, her heart pounding. She couldn't turn around to show him just how happy she was. \n\nThat day began their lives together. She didn't ask her dad; she met Denvil at The Reda that Saturday. The secret of dating Denvil was difficult to keep from her dad, but she managed it. Denvil joined the Navy, and when he returned from basic training, they snuck off to Jellico, Tennessee to get married. He left two days later. She continued to work at The Hob-Nob, and his brother Charlie would sometimes bring her money from Denvil's paycheck. The rest went to his family. Because her dad had been so sick, the money she made helped her family. This was the arrangement until Denvil wanted her to join him in Philadelphia. He was coming home in a few weeks, and they would need an apartment there while he looked for work. He didn't want to return to Kentucky. Her next train journey would be to Philadelphia. \n\nThat summer had been eventful with the war ending, but agonizing because she couldn't allow her dad to know her secret. While she managed to keep it from him, her mama knew but didn't say anything because Richard's health worsened. Doralea postponed the inevitable until the night before leaving.\n\n\"Daddy, I know I should've told you about me and Denvil Jackson, but I knew how it would be. If it wasn't for him we wouldn't have had extra money this summer.\"\n\nRichard narrowed his eyes. \"And I guess we'll have even less now.\"\n\n\"Harold just started a job. That'll help.\"\n\n\"You just go on and stay at Annie's tonight. Go on. Don't come back.\"\n\nAnd with those words he walked into his bedroom and closed the door.\n\nDuring that Golden Hour of the next morning, Doralea stood alone on the depot platform. The world seemed so bright. Lustrous green leaves glowed in windless trees. Jarflies released their energy in vibrato to the rising sun. She stared into the bold sky, its blue saturation gradually fading to white along the horizons. Staring soon became too painful. She prayed. Her prayers seemed reflected rather than penetrating that vast depth. Suddenly remembering her dad's eyes, also impenetrable, she closed her eyes against it all and stepped onto the northbound train. When the train passed their house on Mill Street she saw her dad sitting in his chair on the porch. Stanton sat on the porch edge swinging his feet and petting his little brown dog. When her dad saw the passenger cars, he stood up and walked unsteadily inside the house. Warm tears wet her cheeks. \n\nThat happened over a year ago. A recent letter from her mama explained that her dad now struggled with tuberculosis. She managed to talk Denvil into this trip home. It had been a tough year. The tears returned. She knew no one when she moved to Philadelphia. Denvil had given her the name of a friend's wife who had neither been helpful nor friendly. She waitressed in a small restaurant, and when she wasn't at work, she was home. Alone. She even felt that way after her husband returned from overseas. Denvil's drinking worsened. There would be times she wouldn't see him for two or three days until he drunkenly stumbled into their apartment. She issued an ultimatum: she was going home with or without him. He relented.\n\nShe began recognizing landmarks. They were near Mount Vernon. London would be the next stop. Denvil returned from the dining car. He had been drinking. \n\n\"Don't talk to me.\" She pulled the peacoat tighter around her. \n\nShe watched the last few miles of autumnal landscape unfold. When the train passed the house on Mill Street, no one was outside. She and Denvil would be staying with his family until they could leave for Florida on The Flamingo, which she felt guilty about now. She must see her dad first.\n\nEntering the family's small house, her brothers, so happy to see Doralea, crowded around. Denver hugged her longest. Her mama had supper on the table. Her dad was in his bedroom. She could hear the strangling coughs.\n\n\"He wants to talk to Denvil,\" Adeline said, her face expressionless.\n\nDenvil entered the bedroom and closed the door. Doralea sat at the table, but couldn't eat. Her brothers had a million questions, which she tried to answer but the only voice she longed to hear was her dad's. \n\nAfter a while, Denvil exited the bedroom. He was not happy. \"Get your things. Let's go.\"\n\nDoralea warily approached the bedroom. Her dad stood there in faded pajamas with a Bible in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other. His eyes were sunken, his face ghostly. He suddenly unleashed wracking coughs. She waited for him to finish.\n\n\"I love you, Daddy–\"\n\n\"Don't call me 'Daddy.' You ain't no daughter of mine.\" \n\nHe slowly closed the door in her face. She listened to his coughing as he climbed back into bed, bedsprings straining as he attempted to make himself comfortable.\n\nThey left in the gathering dusk. Denvil carried his duffle bag and her suitcase. As the young couple made their way across town, they heard mournful cries of a steam train continuing its trek southbound toward sunnier shores." } ]
[ { "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: Poor Box Suprise\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1424\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "New York Patrolman, James O’Donnell, spread the pale-yellow powder along the metal tray and closed the wooden lid of the box. The mechanism clicked.\n“Most ingenious” said Deacon Cassidy, thrilling at the prospect of pyrotechnics.\n” It is a mix of potassium chlorate, aluminum, and sulfur,” said officer O’Donnell, “known as flash powder in the trade.”\n“The modern invades our lives”, said old Father Morris with a sigh, “and the lord moves in mysterious ways.”\n“As do the Sunday offerings”, said Deacon Cassidy, for whom the pilfered Poor Box was a thorny problem. Sensing ambition, the archbishop entrusted the scheming young clergyman with fiscal responsibility for St. Joseph’s.\n“Well, this should do the trick”, said officer O’Donnell, “just be careful that you don’t open the lid without first releasing this catch”. He pushed a small brass lever up and down.\n“It is a clever contrivance, Mr. O’Donnell,” said Father Morris, “I hope it proves harmless.” Father Morris looked askance at the trap.\n+++\nSergeant Walsh of the Highbridge Police Station was unmoved, “you cannot catch a thief without the strong arm of the law. Does it trip him, grab him or knock him about the brainbox?” Walsh ruled the Bronx precinct with a hard and heavy hand, scornful of the Commissioner and the constant flow of innovations from his office.\n“Sir, it is an experiment at present,” said O’Donnell, on the defensive but he would not be overawed by Walsh’s bullying, “it will raise the alarm and capture a likeness, tripping and catching with evidence, if you will”.\nDetective Mahoney, the brains to Walsh’s brawn, observed in O’Donnell a future lawman of a different breed, “this entire contraption is of your own design?” he inquired.\nO’Donnell nodded energetically, sensing an ally, “it is a photo-detection camera,” he said, proudly.\n“Do you think it has application beyond the poor-box?”, said Mahoney.\n“I think it could be of use in the new department stores”, said O’Donnell, a little wild-eyed.\nSergeant Walsh laughed aloud. Mahoney was more circumspect; it was a time of rapid change.\n+++\nServices at St. Joseph’s concluded late in the afternoon. The Shrine of the Sacred Heart was barely visible in the flickering glow of the votive candles, in the gloom beneath the vaulted ceiling. Hunched over, shuffling along in greasy ragged clothes, Charles Callan paused near the altar. The silverware had been stored away.\nCallan padded across the north transept to the poor box that was attached to the wall. It was dark and silent; the timing seemed opportune, but the same caper had gone awry at St. Stephens, where he’d taken a heavy bruising.\nCallan opened the Poor Box and snatched its contents. There was a flash of uncanny lightning and a muted explosion, which drummed his skull, deafening him. He cowered, crossed himself before the altar, and scrambled across the nave, recovered his footing, then fled through the heavy doors of the Church pursued by the wrath of the almighty and the stench of sulfur.\n+++\nDeacon Cassidy was supping in the rectory adjacent to the church. New York was like a granite quarry that summer, so the muted explosion he ignored, but not the unfamiliar buzzing of O'Donnell's electric bell! He dropped his utensils and ran from the rectory, into the street.\nOn the other side of the church, Detective Mahoney was shooting the breeze with Sergeant Walsh in the Police Station. “I’ll be damned”, said Mahoney at the sound of rumbling thunder from next door, “that must be O’Donnell’s trap!” Mahoney grabbed his hat, Walsh grabbed a bully-stick, and they hustled outside, followed by Mahoney and three burly patrolmen that he recruited from the front desk.\n+++\nCallan stumbled out of the church, careened down the steps and weaved unsteadily along the street, where he was confronted by flailing robes of the Deacon, who flew at him like an angry black crow. Callan, ears still ringing, blanched and nearly fainted; had he opened the gates of hell? Was this Satan come to take his soul? He pivoted only to be barreled over by a squad of uniformed patrol officers coming from the opposite direction. A uniformed man bundled Callan onto the sidewalk, another knelt on his chest, and snapped handcuffs to his wrists. Sergeant Walsh knuckled him about the side of the head, just for good measure.\n“What have we here, then?”, said Walsh, removing coins from Callan’s jacket pocket, “have you stolen money from the poor-box?”\n“It wasn’t me Sir, you are mistaken. I ran when I heard the Godforsaken thunder and felt the ground quake beneath me”, said Callan.\n“We’ll see about that”, said Walsh, yanking the man to his feet like a rag doll, “you’re coming along with us.”\n+++\nPatrolman O’Donnell arrived soon after sunset, accompanied by the sour-sweet scent of dark-room chemicals. He looked mighty pleased with himself as he entered the Interview Room, carrying an oblong package wrapped in brown paper.\n“He denies that it was him”, said Mahoney, pointing to the cowed Callan, “but he had $3.88 in coins in his pocket and the poor-box was empty”.\n“Well, we have the proof here Detective”, said O’Donnell, who placed the package on the table, removed the wrapping to reveal a photographic plate on which Callan’s face, a bright white oval of open-mouthed astonishment, stared back at them.\nCallan, seeing his own ghostly likeness on glass, trembled uncontrollably.\n“This is astonishing orchestration of phenomena,” said Mahoney, who turned the photograph first one way, then another, “so lifting the lid ignited the powder, triggered the camera and rang the rectory bell, all at once! My hat is off to you, Sir”.\nO’Donnell looked pleased.\nSergeant Walsh picked up the photograph and examined the photograph. It was Callan, caught like a wild animal in a coil spring trap. “Do you intend to press charges, Reverend?” said Walsh.\nCallan, head bowed, heaved and he sobbed in silence. Much of what had transpired was lost on the man - the flash, the muffled explosion, the flying robes of the vengeful priest, the sudden and improbably abrupt arrival of a posse of lawmen- and now, here, improbably confronted by his own spirit likeness on a plate of glass. He was as good as dead, whether shoveling ashes on Rikers Island, or stuck with a shiv in a dark alley.\nDeacon Cassidy weighed his prospects for advancement in the archdiocese, “Yes, we will press charges against this man”.\nEven Walsh, inclined to an Old Testament concept of justice, was surprised. Callan was a beaten man.\n+++\nThe Times ran the story of Callan’s apprehension in the Wednesday edition.\n“I am not sure this casts St. Joseph’s in the best light?” said Father Morris “we appear vengeful and lacking in charity and grace”.\n“Father, there is no room for sentiment these days. We have a duty to the parishioners, whose generosity should not be taken for granted,” said Deacon Cassidy.\n“Well, the story is buried near the court news, so perhaps it will blow over,” said Father Morris.\n“There you are mistaken, Sir. It is a front-page story in the Post, which includes a photo of the thief, caught red-handed! News of our success, and of the young policeman's invention, has spread like the Spanish flu. The bishop himself called to congratulate us, and he expressed keen interest in the machine. There has been an outbreak of pilfering... St. Stephens, St. Patrick's...”.\nFather Morris was dismayed; his new Deacon was a curmudgeon. “What of this Charles Callan, the unemployed patternmaker? He seems a sorry fellow, …. Do we know the night court’s decision?” said Father Morris.\n“His fate is out of our hands”, said Deacon Cassidy.\n+++\n“Callan is senseless with fear”, said Sergeant Walsh, “He is free to go, but he is quivering in the corner of the cell and refuses to leave. I have half a mind to dump him on the sidewalk outside the Rectory\".\nMahoney was reading the newspaper. “Apparently O'Donnell's mechanical detective is being tested by the banks downtown” said Mahoney, “could this be the future? Might we one day live in a world that is under constant surveillance? With camera’s snapping, flashes of lightning, bells ringing, scaring us all witless?”.\n“I very much doubt that”, said Walsh, “there are thousands of Poor-Boxes, thousands of banks. It is an impossible undertaking to place mechanical detectives in every location”.\n\"Let us hope you are right, lest we share the fate of this Callan fellow, and find ourselves out of work and destitute!\"\n+++\nJune 25th, 1928" } ]
[ { "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: Ride or Die\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1015\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two friends getting into a fist fight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Amanda and Alica were born as twin sisters and grew up to be best friends. At the young age of five the sisters grew closer as they started school. They always looked out for each other, they were each other's (ride or die), and dared anyone to bully the other. In the second grade, the counselor of the school and the mother thought that it would be a great idea to separate the twins in class. So they put Amanda in one classroom and Alicia in a different classroom. Amanda did well with the separation but Alicia did not so much. She started crying and took off running out of the classroom and down the hall looking for Amanda. Once the\nteacher caught Alicia the counselor decided to wait until they were a little older to separate. As the next few years passed and the twins grew older and found new friends the closeness they once shared had started to faint.\nIt came time for the twins to enter high school. Amanda still watched after Alicia making sure no one was causing her sister any trouble. High school girls can be so mean and she was not about to let anyone mistreat her best friend. Alicia succumbed to peer pressure and often found that she was the topic of her twin and friends. Amanda's heart began to ache, for she thought how could my own blood betray me. Soon trouble would find them when Amanda would start liking a boy at school. The boy would call\ntheir home for Amanda, and they would meet up at school before class. Amanda cares so much for Alicia and her feelings let her tag along. But not long into the relationship, she would find out that her own twin started liking the same boy as well. Amanda thought this can't be and told their mother what was going\non.\nWell of course their mother tried to talk some common sense into Alicia and tell her \"You can't like the same boy as Amanda!\"\nWell, that scolding from Mom went in one ear, and out the other Amanda thought because Alicia didn't listen to a word of it. Alicia was confrontational and always wore a chip on her shoulder thinking no one was going to get something over on her. One day in PE class all the girls in the gym were sitting there. A friend name\nBrooke walked over and would say \"HI\" and tap Alicia's face. This\nhappened for days in PE. Then one day something came over Alicia a few minutes after Brooke had said Hi and slapped her like every day. Alicia got up marched over to where Brooke was and slapped the living daylights out of her. Amanda was floored what was Alicia thinking, she thought. Amanda yelled over to Alicia\nand said \" WHAT ARE YOU DOING? She was only playing with\nyou!\" Needless to say, Brooke never bothered Alicia again.\nOne Sunday afternoon coming from church their family was on their way home. Alicia was driving and Amanda and their mom were in the backseat. The next thing Amanda and their mom knew was it felt like a dump truck had hit the car. Amanda looks back because\nshe saw something out of her peripherals flying by in her passenger window. You would not believe Amanda if she told you low and behold a huge cow was spinning in the road. Amanda starts screaming \"YOU HAVE HIT A COW\"! Alicia is still in shock because it is dusky dark and did not see a thing. The car was a total wreck in the front. Their mom asked their cousin who worked for a body shop to fix the car. When their cousin John arrives he brought a coworker by the name of Daniel. Daniel was a 5'11 dark hair blue-eyed dream. Amanda noticed him right away and would do anything and ask anything just to come to where the car was being repaired. Daniel took a liking to Amanda as well. Over the next few weeks, they went on their first date and it seemed to go really well. The more Daniel and Amanda hung out the more liking of him Alicia did. Alicia did not have a boy whom she was interested in at the time. Now that they were the age of sixteen and able to actually date, Amanda found herself going out with Daniel every\nweekend.\nOne Saturday night upon arriving home after Daniel dropped Amanda off she heard Alicia crying to their mother. Amanda being nosy or should I say concerned eavesdropped outside Alicia's bedroom door. Amanda listened so carefully and was so careful not to make a sound, then it all happened. The words she thought she would never hear Alicia speak again came from her mouth \"I like Daniel too!\" Before their mother could even speak Amanda burst through Alicia's bedroom door and ran right over and punched Alicia right in the nose! \"NO!\" Amanda was yelling you can not\nbe doing this to me again. Alicia was taken by surprise and once realized what had just happened jumps up and lays into Amanda, both were swinging their fists. Their mother was crying saying \"Girls Girls\" stop don't let a boy come in between you too. In the meantime, Alicia is yelling to her mom \"Why does she always get the good ones!\" As soon as Amanda hears\nthose words from Alicia she burst into uncontrollable laughter. She realized just how she had punched her twin right in the nose over a boy who may or may not even care for her. Amanda apologized to Alicia because she knew in her heart she had been in the wrong. Alicia at first was not so forgiving. Over time Alicia forgave Amanda for the silliness that had come of her liking Daniel and soon found her own boyfriend.\nNow Amanda, Daniel, Alicia, and her boyfriend went on double dates. Amanda thought finally I don't have to worry about my twin trying to steal my boyfriend.\nAuthor: Amanda Inman" } ]
[ { "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 to the Paintings\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1618\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character who gets trapped inside a museum overnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They were back. Clicking their hard nails on the wooden floor, panting as they grew closer. She assumed position covering herself with her coat and closed her eyes. She heard her mother’s voice as if in the darkened room with her. “Play dead, Shana.” \nDid she remember to lock the door? Not that it mattered, a small flimsy lock wouldn’t keep them out. She heard their footsteps approaching, knew the vicious dogs were leading those men in black boots straight to her. \nAngry German voices filtered into the silence as the doorknob jiggled, filling Shana with terror. The door flung open, and beams of light shone in.\n“Play dead, Shana,” she told herself in her mind. She stopped rubbing the frayed edges of the Star of David sewn onto her coat, and allowed her limbs to fall onto the dirty floor.\n“What have we got here?” The mocking voice of a soldier entered the room, the dog sniffing her out of hiding. \n“A dirty filthy Jew,” the response came quickly as more boots stomped in.\n“A dirty filthy dead Jew.”\n“The only good kind there is.” The soldiers laughed as if at a cocktail party rather than at the discovery of a child’s body.\n“What should we do with her?”\n“Leave her. She’s of no use to us now.”\nShana remained silent. Playing dead was one of the scenes she had practiced with Papa over and over. She had mastered it finally, the first few times falling into fits of giggles at Papa’s stern face until she understood it wasn’t a game.\nThe rattling of chains as the whimpering dogs were dragged out of the room. Then unexpectedly a harsh kick in the ribs by a pair of heavy boots into her small body.\n“For good measure.” The laughter and footsteps receded into the darkness.\n*\n“Shall we take out the paintings?” Uncle Max asked softly.\n“Can we?” Shana sat up, wincing slightly at the slow recovery of her bruised ribs. \n“I don’t see why not. Come, shayna medela.” He reached out his hand to help her up.\nThe little girl’s eyes filled with tears upon hearing the Yiddish phrase. “Uncle Max, will I ever see Mama and Papa again?” \n“Pretty girl. Come here.” Max sat down on the dusty floor in the room that had been their hideout for longer than he had anticipated. “Please, God,” he said in silent prayer, “Let this war end soon.”\nLeaning against the man she called uncle despite not being related, Shana let the tears flow down her sunken cheeks.\n\nWalking out into the bright sunshine, Max fought the rage brought on by seeing Shana wince in pain. With a shaking arm he did the mandatory gesture calling out “Heil Hitler.” Did his voice waver? It was of utmost importance to remain diligent in his crusade. \n“Heil Hitler,” the sea of putrid hatred came back at him. He exhaled.\nHis thoughts went back to Shana, the one remaining child he had saved from the roundup. The Nazis had been joyous to discover the families hidden in his museum. Holding them as trophies they were led to the street and loaded onto the waiting trucks. Job well done; they slapped each other on the back as if fisherman boasting the catch of the day. So consumed with pride they hadn’t continued their search, hadn’t gone down into the basement or through the door at the end of the storage room. If they had, they would have found a little girl dressed in a tattered nightgown, barefoot, not daring the sound of a slipper stepping across the wooden floor. \n\nWaking up, she found a new painting displayed in the corner of the room. She smiled with delight. Uncle Max had promised that when her ribs healed he would surprise her and what a surprise it was! She crept to the corner and stared in amazement at the magnificent colors on the canvas. She knew even before reading the signature that it was a piece by Menachem. \nHis style mystified Shana, the clumps of paint haphazard and messy at close inspection; however, the further she leaned back the more the colors worked together creating nothing short of a masterpiece. This one in bright reds and oranges showed off the sunset through the bare winter trees, a scene Shana only saw through her imagination and memory since going into hiding. Staring at the painting she felt the music enter her body as it sang to her its special song.\nShana stood and stretched slowly, keeping her injury in mind. The painting was doing its magic, the music of its beauty reaching her silently. Reaching her thin arms up and out to the sky, they became the branches of the trees in the vibrant hues of the sun. She swayed to the rhythm evoked by the painting, reaching into the sky as her fingertips became the tiniest twigs and finally slipped one leg behind the other falling gracefully as the sun fell behind the horizon. This one she called Red Sunset by Menachem.\nPracticing the steps until she silently fell to the floor one last time with fatigue. She lay in the corner, her eyes fixated on the canvas, continuing the dance in her mind’s eye, adding it to her collection. For each painting sang to her a different song and to each song she danced a different set of steps.\n\n“Mama, can we have another treat?” The girls hopped about in the small bakery to the obvious annoyance of their mother. \n“Children, settle down. All this chattering is getting on my nerves. Please.” The woman roughly pulled the smaller girl to the door, the bigger girl following, looking chastised by the tone in her mother’s voice.\nThe shop owner turned her attention to Max. “The usual?” \nHe looked at the slim selection of treats behind the glass thinking of Shana’s thin frame, her bony arms and legs. She was withering away under his care. \nDid he dare? Just one treat would put a smile on her pale face, make her day a special occasion, replenish her with some hope of better times ahead.\n“Max? The usual?” Her voice was impatient.\nNo, he didn’t dare. The one treat would be enough to arouse suspicion. He couldn’t take the chance. Divulging that one piece of information would save the shop if questioned by the Nazis. He could picture the nasty woman boasting, “Yes, Max is hiding someone. I’m sure of it. He never eats sweets; I have known him since he was this high.” She would hold her hand up in midair, relishing the attention from the men. \n“Yes. The usual.” He put the coin down on the counter in return for the day old bread.\n\n“Another latke, Shana?” Mama held the plate to Shana, her face glowing in the light of the menorah. The eighth night all candles were lit, their flames dancing to the music playing softly in the background.\nPapa smiled, teasing, “Leave some room for dessert, little one. Your mama’s been baking all day.”\n“I always have room for Mama’s rugelach, don’t worry, Papa.”\n“Hanukah comes but once a year, darling. Let’s enjoy.” Mama scooped some apple sauce next to the latke on Shana’s plate.\nShe woke slowly, feeling disoriented, pressing her small fist into her stomach to quiet the grumbling. Hopefully Uncle Max would return soon with something to eat.\n\n“Tonight’s the big night. Are you ready, Shana?” \nMax looked at the little girl in her oversized dress with a dirty red ribbon in her hair. He swallowed the lump in his throat willing himself not to fall down sobbing. The dress found in the garbage can near the main museum entrance was perhaps left secretly for someone else. He silently scooped it out during his nightly cleaning despite every alarm blaring in his mind. He would return it after the recital, praying he didn’t disturb a possible escape or raise suspicions. A few hours were all he needed.\n“I’ve been practicing all day, Uncle Max,” she beamed.\n“The paintings are in order?”\nThe little girl scanned the arrangement of the easels. When satisfied, she nodded.\nHe settled himself down on the rusty metal chair. “Well then, let the show begin!”\nThe storage room transformed into a magical theater as Shana danced to the songs each painting silently sang to her. In those moments there was no fear of death and destruction, there was no war. There was only the girl in the red dress dancing with joy. \n**\nPRESENT DAY…\n“Opening bid five hundred dollars. Do I hear five?” \nRaising her paddle discretely, she held her breath.\n“Five. Do I hear six? Six. Do I hear seven?” The auctioneer orchestrated the dance between herself and the other bidders, the price escalating quickly.\n“Sold. Two thousand eight hundred.” The gavel struck, closing the sale.\nShana exhaled shakily, feeling the flush creep up, her excitement overwhelming. Finally the last piece of the collection would be displayed at her children’s art museum on the Upper East Side. A bittersweet moment as she longed to share the good news with Max, fresh grief washing over her as she remembered his death years ago.\nLeaning on her cane, she walked unsteadily to the painting marked “sold”. Approaching, she studied the scene of the bare trees in the vibrant sunset. Upon close inspection, she marveled at the thick dabs of paint mysteriously arranged on the canvas just as she had remembered. The painting she had danced to all those years ago, the painting she had named “Red Sunset” completed her Menachem collection. Menachem, she repeated to herself, the Hebrew name for comforter." } ]
[ { "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 Man Kneeling\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2025\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(warning; Implied racism and mentions of slavery. )\nTHE LAST MAN KNEELING\nThe man in the painting was nameless, but he knew three things for certain:\n1. He was depicted kneeling on a plush red carpet, his face locked in a stern expression as he gazed into the flickering flames of a grand fireplace.\n2. The artist who had brought him to life and placed him on display was known as Asher Vanderbilt, his elegant signature adorning the bottom of the canvas in golden letters.\n3. And most importantly - at night, the nameless man would come alive.\nIt was a strange transition from being a mere observer, to being an active participant of this thing called life. To go from frigid to soft. During these times, he was able to feel the soft fur of the carpet, he felt it gain weight as it seemed to push back against him. \nHe didn't know if it was a curse or not, but he found himself looking forward to those moments when he could see beyond his confined surroundings and observe the other paintings in the gallery. He noticed that while there were many vibrant and colourful paintings, he was the only figure with dark skin. \nBut this fact didn't bother him too much. He wondered if it was supposed to.\nLately, the gallery had been busier than usual. He could sense it in the increase of shadows passing by during the day and the rise in noise levels. The man noticed that he saw more black members of the public. And they were particularly interested in him. The man did not know why. Trapped in his painting, the social bonds of race- the meaning of race - had not been implanted into his brain.\nThere was one particular woman with curly black hair and bright red lipstick who would visit him daily. She would pass by all of the other more colourful paintings and make her way straight to him. She would stand with her arms crossed and her lips pursed as she studied him. Sometimes, she would even bring a notebook and jot things down before leaving. The man couldn't help but wonder what it was about him that fascinated her so much. Perhaps she was just a big fan of Asher Vanderbilt's work and admired his creation.\nAs the clock struck midnight once again, the man's mind began to wonder. In moments when he felt more human and present rather than cold and empty, he often thought about his creator, Asher Vanderbilt. He couldn't help but admire the artist for drawing him into existence with such care and detail, dressed in a comfortable dark green attire against a scenic backdrop. Did the other paintings in the gallery also think about their creators? Did they long with a faint eagerness to meet them? \nThe man, trapped in the painting from his very existence, had neither learnt of the concept of death which his owner had succumbed to. \nThat night, the man felt an adventurous streak take over. He wanted to test the limits of this newfound \"life\". Could he even step out of his painting? The thought excited him. Slowly and carefully, he climbed out of his frame and onto the wooden floor. It was strange walking on solid ground rather than the familiar red carpet in his painting. As he explored the gallery at a slower pace to avoid dizziness, some of his fellow paintings looked over in curiosity. They weren't feeling as daring today, but that just meant more space for him.\nAll the paintings shared a similar style and taste in clothing thanks to their creators. Each one showcased figures dressed in similar attire, with lavish fabrics and intricate details. The colours were mostly muted, with deep jewel tones and dark shadows.\nA sculpture stood tall and statuesque in the centre of the room, its elegant curves and sharp edges catching the faint light in all the right places. Its surface was smooth and pristine, with no visible imperfections. It didn't seem alive, fortunately. Its imposing presence made the man slightly uneasy.\nHe continued his self-guided tour of the gallery, venturing further than he ever had before. As he observed every corner of the room, one fact became clear - he was the only dark face in the whole gallery. He wondered again if he should perhaps feel something about this and paused. Well…he should feel unique. Yes. Asher Vanderbilt had uniquely created him in this overwhelming sea of pale faces. His creator had wanted him to stand out. No wonder, he captured attention from visitors. \nSpeaking of Asher Vanderbilt – his creator had quite a few pieces around the place including one titled \"The Golden Girl\". It featured a blonde woman sitting in a cosy home with a tray of tea and biscuits in front of her. The man found himself smiling at this. His creator was clearly very talented. In the back of his mind, he wondered faintly why he himself had been painted with a frown, rather than a smile like this woman. It would be more comfortable for his face if he didn’t have to frown all the time. But never mind that – at least he could smile now. \nHe was about to move on to the next painting when he spotted it; a name. The name of the woman in the picture; Gilda Mason.\nSo, people in paintings could have names. \nIt may not have seemed quite the ground-breaking realisation. But the man had just assumed that nobody really had names. That only the artists themselves had names. And as he walked and looked more closely, he noted that it wasn’t just Gilda that had a name. Everyone else had a name too. Annabelle. Fitzpatrick. Lisa. Benedict. Name after name, an overload of them. \nOnly in that moment, did the man come to realise how important a name could be. And this was when he decided to rush back to re-examine his own painting. He must have missed it all those times before. Asher Vanderbilt seemed a very talented and respected artist – he must have given him a name. The man just needed to look harder. Yes. That is exactly what he would do. \nHe walked as fast as he could without getting dizzy; he rounded the corner and found himself in the familiar room gallery he had become accustomed to. His painting looked strange without him in it; a space on the red carpet right where he should be kneeling.H\nHe peered at the bottom of the frame and saw Asher Vanderbilt's name followed by a description: \"A slave playing dress up, 1748.\"\nThe man read this sentence over and over, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning; some hidden name between the vague description of ‘a slave.’ Had Asher Vanderbilt really forgotten his name? Or maybe the word ‘slave’ was enough. The man frowned a little. He had really wanted a name. And he wasn’t too sure what a slave was. \nAnd playing dress up? He glanced down at the satin material of his clothes. Did they not belong to him? Was he borrowing it from someone? And if so, when was he going to give them back?\nLost in thought, he remembered seeing security guards handing out leaflets near the entrance of the gallery. He grabbed one and hoped it would provide some useful information about himself and his circumstances.\nWelcome to the main art gallery of West Virginia! We're thrilled that you've decided to visit.\nThe words oozed with excitement as the man skimmed through the brochure. He flipped through a few pages showcasing various paintings and sculptures before coming across something more intriguing. It was a picture of that same black woman, someone he had seen frequently at the gallery in the past month. However, in this particular photo, her expression seemed harsher, almost menacing. It was not the most flattering image to choose.\nThe writing on that particular page - page 5 - was titled ‘’The Issue of The Civil Rights Movement and how it pertains to this art gallery.’’ \nAn article by Steve Crowner, dated 18th June 1963.\nIt caught the man’s eye and he began to read;\n‘You've seen it on the news. And if you haven't, then you've surely witnessed it on the streets. When I first opened this gallery, I never imagined it would become a platform for political debates. But somehow, politics has found its way here. Ada Wells, pictured below, has made sure of that. I welcome everyone into my gallery - I don't believe in segregation. So I allowed Ada, a journalist, to come to me seeking entry out of pure kindness. Little did I know she would use her visit as an opportunity to defame my name in the local newspapers because of one painting displayed here. The piece by Asher Vanderbilt from 1748 was one of his last works. His personal beliefs about race are not my concern. This is the danger with certain movements; they seek to destroy everything that came before them. This gallery stands with Vanderbilt and that's final’\nSteve Crowner's words left the man feeling overwhelmed and confused. He may not have fully understood every word, but there was definitely a heated debate about Vanderbilt's character happening beneath the surface. And that confusion itself was perplexing to him. After all, Vanderbilt was the creator of this man. He must have been a good person, right?\nThe man felt a sudden urge to learn more, but the rest of the brochure seemed quite plain in comparison. \nAlthough the biblical reference would go over his head, the man had taken a small bite from the tree of knowledge; and now there was a small crack in his worldview.\nAs he climbed back into his painting, he felt a little less proud, a little more muddled. He had climbed back in the same way as he had left it; nameless, but with a few more questions. The clothes on his skin did not sit as they once had; they lingered instead. And God knew there was a difference. If they could, they would make his skin itch. And that frown which had been painted onto his face was now very much a real one. The furrow between his brows deepened as he gazed back at the flickering flames in the fireplace.\nHe couldn’t shake off the thoughts stirred up by the leaflet. It had been a rude awakening, one that made him question everything he thought he knew about his existence and purpose.\nHe had always been content to hang from this wall and be admired by passersby. But now, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would judge him based on his creator’s reputation. The quietly shattering seedling of a realisation that Vanderbilt was not as great as the man thought he was. The quietly maddening realisation that people could be multifaceted; That Vanderbilt could paint him in one breath, paint the beautiful scenery in another and yet also have another side to him.\nThe man found himself waiting for that black woman to come again. This time when he subtly examined her staring, he would look a bit closer. He would not mistake her semblance of neutrality for admiration. Clearly she had feelings of the opposite. \nThis time when she came, he would be ready for her.\nOne last time; the man looked around at the paintings that covered the walls of Steve Crowner’s art gallery. There were portraits of wealthy families, landscapes of the picturesque countryside, and scenes depicting historical events. And then there was him – a portrait with no name.\nThe man had not known it then, but his painting had been the subject of debate locally. The Civil Rights movement had a cultural dynamic to it that was more than just legal battles. Ada B. Wells was spearheading this part of the movement. She believed it was a disgrace; if slavery was so far behind the Great Nation of the United States, then why was there still one last man kneeling?" } ]
[ { "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: Hung Out to Dry at Central High\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2092\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two friends who find themselves competing for something: a job, a prize, a love interest, etc." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Hung Out to Dry at Central High\n“You dirty, double-crossing rat.” - James Cagney\nAscending the ladder of ignominious incidents of betrayal, from least egregious to the most consequential- Benedict Arnold, Brutus, Ephialtes, …Vince! Temper your ears, prepare your mind, fortify your soul for the recounting of the most dastardly, horrific, deplorable, cowardly, despicable, and wretched act to ever cast its ugly shadow across the bow of mankind’s journey through the universe. For that one calamitous moment in time, the antiquated, undersized gym at Central High was ground zero for the worst that mankind has to offer.\nI was normal once, possessed of a healthy outlook on life, instilled with a positive attitude that had me seeing the glass of life always at least half full. Turns out I was a naive fool, falling hook, line, and sinker, for the drivel drilled into my malleable brain by the good School Sisters of Notre Dame-“There is good in all men”. Balderdash! My faith in my fellow man was dashed upon the hard, jagged, unforgiving rocks of reality. I would never trust again.\nIt was the old criss-cross-double-cross generously greased with the element of surprise. My glass did not just dip below mid-level; it was irreparably smashed into unrecognizable pieces on the gym floor. I thought I was down for the count.\nI met Vince the very first day of 9th Grade. We both attended Catholic grade schools, but I suspect the nuns at St. John’s were a bit more Machiavellian in preparing their charges for life in the dog-eat-dog world than mine. Looking back on it all years later, the thought occurred to me that when he first heard the account of the crucifixion as a 1st Grader, he might have found Judas Iscariot a sympathetic figure, the sort of guy he could identify with, maybe hang out with and down a few beers together when he reached adulthood.\nVince and I were part of a small group of friends that maneuvered our way through the trying high school years together. We would meet every morning before classes started, hang out for a time after school, and pursue fun-filled activities on weekends. We were as tight-knit a group of teens as ever graced the hall of Central High.\nWhat do high school boys think about, focus on, and obsess about? Sports? Some. Grades? Few. Girls? Most. It’s an awkward age for most young men; downright clumsy for some, including this writer. I started slow, lacking confidence, fearful of rejection, and mindful of Uncle Henry’s cautionary tidbit of revisionist history- “The face that sunk a thousand ships.” Man cannot sustain greater injury than a broken heart. He gave no such guidance regarding the runner-up for damage to the human spirit- betrayal.\nSenior year, running out of time to fulfill the fairy tale dream of marrying my high school sweetheart. I had dated several girls, sweet, pretty, and bright, but there was never that magical connection. And then I noticed Marcie, Marvelous Marcie, sitting at the back of the room in my English class. I looked, she saw, and we both smiled. Sometimes smiles are just a polite acknowledgment of the moment. Sometimes they say a boatload. I was unpacking the messaging for the rest of the hour, the remainder of the day, and most of that night. She likes me, she likes me not, she likes me…as I drifted into sleep.\nThe next day, I was afraid to look. I feared that the notion that she might like me was a misinterpretation of the moment, a fanciful wish, that might be snatched away with an expression of indifference, or worse, a look of annoyance. I didn’t want to lose the dream that she was as interested in me as I was in her… the unsettled, insecure mind of a teenage boy.\nDon’t laugh, but I had five days of furtive glances at the pretty girl at the back of the room, and five nights of evaluating her reactions: half-hearted smile; regular smile; the passerby in the street smile; very nice smile; and finally the all-out heart stopper smile.\nEven then I lacked the courage. She made the first move as we left the classroom.\n“Hi. I thought if you were going to keep looking at me, we should at least know each other’s names. I’m Marcie.”\nI’ve always given myself credit for remembering my name at the moment.\n“I’m Rick.”\nAnd it was on! She was as nice a person as she was pretty. And she liked me! We quickly became “an item”, as serious a romance as the high school years can provide- school dances, going to the movies, study sessions at the city library, and making out in her parents’ basement rec room.\nEnglish became my favorite subject because she was there. I also struggled in that class because she was there. We talked on the phone every night, and her name was written on the inside of every one of my notebooks. She was on my mind, morning, noon, and night.\nThose beautiful, puffy clouds in the distance can darken before they arrive, and the unprepared can be caught in a raging thunderstorm. I saw Marcie chatting with Vince in the hallway one day after school, and then again in the hallway between classes the next day. How nice, I thought. My girlfriend is becoming better friends with my friend-friend. Life is good.\nWell, I ain’t no weatherman, and apparently not much of an expert on gauging human relationships either. Step one down the pernicious path of betrayal:\n“Marcie, I see you talking to Vince quite a bit.”\n“Yes, he’s really a nice guy.”\n“He sure is.”\n“And just so you know, not that it’s any of my business, I don’t have any problem with you spending time with him.”\n“I didn’t think you would. It’s nice to get to know one of your friends.”\nWho would have thought?! Marcie and I were still an item…the movies, the library, lengthy phone calls, and the, well you know, in her parents’ basement. The Loveboat was sailing smoothly toward the land of the happily ever after. \nJust as I wanted Marcie to feel comfortable with her relationship with Vince, I thought I should do likewise with Vince.\n“Vince, just so you know, I don’t have a problem with you spending time with Marcie, you know, some guys might have a problem with another boy spending time with his girlfriend.”\n“Huh?”\nOoo, that didn’t sound good.\n“Your girlfriend? Rick, she told me you two broke up but were still friends. I didn’t say anything to you cuz I thought it would be…awkward.”\nAah! Are you freaking kidding me?! This was a stunner. I was confused.\n“Wait a minute, Vince, you don’t mean…”\nHe did mean. The revelations were painful- a movie, a Saturday afternoon at the zoo, and….I can’t even say it…***** in her parents’ basement. Aah!!!!\nNow, you may think this was the ultimate act of betrayal. It wasn’t. Didn’t even show up on the Richter Scale… a teensy, tiny tremor compared to the apocalypse to follow. He didn’t know. He was as confused and angry as I was. We were both getting two-timed!\nIt was Friday after school. There would be a dance in the gym that night, and we knew Marcie would be there. It would be the perfect time to confront her…together. There would be no wiggle room, no ability to continue the charade with each of us present. We would tell her what a terrible person she was, that we were both done with her, and that the friendship between two guys like me and Vince could not be shaken by a girl! Hopefully, she would feel humiliated. Maybe we’d even see a few tears.\nWe told our friends, who told their friends. The confrontation would likely draw a crowd as this boy vs. girl showdown was drawing more interest than the Bobby Riggs- Billy Jean King match. My anger was beginning to be eclipsed by the excited anticipation of sweet revenge. It would be a tag-team event, the old one-two, that would leave her shaken, embarrassed, and ashamed.\nAs soon as Vince and I arrived, we saw Marcie out on the dance floor. We waited like lions eyeing their prey. When she looked our way, we put on our best menacing, tough-guy faces, Bogart and Brando giving her the evil eye. She immediately knew that we knew. She was trapped, caught in her lies, with no way out.\nShe had no choice. When the music stopped, Marcie slowly walked across the gym floor to her moment of reckoning. Others gathered around to witness the drama unfold.\nI pounced. I was good. I really let her have it. I blasted her for the lies, ripped her for toying with the hearts of men, and most importantly, told her what a low person she was for doing something that could jeopardize a special friendship. For my dramatic parting shot, I told her we were finished and that I never wanted to speak to her again. She looked somber, and subdued, and I felt pretty good about my performance. She had trouble getting the words out.\n“And how do you feel, Vince?”\nOh, yeah, here comes the coup de grâce. She was staggered by my deftly landed shots, and now my man Vince would finish her off.\n“Well…”\nThe written word cannot adequately describe the “well” I heard. It was weak, timid, unsteady, and somehow came out in three or four syllables. I was puzzled. Vince continued.\n“…I guess I’d have to hear your side of the story.”\nWhat?!!! Are you freaking kidding me?! You son-of-a-bitch!\n“Maybe we should talk about it, Vince. Let’s go outside.”\n“Ok.”\nIt felt like an out-of-body experience. Maybe I had been kidnapped by aliens and deposited on a faraway planet where nothing makes sense. Was my head spinning, or was the entire gym whirling around me in dizzying circles? Stunned, betrayed, dismayed, I struck such a pathetic pose that the curious onlookers took pity.\nWishing you were someplace else doesn’t get you there. I was frozen in place, my brain incapable of sending meaningful directives to my feet. The music started up again, and the dancers took to the floor. I didn’t understand how life could go on uninterrupted, and I assumed the default position of just standing there like a goof. The gathered crowd, thankfully smaller than expected, could only shake their heads and quietly depart. I was alone in the Universe.\nStill in shock, the sight of Vince and the once marvelous Marcie leaving the gym together didn’t seem to upset me. I was too preoccupied with my struggle to understand the last five minutes of my life. After a time, I realized I was standing where others wanted to dance, and I slowly shuffled my way off to the side of the gym, kicking a few balloons along the way.\nCrestfallen, betrayed by a good friend, sold out for the affection of a pretty girl, all faith in humanity lost, likely forever. It was a double whammy assault, a cheating girlfriend and a backstabbing buddy, two mainstay relationships of the human condition working hand in hand to crush my heart and soul. It would be a long, hard climb back to life as I knew it.\nI derived great satisfaction, actually boundless joy, when I learned Marcie dumped Vince just two weeks after the showdown in the gym. He then hated her as much as I did, and as they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. So, it wasn’t long before Vince and I were on speaking terms again. He was sorry. He was weak at the moment, and seeing Marcie standing in front of him, she amply endowed, and he under the influence of raging hormones, he succumbed to the temptation of future amorous adventures in Marcie’s parents’ basement. I understood. Turns out more was going on down there in the basement than during my turns…which really ticked me off. Nothing was forgiven, but all was forgotten.\nI learned many things that night, besides the fact that Vince could become a low-life lizard whose manly urges could override any concept of friendship and that Marcie was a pretty good liar. Lessons learned: Choose your friends wisely; things aren’t always as they seem; heed Milton’s warning as to what might “befall him to worth in women overtrusting”; and most importantly, it’s not always a good idea to speak first." } ]
[ { "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: Real Rebels\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2245\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two friends who were once inseparable, but now find themselves growing apart — or even friends turned enemies." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The line between disobedience and taboo was plenty visible. Emboldened, marked with signs, lined with barbed wire, fraught with surveillance. Lacey and Damien, rebels and free spirits, spent many of their teen years together dancing on the side of disobedience, goaded by gawking onlookers and always with a bird ready to flipped out. The heat and the allure still was felt on the back of their necks when they thought about life on the other side. Could they maybe touch the other side without anyone knowing? Without the other knowing? Without having to make a commitment to who they were? \nFor all the carelessness they flaunted, worry came and went chronically and scratched underneath the skin. Everything went into disguising the discomfort, the greed. They could tell each other secrets, they could see each others’ bodies, but they would never willingly show them the fingers that prodded under their skin.\nIn their sophomore fall of 1982, Damien made an unlikely friend in Keith. Keith was a jockish stereotype, the kind that would Damien and Lacey would have a sense for. They’d feel the hairs on their knuckles prickling and grind their teeth when they felt people like Keith near. When on the Monday after Halloween weekend, Damien and Keith came walking side-by-side in the hallway, Lacey felt gravity unravel as the laws of physics were disrupted and all the worry lept into her heart and her brain that something had happened. \nKeith turned the corner to get to homeroom. Damien walked towards Lacey, unable to tell if she was pale from the makeup or if something was wrong. “What?” he said. Lacey shook her head and wouldn’t talk to him as they walked to their classrooms. \nShe didn’t see him again until they had chemistry second period. “He was at the Double Feature, with a geeky werewolf costume he made himself,” whispered Damien, “which was awesome because I had the cape and the fangs and my hair slicked back and my cape. He’s actually pretty cool.” Lacey said nothing. As he spoke, she wondered if she would see less of him. Until this point, they had the same friends and talked to the same people. It seemed like a betrayal to now go outside of this safety circle they’d made together. Maybe if she was friends with Keith, they could still be together with him wherever he went? She regretted taking her sister trick-or-treating. If she was there in the theater, maybe this would’ve never happened. She could have been Lady Dracula and this unlikely pairing would have stayed unlikely.\nJust as they were getting in Damien’s car Keith ran up. “Are you busy later tonight?” he said. The way Damien’s face lit up when he saw Keith’s tall, lanky body run up to him, she could feel her heart contorting like it needed an exorcist. Exorcise Keith. Exorcise Damien of Keith. Lacey was in the car thinking of what witchcraft she needed to pull to keep her boyfriend to herself when he sat down beside her. “So, are you going tonight?” she said. Damien had a faraway look in his face, and was still smiling when he turned to her. “Yeah, I think I might.” Lacey frowned. “I thought you were taking me bowling tonight.” Damien’s eyes widened. “Oh shit.” He opened the door to the car but Keith had already left on his bus. “Fuck,” he said, and he plopped back in his chair. “Well…Can we bowl a different day? I don’t know Keith’s number to cancel.” Lacey huffed and slumped into her seat. Damien rolled his eyes and started backing out.\nThat night they played one-on-one in the park and though Keith could’ve crushed him, he gave Damien a little leeway. Damien fell back onto the wet grass and just lay there were it was cool and the wind gave him a frosty feeling which made it feel all the more alive and hyperpresent as Keith took a fake little victory on the court, mimicking a cheering crowd. They swung together on rusted swing sets, daring each other to go higher and climbed the eerie looking playground and talked. Damien laid down and above, he could see stars. Keith laid his head too and Damien could smell his hair and his sweat and feel the side of his head against his.\nLacey, meanwhile went to the mall and sipped on Shirley Temples like she wasn’t driving tonight. The bartender of Freddy Fries, an alcohol-free theme restaurant, watched Lacey write in her journal about drinking blood and dot the paper with remnants of expired grenadine sticky at the bottom of her glasses. “Are you okay,” Lux said. Lacey glared at her, hissed and went back to her journal. “You look like your boyfriend just left you,” said Lux, who liked to pretend that she was a real bartender, theraputing her patrons. She wiped down a clean glass as she spoke. “Not a lot of people come to the mall alone, why are you.” \n“Shut up,” said Lacey, “I ate him.” Lux smirked. “Lucky guy,” she said. “Explains why someone so pretty is single tonight.” Lacey slammed her journal closed. “I’m not single, and you’re not my type.” Lux shrugged. “I’m just your bartender tonight, but we could be something more if you really wanted to,” Lux winked. Lacey rolled her eyes and left. She turned back to look at Lux as she left the restaurant, Lux was still smiling to herself as she started to clean up Lacey’s bloody mess. \nHow brazen of her. Lacey didn’t have that kind of courage, but maybe when she was younger she tried to. Though the first girl she kissed wouldn’t look her in the eyes after summer camp and the second just used her as a party trick to seduce guys. It was part of why she avoided female friendship. All they cared about was impressing guys and drawing in the lines. Poser pink headbands and preppy gingham skirts. Fashion and makeup, all an attempt for attention and how many times was she left behind because she was different? Because other girls didn’t want to break the sameness with her? Because the other girls didn’t want to even be associated with her? Lacey sat in her journal and started to write a poem called Lux the Undefeated.\nDamien started spending more time with Keith. Whenever he told Lacey he was spending time with Keith, they’d have the same fight. “Oh, not again,” Lacey would say. Then Damien would say, “Can I not have other friends?”\n“We never spend any time together.”\n“We spend every fucking day together.”\n“You’re changing into the same people that we used to make fun of.”\n“You’re just being a bitch.”\nSo he stopped telling her when he was going out with Keith. She would call his house and hear him over his answering machine. She would go to the mall and see Damien urging Keith to get his nipples pierced. Then she’d slump over to the bar at Freddy’s Fries and drown her sorrow in fizzy drinks. “You know,” said Lux, “I would treat you better than he would.” Lacey said, “I bet you would.” Lux stopped cleaning the glass. She had a sense about Lacey, from the second that Lacey started eyeing her the day they met. After Lacey stormed off that day, she’d though maybe she was wrong. But she kept coming back and slowly started to play these pathetic little games. Luz would always serve and Lacey would be still as the thing whizzed past her. Or she would tear it out of thin air and rip it to shreds and spit it out with her hands all over the court, but every so often she’d swing the racket and return the thing, beautifully, as she did and as she was. “Why are you with him, anyway?” said Lux. \nLacey thought back. There was nothing in her heart that beat for Damien, but it did for being alone. Lacey had felt the cold crushing fear of being alone and when she started dating Damien it was easy. There wasn’t much touching or gushing. What it seemed like every girl had gotten from their boyfriend, the joy and the passion, she thought maybe those feelings would come around later, but she would never have to fear being dismissed like this when they were attached at the hip. Or so she’d thought. There she was, all alone again. Wanting more. Wanting everything. She glance over at Lux. Wanting Lux. “I’ve gotta go,” Lacey said, throwing all her shit in her bag, knocking over a cup of straws in the process. “Woah, hold on,” said Lux, jumping to grab the cup before it rolled off the counter. Lacey sped out before she could say goodbye. Her heart was racing. \nDamien was hovering over Keith’s stomach as Keith laid down on the floor and Damien was propped over him with an eyeliner pencil. Keith looked like he was enjoying the sunshine even in the dark of Damien’s bedroom with only the desk light to light his carefree smile and his thick eyelashes. Keith was deep in concentration to make sure that he didn’t stab Keith’s eye out. “I think I prefer this to eye black,” said Keith with the mirror raised past Damien’s head. Damien smirked. “You look much cooler with this. And the other team would be intimidated, I think.” Keith snorted. “Close your eyes,” Damien said under his breath. Keith closed his eyes. Damien grabbed the pallet, all of the colors were barely touched except for black, which Damien had to scrape for. Keith started to dab on black eyeshadow, but he slowed to a stop, studying Damien’s face. his cheekbones, his nose, his eyebrows, acne scars, and the cupid’s bow of Keith’s lips. Keith opened his eyes and they watched each other. \nDamien crouched low to the ground and put his lips to Keith’s. Keith brought his hand behind Damien’s head lightly. They stayed like that for a moment, until they pulled away and Keith got up off the floor. He looked at the door, which he didn’t realize was open. “What,” Damien said, looking at the color leave Keith’s cheeks. Damien turned just as Lacey ran from the doorway, breathing hard. He chased after her and she bolted out of the house. “Lacey! Lacey, wait!” It was winter and the rain was icy and would run under your coat and down your back and you would’ve never felt so miserable in your life than leaving a warm place to run in the rain and get in your car and start driving until you couldn’t hear the boy you left behind. \nAnd you cry. And tears and snot get sticky on the steering wheel as you try and wipe it all away. You and the windshield wipers, sending it all out of sight. Finally, Lacey stops in the middle of the road. She makes the mistake of looking back. He’s not there. She gets a pang in her chest that wishes he was and for a moment, Lacey thinks about turning back. Demanding back her boyfriend, demanding that she love her as she has learned to do for him. That Keith be shunned into another dimension. But however light her foot gets on the brake, she doesn’t let go. She knows.\nShe wonders how it feels to be on the other side, like real rebels making their way across the line, past the barbed wire, the signs and surveillance, and kissing each others’ wounds until they feel no pain, only the warmth of joy like sunlight on their faces. \nAnd maybe it is when she is cracking the most that something escapes her. Clawing fingers reach the steering wheel and put a foot on the gas pedal. Cars honk and lights bleed past and lacey just drives faster in the rain, and her heart gallops in her chest like she’s going to die. Is this what being free really is? Lacey forgets about doing what she’s not supposed to do, about being resistant and the idea of what is ‘supposed’ of her evaporates. She doesn’t blink until she sees her exit and she snaps to focus, worried she might miss it. She rips the steering wheel in one direction and the car screeches into the empty parking lot. She hits the brake and though the machine protests it all finally stops and Lacey has to breath because she thinks she’s having a heart attack. \nThere’s a knock on the window. Lux puts her forehead on the glass and sure enough, “Lacey?” she says. Lacey turns to he glass. She puts the car in park and jumps out of the car. “Oh,” said Lux “I was so worried I wasn’t going to see you again.” Her eyes are pinched like she’s about to cry. Lacey no longer feels the ice down her back and she looks to the sky. It’s not raining anymore. She turns back to Lux, who’s just looking at her. Lacey walks up to Lux and puts her hands around her back. Lux holds her as they brings their lips together. The kiss is soft and it makes all the beauty in life feel impossible, enormous. She knows what it is to dance on the other side in spite of fear, out of love and have the stars shout their victory like medals glinting in 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: The Brighter the Light, the Deeper the Shadow\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1332\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Thyra surveyed the water around her, diligently waiting for a minnow to reveal itself between the soft glints of reflected sunlight. Her long skirt was knotted around her waist, serving two purposes – keeping it dry and holding in place her bilberry-laden pouch. A faint ripple appeared beside her left foot. Without hesitation, Thyra deftly plucked a small silvery fish from the brook. She had four now, which wasn’t a lot, but with a portion of bread and a handful of berries, it would be sufficient. Cadoc wasn't expected home for another few days, so she only needed just enough for herself. Well, almost just herself. Thyra smiled as she felt the newly familiar flutters of their growing child.\n\nThe afternoon sun was warm on Thyra’s back. but the slight breeze kept her cool as she walked home. She lived in a small coastal village, the same village where she had grown up. Her daily outing for rations had been taking longer lately, on account of the deep, tugging pains she felt in her sides whenever she walked for longer than a few minutes. Aside from the physical discomfort, Thyra was otherwise unbothered by the pain. She took it as a sign of her baby growing, and in turn, her body stretching to make room. She thought about her husband as she walked, imagining his reaction to the joyful news she would soon be sharing with him. Cadoc had been away for many weeks now, and she had not yet told him about the baby who had nestled itself in her womb. Part of her thought it might be nothing more than an illusion, and besides, she hadn’t wanted Cadoc to worry while he was gone. They had been married for three years, which wasn’t a long time, but three years of hoping for a baby to love had passed remarkably slowly. But now that she could feel this new life growing stronger each day, she knew her prayers to Freyja, the Goddess of fertility, had been answered.\n\nThyra stopped for a mouthful of water from the flask that hung around her neck. The pause brought some relief from the stretching pains, so she allowed herself to rest longer than usual. There was no need to rush home, nobody was waiting for her and there was plenty of daylight left. Had she turned around during her brief rest, or another moment around this one, she would have noticed that a slice of the sun had been covered in darkness. But having no reason to deviate from her path, Thyra was unaware of the celestial mechanics taking place above her. Instead, she lingered in the damp, earthy smell of the changing season, a promise of warmer days ahead, slipping a bilberry from her pouch and into her mouth. She bit down on it, delighting in the mildly sweet burst of tang as she did so. Fresh bilberries always transported Thyra back to her childhood. To foraging in the woods with her sister, and eating stealthily pocketed bilberries as they walked home. She had known Cadoc then too. Although they hadn’t really spent a lot of time together, Thyra had always felt something between them. Something about him had felt like home. While she found it difficult to offer much of herself over to others, she had never had this problem with Cadoc. He had somehow been able to extract the very essence of her, without her even realising what she had given away.\n\nWith her slow pace and frequent stops, Thyra was still walking when her skin prickled from the sudden chill in the air around her. The comforting breeze had stilled, and, she noticed with curiosity, that the sky had quite suddenly darkened. Around her, the sounds of the evening had come to life. Crickets chittered and the birds commenced their evening songs. Confused, Thyra wondered how she had taken that much longer than usual to reach home. Surely not. She normally made it back with plenty of time to prepare her meal, and perhaps work on the shawl she was weaving for the baby, before darkness was upon them. Thyra looked into the shadowy sky. Stars gleamed. Birds were flying into the forest, as they did at nightfall, returning to their nests. Turning around to see if more birds were coming, Thyra let out a gasp. In the sky behind her, the sun had been almost entirely swallowed by a deep blackness.\n\nRendered suddenly immobile, Thyra found herself transfixed by awe and terror. Despite her alarm, she could not seem to tear her eyes away from the vanishing sun. Beads of light appeared around its perimeter, followed by one dazzling light emanating from one side. She watched, silent and still, as the totality of the sun was covered, save for a glowing halo around the deep black hole in the sky. As far as she could see, the earth had been engulfed in a dome of darkness. Thyra looked down at her trembling hands. They had taken on a horrifying bluish-grey shade that no resemblance to any human skin she had ever seen. Realising she had been holding her breath, Thyra gasped for air, which was cool and damp. Each breath of it revealed a vaguely sweet smell that was entirely at odds with the tightness with which it filled her lungs. Her fingers and lips tingled. Her heart pounded urgently against her chest, threatening to evacuate. It occurred to Thyra that the world as she knew it was somehow transforming into an underworld of sorts, and the delicate clouds that had formed in the air around her had filled with cruel whispers.\n\nThe baby, she remembered. The baby! She panicked. Willing herself not to collapse, Thyra lowered herself to her knees, placing her head and hands on the ground in front of her. She could feel the shifting worlds reverberating through her. She closed her eyes, tormented by the unfairness of it all. Cadoc. How would he make it home through this grim new reality?\n\nAn overwhelming sense of guilt snaked its way into Thyra’s thoughts, passing down her burning throat before settling like an anchor in her stomach. Was this about the nameless fishermen? She had only been trying to help. Trying to give Cadoc what he wanted, what they both wanted. Each time he would return from another fishing expedition, full of hope and expectancy. Each time, she disappointed him. Cadoc blamed himself, believing it was his time at sea, the missed opportunities, that were making it so difficult for them to conceive a child. Thyra couldn’t bear seeing the man she loved burdening himself with the blame for their misfortune. So, while Cadoc was away, she had visited the fishermen who passed through their village. The encounters were transactional more than anything else. They were usually over and done with quickly, and Thyra had been able to force them into the deepest shadows of her mind. And now she was pregnant. And this baby, the baby she convinced herself was Cadoc’s, was causing this terrible hole in the sky.\n\nWhat had she been thinking? She didn’t want a stranger’s baby at all, the whole wonderful point of it all was to create a life together with her husband. With her head still on the ground, Thyra prayed to every God and Goddess she could think of. Please. I’m sorry. Do what you must if this child is not Cadoc’s. I deserve your punishment. But, if this child is his, then let us be. Please, let us be. Opening her eyes, Thyra became aware of the deep brown of the dirt. The mottled pink flesh of her hands. Looking up unsteadily, Thyra saw that the black shadow had moved, revealing an arc of the sun. The world around her was light again. A pair of ravens flew back out of the forest. Thyra cried with happiness. Our baby, Cadoc. We have been blessed. This baby is truly ours." } ]
[ { "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 Mound Of Nu\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2991\n\nPrompt:\n\nImagine an origin myth that somebody might use to explain an eclipse, or some other celestial event." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Until air, moisture, earth and sky emerged out of the deep, a formless mass existed that looked a bit like a pyramidal mound. It was called Nu. At some point in the mists of time, the sun rose like a goose breaking through the still waters to spread its life-giving light to the earth. In ancient myths, Ra was the Egyptian sun god, the creator of all that followed.\nWithout creation, we do not exist. \nIf we do not exist, what is there?\n^^^\nAs priests, everything we do, every act and speech we make, every ritual and spell we perform is designed to prevent a return to the primordial chaos. \n\nA restless night broken by a throng converging on the temple grounds. Just after dawn, the sun peeks its amber face onto a waiting world. Risen blazing and transcendent, a throbbing ball of radiance, it rests a while, bobbing on the horizon, before gradually receding behind a line of distant palms, trailing ribbons of red in its wake.\n^^^\nI’d know that knock anywhere. Canet, the priest who grappled with reading hieroglyphs and now acts as a kind of servant, hovers outside my chamber. \n“What shall I do, Master? I must do something!” Dark patches betray a night as disturbed as my own. I send him off to gather information. Half an hour later, he reports of people stricken by fear and hunger. “They want to know whether our land will ever be blessed by the gods again.” Parents with children ask why their sun god has turned against them. All their lives, they’ve seen him arise after his sunset descent into the underworld; now they fear he will be annihilated by Apopis, the serpent of chaos and the world will end. Everyone longs for Ra to ascend the skies on his magical barque and once again warm the earth in a golden glow.\n\nAs the day wears on, others arrive. Their fear is palpable for many are spiritually as well as physically hungry. \n^^^\n\nIn a bid to stave off a return to chaos, the priests burn wax effigies of Apopis at night. \n^^^\nIt was only seven months ago when the serpent taking on the guise of a demon, fought to block out the sun permanently (the last major solar event). In this exact spot, the people cried and clutched one another as light was extinguished and the land was covered by a dark mantle. And now, if my calculations are correct, the sun will be blotted once again in exactly three hours time.\n^^^\nIf my fate is tied up with that of the Pharaoh, his is tied up with the land and its people. Whilst training to be a priest, I studied astronomy, mathematics and matters of state. Having charted the progress of the stars and other celestial bodies over many years, I have more understanding than most of a phenomenon I may be the first to describe as – no irreverence to Ra intended – a “solar eclipse.” According to my projections, this will take place when the sun is within 21 degrees 41.\n\nI’m fascinated rather than appalled by the idea of another eclipse, but in times of uncertainty many see it as a bad omen. They view it through a lens of fear, especially as shortly after the last one a plague of flies came and feasted off the skins of cattle resulting in a shortage of food. In spite of numerous priestly spells and incantations, the flies persist in their destructive course. To add to the misery, for the past two years famine has strangled our crops with the Nile holding back the annual flood needed to replenish the soil. We’ve also had to contend with drought and an ailing Pharaoh who has not been seen in public for months. \n^^^\nMy daily walk to the Sacred Room seems interminable. Along the way, temple workers bow respectfully, according to their status. All except Abet, who after me is the most senior priest in this part of Egypt. We were taught the same subjects, but unlike me he struggled to grasp the finer points of mathematics and astronomy. As the Pharaoh’s nephew, the highest position in the temple hierarchy seemed assured, but his uncle broke with tradition and appointed me instead. Resentment oozing from every pore, Abet manages only a curt nod as I pass him en route to the Inner Sanctum.\n\nRobed in fine white linen, complete with shoulder strap, leather sandals and an emerald and turquoise neckpiece, I bestride the Hypostyle Hall, an enclosed area of the temple with many pillars. I never tire of the sight of the cobalt blue ceiling with its multitude of stars, that portal where the dead go if the final judgment weighs in their favour. As High Priest, my purpose is to maintain order (maat) in the universe through the practice of rituals. I must offer undying devotion to the semi-divine Pharaoh, the representative on earth of the Egyptian deities.\n\nWith all to play for and the much-feared chaos threatening to break out, everything hangs in the balance.\n^^^\nThe delicate patter of feline feet warms my stony heart. Tail high in the air and wearing a necklace of lapis lazuli, Smudge follows me down the long aisle to the temple’s inner room where the most selective food is kept. I took the cat under my wing after she hissed at an alligator who had got too near for comfort in the pool used for ritual cleansing. \n\nAfter removing my sandals, I break open the seal to the sanctum door. One of Canet’s daily duties is to place a clay seal upon it before he retires, a task he performs assiduously. Inside my nostrils are assaulted by the overwhelming smell of incense. As my eyes adjust to the dimly lit scene, I focus on the statue of the goddess Hathor facing north in the central alcove. She gets carried out during festivals and other special occasions when the priests raise her up on the rooftop for everyone to see. \n\nSmudge may not understand the current rumblings, but her feline senses detect something is amiss. She growled when she heard Abet’s raised voice in the corridor the other day. Other than the Pharaoh, few would dare to question the actions of a High Priest and the present one is incapacitated. Unless he recovers soon, I suspect his ambitious son will overturn all his father’s decisions.\n^^^\nSmudge winds herself round me, mewing loudly. Bending to pat that noble grey head, her emerald eyes melt into mine. As a stray who came to me not long after my wife died, her appearance felt providential. In spite of having been a gifted pharmacist my wife had been unable to prevent her own death. She was studying the effects of bacterial poisons in a bid to cure tumours. My sons did their best to comfort me, but it was Smudge who saved me from wracking despair. \n“Ah, Smudge, if only you could advise me now …”\nFor which I receive a loud clicking purr as she nudges her way past me into the Sanctum. Although cats are highly regarded in Egypt, giving Smudge a portion from the votive offerings might be seen as a step too far, possibly even sacrilegious, by the priestly elite. Licking her lips demurely, she savours the choice morsels and retires to her favourite spot. \nThe cat sleeps with one eye open as I hurry through the intimate rituals of washing, cleansing, and clothing the goddess that only I or another senior priest can perform. I then ‘offer’ the statue food. The fact that Hathor has never actually eaten anything is besides the point – these are merely symbolic gestures – and therein lies my problem. The one man in Egypt whose faith in the gods should be unquestioning, is beset by doubts. I’ve always struggled to believe in things I cannot see.\n\nOutside, my two sons who are training to be priests, watch the sky for signs. \n^^^\nWhat is it about cats, I wonder? \n\nAfter the ritual with the goddess, I devote myself entirely to Smudge, tickling her under the chin and whispering secrets into that sweetly twitching ear. Maybe I love her because she’s the only one who cannot betray me. Even with my sons, I have to be careful, in case of indiscretion. \n^^^\nAll I want is to spend time double-checking my charts in the library. All the training at the temple school, all the preparation for my role, all the scaling up the slippery pole, my position so envied by ‘lesser’ mortals (other than Canet who dotes on me) – for what? Only to have lost my faith. And now, what if the present Pharaoh’s soul passes and his son takes over? I would not wish to cross this young man with the beaky nose and hooded eyes. Will I once again be forced to run through hoops like a young man? My anxiety makes long to escape the temple for good. \nBut where would I go? What else is there?\nSighing, I gently scoop up the cat and carry her out of the room. \n^^^\nOther than my bedchamber where I can close my eyes to all earthly machinations, the library is the place I feel most at home. There, I devote myself to my astronomical charts, study old transcripts and pour through papyri texts inked by the reed pens of my predecessors.\n^^^\nAbet’s dark shadow breaks my concentration.\n“I see you’re engaged in your charts.” He makes charts sound like a rude word.\n“Yes.”\n“I need to talk to you.” His haughty tone rankles.\n“This isn’t a good time, Abet.”\nHe’s close enough to smell his unpleasant breath, something that natron, the salty mixture we use to clean our teeth, fails to disguise.\n“What is it?”\n“I caught that cat if yours sicking up something in the corridor. I hope you haven’t been giving it something you shouldn’t. That would be most unwise.”\nI’m determined to nip his insulting inferences in the bud – even if they happen to be true.\n“How dare you speak to me like that! Your attitude to our beloved cats is most strange. They are known harbingers of fortune.”\n“Maybe so, but they cannot rank above our goddess Hathor. They may be sacrificed when resources are scarce – as they are now. We cannot afford to allow the sentiment of keeping animals as pets prevent us from doing what is right.” His habit of grinding his teeth sets my own on edge. “Our deepest beliefs should never be flouted.”\n\nI’m about to tell him where he can stick his advice when theres a knock at the door. A temple dancer comes in bowing gracefully.\n“Excuse me interrupting Master, but the Pharaoh’s son is here, may he be worshipped and praised. He wishes to see you in the Appearance Room.”\n“Right.” Having only met the young man once before, I compose myself accordingly. Upon leaving, I catch the tail end of a smirk from Abet.\n“We will talk later,” I say.\n“We certainly will,” he replies ominously.\n^^^\nIn the Appearance Room, the Pharaoh’s son sits on a throne, fanned by two maids. Beneath the regality, he appears strained. Stretching out his hand for me to kiss his ring, he addresses me pompously.\n“The mob outside grows hostile. What are you planning to do about it, High Priest?”\nI can hardly say it’s more his problem than mine. \n“With your permission, my lord, I think what the people need most is reassurance.”\n“Hmmm. My father rewarded you well. Made you Chief Astronomer, as well as High Priest. I’ll leave that to you.”\n“Of course.” I clear my throat. “According to the alignment of the stars, the sun will soon become invisible – at least for a short while. If my predictions are correct, the land will be thrown into complete darkness.”\nThe royal countenance pales. “You should have said something before.”\n“I didn’t want to disturb you. I know how busy you’ve been with preparations for the Pharaoh’s pyramid.” I tactfully omit to mention his own costly and extensive funeral preparations. “I didn’t want to cause unnecessary alarm – after all, once Thoth, the god of learning, restores the moon eye of Horus that was stolen by the god of chaos, all will be well. It’s a case of keeping faith.” I’m surprised by the strength of my conviction. Perhaps I have a smidgin of belief after all?\n“Hmmm. This is all most vexing. Not what I need at all.” Like a child ready to throw his toys out of a pram, only far more dangerous. “The kingdom is restless. Even the pyramid workers talk of striking! It’s disgusting.”\nI take a deep breath.\n“My lord, the people are struggling. Would it be possible to reduce taxes – at least until the crisis has passed?” His glare is enough to make a sphinx shrivel, but I hold firm. “Perhaps if the most recent program of pyramid building was halted until…”\nHe raises his hand.\n“Enough! How royal funds are spent is not your concern. I expect you to deal with things closer to hand.” He raises himself with an ornately carved stick. “While I visit Hathor’s shrine, I expect you to attend to the crowd. If your speech fails to calm them, I will hold you personally responsible.”\n“I believe they will listen, my lord.”\n“Let’s hope for your sake they do. My father always says pride comes before a fall. There are others who would willingly take on your role.”\nSo, Abet had already spoken to him. \nThe very idea makes my blood run cold.\n^^^\nThere is no turning back. In just ten minutes, the moon will go into a strange orbit and cast its shadow over the sun. \nLeant courage by desperation, standing on a stone plinth in the courtyard, I persuade the crowd that in spite of evidence to the contrary, all will be well. Going by the shadow clock’s readings, I explain how the earth will be temporarily clothed in darkness. Hearing this, a few people begin crying, someone faints, but most wait silently. Expectantly.\n“Don’t be frightened. The eclipse is a natural phenomenon. It does not mean the gods have abandoned us. If my predictions are right, it will only take seven minutes for the light to reappear.”\n“Does this mean the flood will come?” A voice cries out from the crowd.\n“There’s every reason for hope. If you look now, you will see the great star Sirius has risen to its most extreme point. It’s a sign the river will flood and that will lead to a harvest. Things will improve.”\n\nSuddenly, as if echoing my message, the clouds burst open, and rain pours down. Children let go of their parent’s hands laughing as it runs down their bodies, an exquisite feeling. Others weep openly, thanking the goddess Hathor for her goodness.\n^^^\nBut when I return to the temple and call in the usual places, Smudge fails to appear.\nI haven’t checked the Sacred Room!\n\nWhen I get there, I’m assaulted by the cloying smell of burning flesh on the altar. Abet’s hands are raised in a parody of supplication, his mouth twisted in a sickening grin of triumph.\n“While you were out addressing the crowd, the Pharaoh’s son asked me to take on your duties. In any way I saw fit.”\n“How could…?” Rage and pain tear at me, crippling speech.\n“Where-is-the prince?”\n“The prince has departed, but not before making it clear he expects things to change round here. From now on, I will be the one serving the blessed Hathor. You ought to be pleased. You’ll get to spend more time with your precious charts.”\n“If that is what he wishes.” I almost choke on my words. “I will leave you to attend to your… rituals.”\n\nSomehow I force my legs to move. I plan to read my wife’s records on poisons in the pharmacy, a place I haven’t visited since she died – in case they vanish. I’ve never had a reason to examine them before, but now I intend to study every detail. If I have to, I will spend the rest of my life searching for a way to wipe the smugness from my enemy’s face.\n\nBut first, I need to grab some air.\n^^^\n“Master?” Canet’s slight figure stands at the temple entrance. I cry out when I see him holding Smudge in his arms.\n“She hasn’t been well,” he explains. “She’s eaten something that doesn’t agree with her. I didn’t want her around that man, so I’ve been looking after her for you.”\n“What? While I’ve been speaking to the crowd?”\n“Yes Master. I didn’t want Abet to find us.”\n“So, she hasn’t been with Abet?”\n“No. Why would she be with him? I know he doesn’t like her.” He spits into his hand. “He shouldn’t be with the goddess. You should be. He’s been in there sacrificing animals.” Canet gently strokes Smudge’s soft fur, and she whimpers. His eyes are pools of deep brown. “Why? What were you thinking?”\n“Nothing. Nothing at all.”\n“Oh yes … I heard about your speech. The Pharaoh will be pleased. They say he’s turned the corner at last.”\n“Really?”\n“Apparently, he’s started eating again.” \n“That is good news.”\n“It’s good about the rain too, isn’t it?”\n“Yes. Truly wonderful.”\nCanet’s smile lights up his face. “Maybe the chaos will come to an end.”\n“Or at least be averted. For now.”\n\nAs I watch the rise and fall of Smudge’s chest, I tell myself the crisis has passed. Apopis has not beaten the sun god by bringing the eclipse. The earth will not revert to its former chaos. I tell myself the sun will shine tomorrow as it always does." } ]
[ { "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: Harvey\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1055\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two people striking up an unlikely friendship." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "I won't say Harvey was my best friend. Jim, my buddy on boy scout camp staff, had been my constant companion since third grade. But Harvey earned my respect in so many ways. In the time I knew him in high school, Harvey's looming presence was my salvation a number of times. In medieval times, he'd have been my jousting champion.\nFrom the outside, Harvey was what people call \"a bruiser,\" the kind of bigger-than-life physique that might make him a good bouncer at a rave. He wasn't exactly Andrea the Giant, but he was two inches taller than me and at least 100 pounds heavier.\nSize does not describe Harvey though. His soul was pure and his standard of conduct was high above the rest of my classmates. There was no one in school kinder than Harvey. He took me under his wing when he caught several older boys slamming me against the lockers in PE.\nOne afternoon there was a major scuffle across from the teachers' parking lot where the smokers hung out. It seemed like all the kids went over to cheer the combatants on. Harvey whispered, \"Don't go. Stay by where the school buses load.\"\nSure enough, out came Mr. Agnew, the vice principal. The two fighters were arrested and a dozen of their crowd were suspended. The next day, all the kids who went to watch were summoned to the principal's office.\nHarvey was the butt of many jokes, all said behind his back. He knew about them and they hurt him deeply. There was never any doubt that he let the ridicule go over his head and didn't try to stop all the hurtful and spiteful things I heard. As for my stepping in to help, I was a skinny kid and expected that anything I did would risk being beaten up.\nBesides, I knew they made jokes about me behind my back too. They called me \"sticks.\" They called Harvey \"elephant.\" They abused my name, calling me Mikey, which I hate. My name is Michael -- end of conversation.\nThey called him Harv. He hated when they shortened it. Like me, he wanted to be Harvey. Sometimes they called him Tattoo, after Herve, the short actor who portrayed Tattoo on the TV show \"Fantasy Island,\" or sometimes Hardy Har Har, after a cartoon character. Those names and others were just plain mean.\nHarvey was not athletic. He could have been a good linebacker but he hated sports. After his dad got out of jail, the man lounged around the house drinking beer and watching football on TV. And sometimes betting on games, which he always lost. I can't be certain and Harvey never said, but there must have been some royal set-tos at home over his lack of sports interest.\nHarvey spent a lot of time at my house. My parents liked him and for many nights, let him sleep in his favorite place -- the lounger/rocker. The couch was too small for him. The one place my mother put her foot down was to cut back Harvey's love for chocolate bars, and he never argued.\nHis dad came to our house once, demanding that Harvey come home. \"That boy's no good,\" he said. My father told him to get off the porch and never come back. Fortunately, he never did. Harvey's mother was long gone by the time he started high school, so in a way, my family became his family.\nIt's too bad there were no video games back then. Harvey was quick and would be a natural-born winner. But we played lots of board games. He helped me set up a slot-car track -- then proceed to beat me at every race. We laughed with each other and weekends were our favorite times.\nThere is one thing I regret. Harvey liked to go to the gun range and shoot at the targets. My father was opposed to firearms and I wasn't allowed to go with Harvey. I think he was disappointed, especially when Jim bragged that we earned our riflery merit badges at scout camp.\nHarvey did okay at math and geometry while I barely squeaked through those classes. I loved history and English, which were stumpers for Harvey, so I helped him study for tests and explained how parts connected. I tried out for the tennis team and Harvey bought me an ice cream sundae when I didn't make the cut.\nThere's no denying the major impact Harvey had on my life. He was a strong big brother to me even though we were the same age. I'm not sure I would have made it through high school without Harvey. In so many ways, we were completely different but at the same time, we were a perfect pair. I didn't go to prom and neither did he, even though he did have a girlfriend.\nI lost track of Harvey after graduation. He left home and drifted a bit. Then he was drafted, which honestly was the best thing that could happen to him, considering his family history. He'd never done well enough in school to have any desire for college. In the Army, he could learn a trade.\nI lucked out by having a really high draft lottery number, 317, so I escaped a vacation in steamy southeast Asia, which made my mother happy. I think secretly, she was thinking of shipping me to Canada. I wonder about what Harvey would say when I marched in the protest parades. I think he would have been sad, not just about my actions -- but about our country being a bully.\nA couple of years after I got my BA in photojournalism, I contacted Harvey's high school girlfriend. She hadn't heard from him either. She was certain that he made it home from Vietnam safely, but without knowing what was left of his family, we could never be sure.\nSometimes I think of Harvey. I've looked for him on Facebook but his name never came up in my searches. Given his lack of interest in engaging socially, I wasn't surprised. I hope he landed on his feet in the Army and afterward. I would love to introduce him to my wife -- and challenge him to a video game. I know I would lose against him." } ]
[ { "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: Friend vs. Friend\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1183\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about two friends who find themselves competing for something: a job, a prize, a love interest, etc." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Hi, my name is Kali. A year ago, today I almost lost my best friend. Over a guy. Insane right!! Lemme tell you the story. His name is Caleb. He was a normal white boy, blonde curly hair, blue eyes, gorgeous, but what I liked most about him was his personality. He was shy and quiet but funny. He never disrespected anyone and always stood up for himself and others. Now me, I'm nice but not always. I am not mean unless it's necessary. My bestie, her name is Penelope. She's not your average girl. She's the opposite of me in a way. She's into the gothic lifestyle. We are the best of friends though. We always used to tell each other about our crushes. This school year, Caleb was new. We both liked him but didn't find out it was the same guy until about 4 months later. This particular night we were having a sleepover, talking about Caleb. \"He's quiet but I like him.\" said Penelope. \"I never really like people but he's different you know.\" \"Yeah\" I said. \"I like someone too. He has blonde hair, blue eyes and plays football.\" \"He sounds like my guy.... what's his name?\" \"My crush? His name is Caleb.\" I said, with curiosity. We might like the same guy. \"OMG MINE TOO. Kali, we like the same guy.\" \"O-oh wow, we can't let this affect our friendship, right?\" \"No, never.\" She said with a smile. The next day at school, Penelope is talking to Caleb. He is laughing at whatever she said. I walk over and they instantly hush. \"What's up guys?\" I say, with a side smile. \"Oh nothing, Penelope was just telling me about a friend she has that likes me.\" \"W-what do you mean? Did she tell you who?\" I stutter. \" \"No, she just said they may never have any chance with me.\" I glared at her right then. \"Yea well maybe they will.\" I said, as I walked off, fuming inside. I couldn't believe she would do that to me. I mean we had just talked about this not coming between us. I vowed I would get my revenge. So, at lunch, I sat down with Caleb and acted like I needed help with my work. I'm smart but wanted a reason to talk to him. While we were doing math, I told him I was going to get some water. I came back to sit down and told him that I know who likes him. \"Who?\" he asked with interest. \"Penelope.\" \"Wait, Penelope? Like your best friend Penelope? \"Yep, her. She told me last night.\" \"Wow, I wouldn't have known when we talked this morning.\" \"Yea well its true. Just don't tell her I told you.\" I said. \"Ok, consider it done.\" Later. I'm sitting at home, watching TikTok, when my phone rings. I pick up on the second ring. \"Hello?\" I say. \"YOU TOLD HIM?\" yells Penelope from the end of the line. \"What? Did I?\" I say with a smirk. \"Kali, we agreed this wouldn't come between us. You weren't supposed to say anything.\" \"Yea well neither were you but you did. You really believe I have no chance with him?\" I said, hurt. \"Uhm yeah, I do. I mean you've never had a boyfriend and you're just you.\" \"I-I-I thought you were my best friend.\" \"I am.\" says Penelope. \"That's why I'm telling you. It's just the truth.\" \"No, it's not. I don't believe you, LIAR.\" I was angry with her now. How could she say something so hurtful? \"I AM NOT LYING; YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO HEAR THE TRUTH.\" she yelled. \"YOU KNOW WHAT, I DONT WANT TO EVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN. DONT CALL ME, DON'T TEXT ME, NOTHING. THIS FRIENDSHIP IS DEAD.\" I screamed. I hung up the phone, threw it across the room and started crying. It was Friday so I stayed in bed. I cried myself to sleep and wouldn't get up in the morning. Even when My mom called me for breakfast. \"Kali? Are you ok?\" I heard from outside my door. \"I'm worried about you.\" \nShe slightly opened the door and poked her head in. \"You want to talk about it?\" I didn't answer right away. Just before she left, I spoke. \"She is so mean. She told me I would never have a chance because I'm me. I thought she was my best friend and would never say anything to hurt me. I guess I was wrong.\" She came and sat down on my bed. She pulled me into a hug and said \"It hurts when you're not as important to someone as you thought. People will change up on you so fast and will not look back. That's why you must always be there for yourself before you're there for others.\" \"Wow mom, that's deep. I didn't know you were so wise.\" \"I am wise beyond my years kid.\" She said with a laugh. \"Now come on down and eat, then we'll play some Fortnite later, together.\" \"Thanks mom. You are the best.\" I said, smiling. Monday came and I walked into school with my head held high. I once again saw Penelope talking to Caleb. As I walked up, she glared at me. \"What do you want?\" \"Hi Caleb\" I said, completely disregarding Penelope. \"I wanted you to know that I am the friend of Penelope's that likes you. I only told her that she likes you because she told you that I would never have any chance with you. I was hurt and just petty. I apologize to both of you.\" \"Wait so both of you females like me?\" He looked surprised as he said it. \"Yep, that's the truth.\" I said. I saw Penelope's face soften, out of my peripheral. \"O-ok listen, you guys are both great friends but that's all. I just want to be your friend. Nothing more nothing less.\" \"Wait so you don't like either of us? said Penelope. \"Not in that way. You are my friends and that's it. That is all you'll ever be. Both of you.\" \"Oh wow.\" she said. \"Well, it seems like you guys have to talk so I'm going to class. See you there.\" he said as he walked away. \"So....I'm sorry, Kali. It was wrong of me to speak about it in the first place.\" \"Yes, it was, but I'm sorry too. I Should've kept my mouth shut.\" \"I guess we both let it get between us huh?\" I laughed. \"I guess we did.\" We both sat there laughing for a few minutes. \"Listen Kali, we should never let anything like this happen again. We almost lost our friendship because of it.\" I agree, trust me.\" \"Pinky promise?\" I said. \"Pinky promise for ever and a moon.\" Said Penelope. We walked back to class as if nothing ever happened. Caleb became great friends with us both and we never spoke about it again. I always thought about and kept in mind what my mom told me that day. I'll never forget 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: Desolation: Jenny's Story\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1115\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about someone who has put “Blood Sweat & Tears” into getting where they are — only to question whether it was worth it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Warning: themes of death, blood, mental health, and sadness.\n\nBased off of a true story\n\nJennifer was exhausted. Her mood was one of melancholy, swallowing her whole. She didn’t understand why she woke up again. Every day was the same, the copious amounts of homework that piled up every time she thought it would be the end and the constant yelling of her teachers.\n\n\"Why are we still here? Just to suffer?\"\n\nShe slaved over her English project that was worth 45% of her final mark for over 72 hours. She hadn't eaten, slept or seen the light of day for what seemed like an eternity. Jennifer shifted her gaze towards the window, the dark blue engulfing the skies. It seemed late. She had lost track of time, trapped in the office which closed in on her like a cage. Her sadness was eating her, drowning her in the vast seas.\n\nIt was due that night at 11:59. At the moment, it was 11:58. Tick tock, went the cuckoo clock. Her fingers hurriedly typed the last few lines, the clacking of the keyboard echoed loudly. Her fingers ached, they felt like they were about to fly off, but she didn’t care: she was getting this thing in on time.\n\nShe looked over to her clock. It said 11:59. Just in time! She slowly maneuvered her mouse towards the blue button that said \"submit.\" The click of the mouse sounded throughout the room as she closed her eyes and sighed in relief. Jennifer felt accomplished and proud, a bit sad even, but now she was free. She looked around: the metallic blood spread across the keyboard from her tired fingers; a puddle of sour bile mixed in with chunks of food. She could once again see the light of day, enjoy the world as she was supposed to–as she wanted to. \n\nHer eyes fluttered open, her smile still fresh on her face but what greeted her was not a sight to be expected. The crimson letters printed out on the screen made her smile drop, practically stabbing her in the gut.\n\nNo- That can’t be-!\n\n She let out a shrill, the whole world must've been shook. She fell to her knees, feeling helpless, destroyed, ruined. The thing that she devoted, what seemed like her life to… was all that work worth it?. \n\n\"TURNED IN LATE??!!!?!?!?!?!?!?\"\n\nShe slowly lifted her head to look at the time. It read 12:00 am. Her head started to swirl, like she was on a boat sailing through a brutal storm. \n\n“There’s no way..” She whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. The world seemed to stop rotating. Three full days of her life thrown straight into a dumpster. Black dots started to cloud her vision and the only sound she could hear were her own sobs. \n\nShe instantly collapsed. Her cold and heavy body hit the wooden floor, finally succumbing to the stress. \n\nSuddenly, she started to feel a sensation of warmth spread throughout her body, from the crown of her head to the arches in her feet. Finally, the moment of relaxation she yearned for.\n\n ***\nTonight, she dreamed. \n\nUsually, she would fall into the cold embrace of a nightmare. She would wake up drenched in cold sweat and tears, panting and struggling to breathe. \n\nThis time, it was different. Quite different. She felt like she was seven again, happy and free. Sprinting and dancing through a park while her parents chuckled at her antics. \n\nDhar Mann approached her in her dream. He looked like an angel, his halo glowing like no other, perhaps a beacon of hope in her dark sea of doom. He gently put his hand on her rosy, tear streamed cheeks.\n\nHe slowly wrapped his strong muscular arms around her, as he engulfed her into a tight hug. He pressed a few light kisses onto her forehead as tears started to roll down his cheeks too.\n\n“It’ll be alright, Jennifer.” He muttered, blubbering, “It’ll be alright”\n\n She sobbed into his shoulder. The tears just wouldn’t stop. The floodgates were open, never to be closed again. He tightened his hold around her and delicately patted her head, like he was trying to take away her pain. At this point, his angel robe was damp, like a child’s clothes after they run through a splash pad. \n\n\"Jennifer...sometimes the best way to be truly happy is to just let go and see what comes next. You don’t need to overthink, just put your faith in God’s hands and it will all work out.” He spoke softly, voice saccharine sweet. The twinkle in his eyes made Jennifer believe that he meant it. That what he said, at last, was true.\n\nHis voice was sweet like honey and he started to sing offkey 867-5309 / Jenny by Tommy Tutone, her favorite song. \n\n\"Jenny Jenny, who can I turn to?\nYou give me something I can hold on to\nI know you'll think I'm like the others before\nWho saw your name and number on the wall...\"\n\nA wide grin spread across her red swollen face, but only momentarily and everything blacked out. The sadness was taking over. Slowly, she was getting eaten away, and it became harder to fight back. Short lived happiness couldn’t save her. Her heartache was rooted much too deep.\n\n\"Dhar Mann!\" She screamed as she bawled horrendously, \"Please save me from this indescribable anguish!!\" “Alas, my emotions are uncontrollable, untamable, wild beasts inside me, parasites! Have I, a weak, overworked girl, surrendered to it all?” Her hands started to turn a pale blue as her blues started to envelop her. A numbness, yet freezing feeling creeped over her. She saw a moving pendulum of a grandfather clock, and felt as if she was being hypnotized… Then suddenly it all became dark, permanently, her limp body slumped over. She gave it all she could, but it wasn’t good enough. Cold sweat broke out on her body. \n\nShe woke up dead the next day. Dhar Mann had listened to her wishes, and taken her to heaven, where she could finally rest and live her dreams.\n\n“Be proud of yourself, even if your biggest accomplishment this week was simply fighting back your anxiety or depression.” Dhar Mann whispered, her frigid body draped across his arms as he carried her into a bed, where she could be laid to rest. \n\nMay she r.i.p, and finally get to hear Dhar Mann sing the rest of the song.\n\n“Eight six seven five three oh nine (five three oh nine)\nEight six seven five three oh nine (five three oh nine)\nEight six seven five three oh nine (five three oh nine)”\n\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: This Is All Your Fault, Alexander\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1035\n\nPrompt:\n\nSet your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Alexander, do you see that?\nDo you see the way the sun is disappearing right before our very eyes?\nDo you know why that’s happening, Alexander?\nIt is because you abused yourself.\nWhen young princes abuse themselves the way you have, the Lord above sees it, and punishes them by making the sun disappear. You may have thought nobody noticed, but the Lord did, Alexander. The Lord always does. Despite being told that you are a descendant of Kings, and must treat your body with the utmost respect and care, you decided to give into temptation and treat yourself the way your father treats one of his wenches. In doing so, you have cursed all of us. We are now thrust into darkness, because of your willingness to engage in sin.\nOh yes, this sort of thing has happened before, which is how we know the cause. Why, ten years ago, in 1603, your father abused himself, and the sun disappeared then as well. That was back when your grandfather was alive shortly before the Huns invaded and fed him to wild goats. Had your father not abused himself, perhaps the sun would never have disappeared and the Huns would not have invaded either. We can never know how the Lord is going to punish us when we misbehave, but you can be assured that all bad things come directly from the actions of lustful monarchs.\nI cannot expect you to know such things, because you are not a man of science, as I am. As the Lead Sorcerer in the Kingdom, it is my duty to inform you why things are the way they are. In this case, you treating your body like the royal petting zoo has resulted in the villagers believing that we have a witch in our midst. Now, we will have to murder fourteen or fifteen innocent women to calm them down. Yes, I know that there are no witches in the kingdom. You know that as well, Alexander, but there will be no convincing the villagers. I suppose we could always travel into the forest and find a real witch living in one of those candy huts, but who has the time? Better to just decide on the fourteen or fifteen or twenty most outspoken women in the kingdom, have a few quick trials, and then throw them in the river. It may be unjust, but crowd control usually is.\nAlthough it is not for me to forgive you, Alexander, I am happy to report to you that I do. Some sorcerers are more vengeful than I, and would turn you into a loathsome creature, like an earthworm or half a warthog. Instead, I will use this as a teachable moment. The moment may be dark, but I am a teacher, and so…Here we are. Now you know to wait until marriage before you give into carnal desires. Once you are married, you will be permitted to let your wife explore you in any way you wish, along with all the wenches in the kingdom that your father has not claimed for himself, provided he hasn’t been killed by then. I hear the Huns are planning another raid, but don’t tell him that.\nYou know, Alexander, back in the Darker Days, people had strange explanations for phenomena such as this one. They would say that there were many gods, and that those gods were mad about foolish things like whether or not a temple built in their honor was constructed properly or because someone thought they were the best at sirtaki dancing. You could not be good at sirtaki dancing back in the day, Alexander, because, chances are, there was a God of Sirtaki and if a mortal said they were the best at it, then that god would get angry, and throw the sun into the ocean.\nNow, of course, we know better. We know that there is only one god and that He does not anger quickly or for frivolous reasons. The only thing that upsets Him is a young prince unable to control himself every time a busty chambermaid passes in front of him. Coincidentally, that last maid was a favorite of your father’s, and if he saw your eyes wandering, you’d be up in the tower eating nothing but gruel for weeks. You’re lucky I was the one who intervened. Thankfully everyone else is staring up at the sky with their eyes uncovered. No doubt we’ll have an outbreak of blindness tomorrow the same way we did in 1603.\nAnd it will be all your fault, Alexander.\nWell, not entirely your fault. Only a fool stares up at the sun even when it isn’t being swallowed up by the moon. Nevertheless, we have quite a few fools in the kingdom, and you will be their leader one day. You must protect them. When Huns invade, you must be ready to go to war. You must not be lounging around your royal bedroom acting like a Frenchman. Oh yes, Alexander, the French haven’t seen the sun in years. If you knew anything about the French king, you’d know why. That man may as well sew his hand to the inside of his pantaloons.\nLife is full of inappropriate desires, Alexander. The older you get, the more you shall discover. Why, just today your father asked me if he could divorce your mother and marry his second cousin then say the Lord told him to do it. I said that was fine, because anyone who tells your father “No” ends up in the tower eating gruel and chasing after rats for a little extra protein. That doesn’t mean we all won’t be punished when he does, eventually, cast your mother aside to marry that sharp-chinned relative of his. There will most likely be another earthquake or perhaps the ferocious goats shall return.\nWhen you are king, Alexander, I hope you will be a chaste ruler. A godly man who does no wrong and does not bring about suffering to his people. At the very least, I hope you shall always check with me before doing anything questionable.\nBelieve in science, Alexander, and always consult with your sorcerer." } ]
[ { "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: Have you heard about Scott and Abi?\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2312\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a piece of gossip that becomes more and more distorted as it passes from person to person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Have you heard about Scott and Abi?” The school bathroom’s deserted as Jodie sidles up to Fliss, her best friend. Jodie’s not usually one to gossip, but she can’t resist passing this on. “They hooked up at Danny’s party last weekend. I saw them getting hot and steamy with each other on the landing.”\n“Scott and Abi?” Fliss says in surprise. “I thought he was dating Lauren.”\n“Maybe they broke up.” Jodie pauses to consider the possibilities. “Or maybe he’s cheating on Lauren with Abi. I wonder if she knows…”\n“Poor Lauren,” Fliss says. It’s so sad that it’s always the girlfriend who’s the last to know.\n“Don’t tell anyone else.” Perhaps Jodie’s conscience is catching up with her. Or perhaps she just likes having a secret.\n“I won’t tell anyone else. I promise.”\nBut she does.\n“Have you heard about Scott and Abi?” Fliss has had a secret crush on Brandon for weeks, but she’s always so tongue-tied around him. Now, she finally has something to say. She puts her lunch tray down on the table he’s seated at and takes a chair.\n “What about Scott and Abi?” Brandon pauses between mouthfuls to ask the question. “Are they both running for class president or something?”\n Fliss picks imaginary fluff off her sweater, spinning out the suspense. “They’re doing it behind Lauren’s back.”\n Brandon’s fork is halfway to his mouth. It freezes in shock, then he lets out a whistle. “I thought he was really into Lauren. I mean, Abi’s cute, but…”\nBut she isn’t Lauren. Lauren’s been every boy’s fantasy since Freshman year with her long dark hair and her deep, throaty laugh. At sixteen, she’s the hottest girl Brandon knows, and he’s longed hopelessly for her as long as he can remember.\n Fliss blushes. “I shouldn’t have told you that. It’s meant to be a secret.” \n“I won’t tell anyone else. I promise.”\nBut he does.\n“Have you heard about Scott and Abi?”\nBrandon and Mandy are meant to be testing elements to determine whether or not they’re metal, but his chem partner is Lauren’s best friend and if anyone will know what’s going on, then Mandy will.\nFor a moment, she doesn’t reply, too busy testing the chemical reactivity of lithium. “That’s another alkali metal,” she mutters, scribbling in her notebook.\nBrandon tries again. “Has she said anything to you?”\n“Who? Abi?”\n“No, Lauren. About Scott and Abi.” If Lauren doesn’t already know, then this is as good a way as any to get the news to her.\n“Scott and Abi? You mean…” Mandy pauses delicately.\nBrandon nods. “Yep. They’ve been doing it for months, and laughing at Lauren behind her back.”\nHe doesn’t swear Mandy to secrecy. Why should he? He wants Lauren to know because then she’ll realize Scott isn’t boyfriend material – and Brandon can make sure he’s on hand himself to dry Lauren’s tears and give her a shoulder to cry on.\nMandy doesn’t tell Lauren. She can’t bear to think of Lauren’s tears when she finds out that Scott’s cheating on her. If anything, Mandy feels disappointed with Scott. She’d always thought he was such a great guy: so courteous, and if you’d asked her before today, she would have said he worshipped the ground Lauren walks on.\nNo, she can’t tell Lauren, but she confides in her boyfriend, Sam, asking for advice. “Scott’s been boinking Abi, but he’s meant to be Lauren’s boyfriend. Do you think I should say something?”\n“Say what?” Sam asks. “Tell them not to do it, or tell them to be careful?”\n“Careful?” Mandy echoes. Does Sam mean Scott and Abi should be careful not to get caught – or careful not to get pregnant? What was it her grandmother used to say? “If you can’t be good, be careful; and if you can’t be careful, watch the calendar.”\n“They’re not being careful?” Sam looks worried. “Man, that could mess up both their lives!”\nSam can’t believe how anyone could be so irresponsible. His cousin Jeannie fell pregnant in her senior year and it was all his mom’s side of the family talked about for years. As soon as he was old enough to start dating, his dad had sat him down and given him ‘The Talk’: the one that embarrasses the teenager as much as the parent. Sam knows all there is to know and more about planned parenthood: heck, he could probably write a mid-term paper on condoms and other contraceptives! What on earth were Scott and Abi thinking?\nBut Scott doesn’t look like a teenager who’s unexpectedly become a parent. Maybe he doesn’t know!\n“Why are you still in the locker room?” Harvey asks curiously. Sam is sitting on a bench, one sweat sock on his foot and the other in his hand.\nSam’s train of thought slams to a halt. He climbs down from it slowly, wondering if Harvey knows they’ll be losing their star player when Abi’s baby comes along.\n“Scott’s been playing away from home,” he says. “Abi thinks she’s pregnant but she hasn’t told Scott. She doesn’t know whether he’ll stand by her or go back to Lauren.”\n“What a jerk!” Harvey sounds angry. “He had a football scholarship lined up, but I guess he’ll have to change his plans now Abi’s having his baby.”\n“Unless she drops out of school herself,” Sam says.\nWhen Harvey sees Ryan, he thinks he’d better prepare him for taking Scott’s place as quarterback. “Make sure you turn up at tomorrow’s practice,” he says, “because I think Scott’s going to be too busy for football for a while.”\n“Busy!” Ryan looks puzzled.\n“Preoccupied.” Harvey corrects himself, then tries to make a pun. “He’s been getting busy with Abi, and now she’s pregnant and dropping out of school.”\n“Are you sure this isn’t just gossip?” Ryan’s had a thing for Abi for ages and is devastated by Harvey’s news.\n“Dude, I heard it from Sam and his girlfriend’s in the loop. She and Scott’s girlfriend are friends for life or whatever they call it. Trust me – my source is 100% reliable,” Harvey says with conviction.\nRyan tries to ignore the pain in his heart, but Harvey’s information is a sharp pair of scissors, puncturing his gut and twisting his insides.\n“Abi, can I talk to you?”\n Autumn sunlight glints off Abi’s hair. At this moment, she looks so golden, so perfect, that Ryan can’t imagine her heavy with child. He wonders how long it will be before the baby bump becomes noticeable.\n“Sure. What do you want?”\nA week ago – even a day ago – he would have done anything for a smile like the one she’s giving him now: a smile that lights up her face and makes the universe seem right. He’s heard people talk about ‘faking it until you make it’, but until now, he’s never understood the expression. Abi’s fake cheerfulness is Oscar-worthy. She looks as if she genuinely doesn’t have a care in the world.\n“I know your secret,” he says.\nHer smile freezes into something else.\n“How do you know?” she asks.\n“It’s going round the school,” Ryan tells her. “Everyone knows about your baby.”\n“My baby?” She seems mystified.\n“And that you’re dropping out sometime next semester,” Ryan adds.\n“Is that what people are saying?”\nShe seems surprised. Ryan nods.\n“Riley…”\n“Ryan,” he corrects her.\n“Sorry. Ryan, I’m not having a baby, and I’m not dropping out of school.” He must look as confused as he feels because she adds, “And if you hear anyone else saying this, you have to put them straight.”\nNow he’s talked to Abi, Ryan doesn’t feel any less anxious than he did before. Abi was quite adamant that she’s not having the baby, but abortion’s not without complications either. And will Abi be able to get a termination? He knows the laws have changed recently – they had a class discussion in social studies a few weeks ago. Will this make things easier for Abi or more difficult?\n “Can girls your age get legal abortions?” he whispers to Fliss during algebra.\n “What? Why would you ask me something like that?” Perhaps Fliss doesn’t know.\n “Abi told me she’s having an abortion,” he writes on his notepad. “It’s Scott’s baby.”\n Fliss is wide-eyed as she reads his note.\n “I knew they were doing it, but I didn’t know it had gone that far,” she scribbles back.\n Ryan wants to carry on the conversation, but he can feel Mr Montezumo’s eyes boring into him from across the room, so he puts his head down and concentrates on x and y. Meanwhile, Fliss finds it hard to focus on her own equations, her mind dwelling on what Ryan’s just told her. Someone needs to tell Lauren – and that someone should be Fliss.\n“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jodie asks.\nFliss nods. She and Jodie were the first people to find out about Abi: it seems only fitting that they should now be the final link in the chain as well. She’s aware that half their year group seem to know about Scott and Abi, but she’s not sure how the news has got around so quickly. She only told one person. Perhaps Jodie mentioned it to a few others.\nLauren’s house is only a few blocks away. It looks like a fairly well-to-do neighborhood – you can tell by the cars that are parked outside and the well-kept lawns at the front of the houses. Fliss feels a little nervous: she doesn’t usually turn up at people’s front doors without an invitation.\nThe woman who answers the door to them looks like an older version of Lauren. Her mom, Fliss thinks. She tells them Lauren is in her room, doing homework; but when Jodie lies and says the three of them are working on an English presentation together, Mrs Hilson says they can go on up.\n“Lauren?” Fliss taps on the door nervously. The strains of a song by some boy band float through the closed door. Perhaps Lauren has her headphones on and can’t hear the knocking.\nJodie takes over, knocking more loudly this time and then opening the door. Lauren looks up from her desk, a surprised look on her face. She removes her headphones and looks at her visitors. “What do you want?” she asks.\nFliss and Jodie look at one another. They’ve agreed that Jodie will do the talking: after all, she was the one who saw what happened.\n “Lauren…” Jodie tries to make her voice sympathetic. “There’s something we need to tell you. It’s about Scott… And Abi.”\nLauren’s eyes narrow. “Go on,” she says.\n“Last weekend, I went to Danny’s party,” Jodie begins. She can still see the scene clearly in her mind: the crowded room full of teenagers laughing, talking, drinking; the way that some people had started pairing off and disappearing outside to smooch on the terrace or upstairs to do goodness knows what in one of the bedrooms. She’d gone upstairs herself – not with a boy but because she wanted to use the bathroom.\nThat’s when she’d seen them – Scott and Abi locked in an embrace, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. They hadn’t been kissing; but you don’t hug someone for as long as that if you’re just friends.\n“I saw them both making out on the landing,” she says. “Scott’s been cheating on you, Lauren.”\n“You saw what?” Lauren sounds incredulous.\n“They were holding each other really tightly,” Jodie says. “The way people do when they’ve just been kissing – or doing other stuff.”\n“Other stuff?” Lauren repeats.\n“Abi’s pregnant,” Fliss says helpfully. “It’s Scott’s baby, but he doesn’t know yet. She’s having an abortion.”\n“She told you this?” Lauren seems to be in denial.\nJodie reddens. “Well, not exactly…” She turns to Fliss. “You told me she was having an abortion.”\n“That’s what she told Ryan,” Fliss says defensively. “And Ryan got the story from Harvey before he talked to Abi. Everyone knows about it by now.”\n“Abi isn’t pregnant with Scott’s baby,” Lauren says. “And they’re certainly not romantically involved.” She takes a deep breath. “Abi’s his sister.”\n“What?” Fliss and Jodie look at each other. The idea is preposterous.\n“Scott was adopted as a baby,” Lauren says. “Once he turned 16, he was told he could have some information about his birth mother. That’s when he found out he had a twin sister: Abi.”\n“But she looks nothing like him!” Jodie says in surprise.\n“They’re fraternal twins,” Lauren tells us. “I assume you do know what ‘fraternal’ means?”\n“But if she’s really his sister,” Jodie protests as if she’s struggling to buy into this herself, “why haven’t they told people at school? They could have said something when Abi started as a transfer student In August.”\n“I think she wanted to make friends with people on her own merits,” Lauren says. “Of course, she didn’t know someone was going to start a rumour about her…” She looks pointedly at Jodie.\nJodie reddens again and looks at Fliss who is twisting her hair around her little finger in a somewhat anxious manner. “I told you not to tell anyone,” Jodie says.\n“It was only one person,” Fliss says defensively. She has a feeling she and Jodie won’t be on the guest list if Abi has a party herself.\n“We’re sorry,” Jodie says, and Fliss nods her agreement.\n“It’s not me you need to apologise to,” Lauren says. She opens her bedroom door. “At least now we know where the rumours started,” she tells them. “I assume you’re going to set the record straight? About Scott and Abi not being romantically involved, I mean. They’ll let people know they’re brother and sister when they’re ready.”\n“We won’t tell anyone,” Fliss and Jodie promise.\nBut they 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: Be Careful What You Say\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2988\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour main character has a secret superpower; the gossip they spread always comes true." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Be careful what you say,” my mom used to tell me, “It just might come true.”\nI never did believe her.\n*\n Today is my first day of sophomore year. I’m not exactly what you’d call a ‘popular’ kid in school. Though I spent one year here already, I didn’t manage to make many friends. So that is my goal for this school year - to make as many new friends as possible!\n That’s sort of a sad statement to think about, I know, so a little bit about myself: I moved here a little over a year ago, I like just about all types of music, my favorite food is pizza (of course!) and I absolutely love poetry. It’s my dream to one day be this generation’s biggest poet! Not too bad a prospect for a new friend, right?\n Anyway, back to the present. Here I am, walking through the hallway, and I noticed Angela Brigitte – the most popular girl in school – leaning against her new locker (which just so happens to be just two down from my own!) talking frantically with two of her friends. I knew this was my chance to get in with the cool kids, but I couldn't just jump right in there. Oh no, I need to get some intel first and see exactly how I might get her and her friends to like me.\n I made it to my locker (Angela didn’t even notice me, but that’s okay, we’ll get there) and pulled it open so they can’t see my face and acted like I was organizing all my belongings before class… Even though I already took care of that before the school year started, because it’s best to be prepared for anything.\n As I aimlessly fumbled around with my stuff, I tuned in to what Angela and her friends were talking about.\n “Oh my god, can you believe she actually said that?” One of the girls said – Piper something, I think – and Angela excitedly said back, “I know! I’d be surprised if she even makes it on the cheer squad this year – I’m pretty sure even Coach Morris knows.”\n The three of them burst into laughter. I didn’t care much who they were talking about or what this person said, but I figured they really liked gossip. They went on talking about other kids in school, and they even brought up some school staff members. Most of the people named I only heard about through the grapevine, but there were some teachers I knew from last year – and there was even something mentioned about Principal Holloway having a drinking AND gambling problem. Yikes.\n I wondered how much of this was true, and how much was just made up to get a once-over on the other’s juicy gossip. Balancing the question in my head, I figured maybe one little lie won’t hurt anyone, but it had to be a good one if I wanted to be accepted in future gossip girl meetings. So, with a well-calculated risk, I closed my locker and turned to face them with, what I hoped to be, a calm and cool expression on my face.\n “Hey,” I said cooly.\n The three girls stopped talking and looked at me as if I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.\n “Hey yourself?” the third one said. Her name was Bianca, and from what I’ve heard she was a bitch. I didn’t know that for sure, but I did know that she was definitely not pretty enough to be hanging out with Angela and Piper all the time.\n “Did... Do you guys know Troy Andros?” I said a little shakily, but I think I still had my ‘keepin’ it cool’ expression down.\n Bianca kept looking at me with her glossy better-than-you stare. Piper shrugged absently at me. But Angela raised a curious eyebrow at me and said cautiously, “Yeah, we know Troy. Why?”\n Now I know I’ve got her. “Well, do you know who Troy slept with last night?” I asked with a smirk. Now Bianca’s mouth gaped, Piper’s eyes widened in excitement at me, and Angela was now looking at me like I was a steak after she’d fasted for a week.\n “Wait, what?” Bianca exclaimed.\n “Tell us, who!” Piper chipped in.\n “Yeah, tell us everything,” Angela said sternly, though I couldn't tell if she was angry or excited. Maybe both. Did she and Troy have a thing going on? Oh well, too late now.\n “I heard that Troy Andros slept with Rebecca Ferry last night – and they didn’t even use protection!” That last part was probably unnecessary, but if it adds more flare to my tale then I guess it’s okay.\n “No. Fucking. Way!” Bianca said excitedly. She was now looking at me as if we’d been palling around all summer with a big goofy grin on her face. I also noticed how briefly her eyes flickered in Angela’s direction, and I started to wonder if I’d just made a huge mistake.\n “Oh my god, Rebecca is pregnant with Troy’s kid!” Piper said accusingly.\n Now this was definitely going too far. “Well, I’m not sure if she’s -” But before I could go any further with saving poor Rebecca from my mistake, the school bell rang. I looked at the three with a worried expression that I had no hope of hiding. Angela looked at me with a very curious expression and said, “Hey, it’s Heather, right?”\n And just like that, all my worries went straight out the window. Angela knew my name! Mine! This was clearly the best day of sophomore year, and it was only day one!\n “Y-yeah,” I said nervously as I pushed my hair back behind my ear.\n Angela smirked at me with eyes narrowed in that same curious yet seemingly guarded way. “You seem pretty cool,” She said, “We should hang out sometime.”\n I knew it would be unavoidable, no way to stop it – my face was beet red now (as it probably should be, if I had spent my summer outside at the lake like everyone else). “Yeah! Definitely! That would be cool!” Coming on too strong there, H, dial it back a notch.\n “Cool,” Angela said curtly, “See ya ‘round.” And with that, the trio turned and walked off to their next class as they whispered intently to each other, no doubt about what they had just heard.\n\n Day two of sophomore year. I don’t know if you’d be wanting an update on the rest of yesterday or not, but I wouldn’t worry – practically nothing of note happened. Some regular lectures in class and a quiet bus ride back home next to my best friend (that is to say, still my only friend) Danny. Danny was talking about what we were going to do for our entry at the science fair – we worked together on it last year and it was a lot of fun, and we made a pact we’d be doing a project every year there was one. But as she discussed a battle plan I had her tuned out; all I could think about was the potential new friends I have and our future plans to hang out, and what that might entail. When I noticed her quiet down, I realized she was expecting an answer from me, yet I had no idea what she had just pitched. “Yeah, that sounds good!” I said with as genuine a smile I can muster and prayed to anyone listening that Danny bought it. I felt bad for mentally blowing Danny off like that but figured I’ll be able to make it up to her.\n We were late to school today. It was raining outside pretty well, and our bus driver is an older guy, and he was a little too careful driving to school.\n When I made it to my locker, I didn’t see Angela or her friends there. My thoughts got dark really quick and thought they were trying to avoid me now, but I had to stay calm and reassure myself that it was just because I was late, and they had probably already started walking to class. The bell, after all, did ring within seconds of me reaching my locker.\n\n A few class periods later, and here we are at lunch. Danny and I were walking between the benches with our trays of food with questionable nutritional value when I heard my name called out somewhere to the left. I turned my head and I saw Angela flanked again by Piper and Bianca who both looked very excited about something; they seemed to actually be vibrating. But what was most noticeable, as if it were the only thing in my world that could matter, was Angela was waving me over, then pointing to an open section of the bench in front of her.\n Danny looked over and said with a grimace of both fear and astonishment and whispered to me, “Holy Newton, is that Angela Brigitte? Waving at you to come to sit with her? This is a prank, right? Hazing the nerds?”\n I scoffed amusingly at her, and said smugly, “Not even. Come on.”\n I walked briskly in Angela’s direction and realized I probably looked a little too eager, so I forced myself to slow down, all the while Danny shuffled nervously behind me.\n We sat down across from the three gossips, and before we set our trays down on the table Piper squeaked out, “You were right!” I looked over at Bianca, who nodded vigorously, then to Angela who held the same cool yet slightly scolded expression.\n “What do you mean?” I asked. Piper and Bianca simultaneously rolled their eyes, and Angela said, “You were right about Troy and Becca. They totally did it the night before.” Danny gasped and looked at me, “How would you have known that?” she asked sternly. Her face was blushing even at being in the vicinity of this conversation. I ignored her question.\n “How do you know?” I asked, my fingers trembling. I could feel the questions literally boiling up inside Danny beside me.\n “Because that bitch is pregnant!” Bianca exclaimed. She snapped her fingers and grinned at me, which made me a little uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ll ever really know what to say to her.\n “AND,” Piper snapped, “Troy has been avoiding her ever since you said that While she’s been frantically trying to reach him!” She was practically dancing in her seat at this point.\n “Yeah,” Angela said, “So I don’t know where you heard that from, but if you got anything else…?” She left the last part of her question hanging while all three of them leaned in eagerly toward me. I glanced at Danny who was looking very pale and very uncomfortable. Hey, I got a lucky break this time. I need to give them something outlandishly out of the ballpark.\n “Well…” I said coyly while trying to give myself time to think.\n “Principal Holloway’s daughter, Patricia. You know her?”\n “Angela sneered, “That freaky slut? Who doesn’t know her.” The other two nodded in agreement with their own cracks of disgust. I looked around the cafeteria and didn’t see her anywhere; therein lies my next gossip. “Well, she’s disappeared. None of the Holloways know where she went!” The three girls all gasped at once. Danny sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was clear she was catching on to what I was doing.\n “Also, to top it all off!” I blurted, “Principal Holloway, on the same night he realized his daughter is missing, his doctor called him and said his liver is failing because of his drinking!”\n At this, the three girls roared in laughter. “Oh my GOD I have to tell somebody!” Bianca said, getting up and rushing to the right side of the cafeteria. “Yeah, same!” Piper said giddily as she did the same, only heading left.\n “Holy shit, Heather!” Angela said cheerily.\n “Yeah, no kidding,” Danny said glumly. “What do you think you’re doing?”\n “What? I’m just having some fun, Danny, you should try it sometime!”\n Angela looked at Danny and said, “Yeah, it’s fun. Who are you, anyway?”\n Danny looked at me with pleading eyes, but I looked away embarrassingly toward Angela. “Nobody, I guess,” Danny said. She picked up her tray and left our bench.\n Angela laughed sharply and said, “Seriously H, who was that?”\n I looked back at Danny’s retreating figure, then back at Angela who called me H, my nickname. “It’s… like she said. Nobody,” I said nonchalantly.\n\n A few weeks have passed, and I haven’t seen Danny since. Nobody has seen or heard from Patricia Holloway, and Principal Holloway is in the hospital hoping for a new liver. I’ve been getting pretty freaked out as I think about that, as well as the first noticeable signs of a baby bump on Rebecca.\n I met Angela and the other girls by my locker in the morning. Angela pointed out a flyer on the wall and told me, “Hey H, you said you’re into poetry, right? You should sign up!” This was followed by a chorus of “yeah, definitely” by the other two. I looked at the flyer and saw it was entries for a poetry recital in town, the winner will be performing in the school auditorium for the whole town to come and see your latest poem.\n I looked at it thoughtfully, as if I haven’t been hoping to hear back from the committee for several days now. But I had enough confidence in myself, so of course I lied even though I knew it would end up being the truth that my poem was the best of them all. “Oh, I already entered… and I won! I’m performing this Saturday!”\n My three new best friends cheered and embraced me with squealing delight. “That’s amazing, H!” Bianca said. “Yeah totally,” Piper chipped in, “Hey, you heard anything new?” After she asked, the three of them looked at me with hungry delight. “Well,” I said, preparing for another lie that was now flowing a little too easy for me, “Did you hear Mr. Nichols’ wife is having an affair? Yeah no, seriously! He’s so messed up about it that he’s thinking about killing himself!” We all laughed hatefully at the made-up plight of such a boring teacher.\n\n Saturday night. I’m backstage in the school auditorium preparing to recite my new poem. I just overheard the drama teacher talking over the phone to someone about how they heard Mr. Nichols recently hung himself, and only now did I finally understand what I’ve been doing.\n The introduction for me has begun. I’m watching the English teacher on stage talking about how proud of me she is, and special mentions for how proud the science teacher must feel for me winning first place in last year’s science project. The Projector displayed on the curtain behind her a picture of me, standing alone, by a model accurate to the scale of the solar system. But I had seen that picture before – it used to hang inside my locker – and Danny was always there next to me.\n Danny. My actual best friend. She liked me for just how I was, honest and curious, not as some other gossip looking to hurt others.\n I was called on stage, and I walked towards the microphone as I was greeted by thunderous applause. The picture remained on the curtain behind me. I cleared my throat and looked at the hundreds of faces staring back up at me. My pits were sweating, and my throat was dry. It was all too much. It was all a lie, but it was true. Even being up here, now, this was a lie. It’s only happening because I spoke it into existence. I had to fix it.\n “Thank you, everyone,” I said, “But before I begin, I have something to say.” Quiet murmurs filled the auditorium as they all awaited me.\n “Everything I said... Everything I said was a lie. None of it ever happened! Not the thing about Rebecca and Troy, or Mr. Nichols, or the Holloways, or… Or Danny...”\n There was laughter in the audience. Someone yelled up, “Who the hell’s Danny?” More laughter. “Of course, it’s true!” Angela yelled up, “How else would it have happened?”\n Thunderous roars of laughter and applause now. They were cheering me on to begin my poem. Well, I’ll give them one they will certainly forget.\n “My name is Heather. And…” I looked down at my written words and dropped them to the floor. “And none of you knew me. I never to this school, I never was a friend to Danny, the one most deserving of friendship,” my voice was cracking, and I watched the jovial room of excited patrons laughing, and laughing, and laughing.\n “I never moved to this town! I never won an award at a science project, and I most certainly never befriended Angela fucking Brigitte!”\n Coughing, choking laughter as the audience doubles over. “My mother had a miscarriage!” I yell at the now empty seats, staring vacantly at me with their quiet void of soundless nothing. No one had come to see me, because I was never here.\n I whisper into the nothing of my fate, where my friend will live, where the Holloways are okay, and Mr. Nichols is fine. “My mother miscarried; I was never born. None of you are here, and none of it ever happened, because I -”\n Never existed.\n*\n An empty auditorium of vacant seats sits before a lit podium with no one there, a projected image of a clear table in a science classroom shines against a backdrop curtain.\n“Be careful what you say,” my mom used to tell me, “It just might come true.”\nI never did believe 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: Through Foggy Veils of the Mystical Coast\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2171\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story in which a character navigates using the stars." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Mystical Coast showed her mystery and drama while the ship called Nightflight cruised under the shimmering stars.\n\nWinds of the Mystical Coast blew a dense veil of fog across the clear waters. Then the Nightflight was wrapped in a cotton cloud mist, hiding the stars and shores needed for navigation.\n\nA towering ocean swell over the bar from the sea to the Emerald River lifted Nightflight into the salty air.\n\nBlankets of fog hid the other ship that was coming from the starboard side. Through the haze a ghostly shape appeared.\n\nWham! The two hulls collided.\n\nEverything tilted. The ocean rushed over the Nightflight's deck. Samuel's feet slipped.\n\nTime seemed to move in slow motion at first, then everything happened fast.\n\nThe Nightflight's four masts fell, breaking on her deck. Sounds of hollering, scraping, the sea sloshing, and beams crashing filled the foggy night. \n\nNightflight leaned, almost turning onto her side. Her hull caught on the sandbar of the Emerald River and the sea.\n\nShe was battered and bruised, but Nightflight would ride the waves again someday.\n\nSamuel swam hard, fighting the current in the murky brine. Hope flickered and then courage rose in him, bringing strength.\n\nHe remembered seeing the other ship appear out of the wall of fog. Boom. Crash.\n\nGasping for air, he tried to float and look around. The shore must not be too far away. \n\nCrossing the Emerald River bar under the stars on a summer night, no one expected the sudden storm squall and wall of fog. But June could bring surprises.\n\nSamuel remembered earlier standing next to the first navigation officer, Raul.\n\nNow seventeen years old, Samuel felt his future was calling to him, from beyond misty veils of dreams.\n\nThe voyage of the 1890s hybrid steam and four masted ship, the “Nightflight,” was smooth so far. Samuel’s dream of learning ship navigation was coming true.\n\nA few days before this he waved goodbye to his family while they stood on the beach below the isolated lighthouse in the wilderness.\n\nSamuel felt a sense of wonder living on the Mystical Coast. Dreams shimmered like sunbeams on the ocean in his mind.\n\nAt the Mystical Coast black bears and their cubs roamed. Cougars slinked on the shadows and coyotes trotted in the wilderness.\n\nElk herds grazed in the meadows.\nThe sweet scented forests were full of birds calling and warbling.\n\nIt was all part of a life well lived on the Mystical Coast.\n\nSamuel felt it was a place where everything is intertwined with nature and he was part of it too.\n\nMystical Coast's moods could change quickly sometimes. She might be showing her peaceful side with flat seas stretching to the horizon.\n\nOr she might display her mysterious face with fogs and mists cloaking the ocean and shores. When she felt dramatic her winds lashed the waves with gales and gusts, her waves and swells towered, and ships needed to beware.\n\nLife there imparted a sense of wonder and beauty.\n\nBut now Samuel was ready to explore the rest of the world too. He wanted to experience faraway places, seeking out the essence of each one.\n\nBack at the lighthouse, he dreamed of himself standing on the deck of a ship pulling into distant ports.\n\nHis science studies at the little school below the lighthouse served him well, and he was used to helping his father, the head lightkeeper.\n\nA chance for training on the ship \"Nightflight\" offered opportunity to learn navigator skills.\n\nThe ship, Nightflight, smoothly rode over ocean waves on the sunny, June days. The shore was within sight, making navigation easy.\n\nThey saw seagulls, ospreys, eagles, sea lions, and whales on the voyage. Beyond sandy or rocky shorelines, we're the mountains rising sharply, covered with tall trees.\n\nThe Chief Navigator Raul watched while Samuel practiced using the sextant, telescopes, compass, star charts, ocean charts, almanac, and ship's log.\n\nAt night, the stars and moon poured silvery light on the sea.\n\nIn the calm June waters and the summertime warm temperatures, Samuel and the rest of the crew and passengers enjoyed stargazing and picking out constellations.\n\nMeasuring the angles and distance between the stars and the horizon with s sextant, Samuel calculated the ship's position for practice.\n\nOne day when a pod of whales spouted, sky hopped and thrashed their tails everyone ran across the deck to the railing to watch.\n\nSamuel made friends with the captain's dog, Pepper, a small, brown and white \"rat catcher\" dog known for keeping rodents away from the food supplies.\n\nIn an instant one evening, everything changed.\n\nInstead of anchoring overnight, taking his time, and waiting for daylight's visibility, Captain Johann Rasmussen was in a hurry.\n\nHis sharp eyes above the curly beard and tanned face glanced around quickly, and his solid figure wearing the captain's cap stepped rapidly around the wheelhouse and deck.\n\nHe decided to make good time in the silent seas of the night by crossing the Emerald River bar after dark. \n\nBut the quick weather change caught them off guard. \n\nIt began when the captain stood in the wheelhouse, checking the charts and steering away from the sand bars on the shores where the river met the sea.\n\nHe congratulated himself. They would enjoy a quiet cruise down the wide river to the port of Woodland, under the stars.\n\n\"Shouldn't we wait for daylight to cross the river bar?\" Samuel's voice was respectful.\n\n\"No. We'll be fine,\" said Captain Rasmussen.\n\nEntering the river, the captain and navigators saw the starry dome overhead disappearing when clouds and a wall of fog moved in.\n\nThe Captain Rasmussen hid his dismay from the crew. \n\n“Captain, now we’re in for it.” He heard the tension in Chief Navigator Raul's voice. More voices joined in.\n\n“We’ll be fine. Settle down, all of you,” he said.\n\nThe breeze picked up. A gust hit the ship.\n\n“Drop the sails all the way. Now.” He kept his voice deep and confident.\n\nThey heard the squall winds begin howling and wailing. \n\nFog so thick you could not see more than several feet flowed around them.\n\nThe ship was crossing the treacherous sand bar between the Emerald River and the Pacific Ocean. Dozens of ship wrecks littered the bottom of the water.\n\nThe proud captain, overconfident, eager to impress, knew he had crossed this bar many times already. \n\nWhy wait offshore, anchored overnight?\n\n They were behind schedule already.\n\nWhat could happen?\n\nWait. Was that a fog horn? \n\nWas there another ship nearby?\n\nOr was it the wind?\n\nThen a sound like thunder. Two ships struck each other in the deadly Pacific Northwest fog. \n\nNow Samuel felt the currents dragging him down and sideways.\n\nLet yourself flow with it, he thought. Don’t fight it.\n\nJust try to keep your head above water.\n\nAn image of his home at the lighthouse flashed through his mind. Somewhere his parents and siblings were thinking of him. They would miss him if he didn’t come back.\n\nSomething whooshed past in the water. He saw the long hair floating.\n\n\"Eliza! From the ship.\" Samuel lunged to grab her.\n\nHe pictured her young face framed by dark hair pulled into a bun, and bright eyes with a sparkle. \n\nIt was only a split second, but their eyes had met with something like laughter in them before she looked away. She appeared to be close to his age.\n\nWith a surge of adrenaline, he powered through the current and reached, grasping her arm. She spun, kicking and using her arms. \n\nSamuel’s hand closed tightly and he grabbed a splintered beam floating by with the other hand. Eliza reached for it with her other hand.\n\nAn ocean wave lifted them and they somersaulted in the water, clasped together.\n\nHe lost his grip on the wood beam. Eliza still held on to it. Another swell brought it closer and Samuel grasped it again.\n\nThe ships must be stuck on the sand bar. Samuel saw they were drifting farther away from the sinking hull of the “Nightflight.”\n\nMore booms like thunder sounded. There were calls and Samuel knew the crew and passengers were floating near him in the water.\n\nIt happened so fast there was no time to lower a lifeboat.\n\nNow Samuel heard a high pitched squeak. The captain's dog, Pepper, was crouched and trembling on a pile of floating wood.\n\nThen he reached over to the wood that was carrying Pepper and pulled it toward him.\n\nSamuel’s feet felt something underneath them.\n\nHe managed to sink his feet into the sand and steady himself.\n\n“We're on a sand bar now,” he said. Eliza stretched her feet down and stood on the bottom.\n\nSamuel's lungs felt tight, his heart pounding hard and fast, his limbs getting tired.\n\n“Over here,” he yelled. “Sandbar. Shore.” He saw others struggling toward the shore.\n\nThe bars at the openings of rivers to the sea had fast-shifting sand. The ocean charts were only for guessing.\n\nYells and calls sounded. People began to get out of the water and onto the beach.\n\nSamuel and Eliza struggled to keep their footing in the moving water. Soon it was waist deep, then they stumbled out and fell down on a beach.\n\nSamuel picked up Pepper and carried the small dog in the crook of his arm.\n\n“We must be near Drift Village,” Samuel said to her. “Town near the river bar. We can get help. In the morning.”\n\nWhat happened to everyone else on the ships? Samuel’s throat was tight, his heart racing.\n\nNearby he heard loud voices. \n\nGood. Other people were struggling out of the water and collapsing on the beach.\n\nExhaustion overtook Samuel and Eliza. The chilly night air cooled their wet limbs.\n\n“Come on. We need to get inland.”\n\nEliza’s hand felt clammy while he held it. Together they stumbled and crawled into the sand dunes.\n\nThey fell and curled up together out of the wind, in the shelter of a dip in the dunes, falling into an exhausted sleep.\n\nLater, Samuel felt the sand underneath and opened his eyes in the dim light of the colorful Dawn sky. Mystical Coast displayed her pastel morning hues overhead while the sun rose on a clear, serene morning.\n\nFlashes of the night poured through Samuel's mind like water rushing. He saw Eliza begin to stir too.\n\n“We made it.” His voice was raspy.\n\nEliza’s eyes were wide. She untangled herself from their embrace and stood up. Her head swiveled and she took in the surroundings.\n\n“We need to check on the others,” she said.\n\nThey climbed over the dunes and saw people scattered across the beach.\n\n\"Eliza!\" Two people ran to her with arms outstretched.\n\n\"Mama, Papa!\" All three clutched each other tightly.\n\nWisps of fog trailed like shreds of cotton over the ocean and sand. The sky overhead was clearing and the sun rose higher in the east.\n\n“It looks like everyone in the crew and passengers made it to shore,” said a voice nearby.\n\nSamuel recognized Captain Rasmussen, his damp clothing in tatters.\n\nThe captain saw Pepper cuddled in Samuel's arm with his expressive eyes fixed on the captain.\n\nThe little dog wiggled and Samuel handed his squirming body over to Captain Rasmussen's open arms. Pepper snuggled into the arms wrapped around him.\n\nThere was no mistaking the affection in the glance the two shared.\n\nCaptain Rasmussen nodded toward his ship, the \"Nightflight.\"\n\n\"Her damage can be repaired. She'll sail again,\" he said.\n\nOffshore, the two partly sunken ships rested on the sandbar. They learned against each other, groaning and scraping.\n\n“I trusted this captain,” thought Samuel.\n\n“It was a mistake to cross the bar at night.\n\nQuick changes of weather can happen in minutes.\n\nWhat was the captain thinking?\n\nWho could you trust?\"\n\n Samuel kept his thoughts to himself.\n\nHe heard voices yelling, and saw a rescue party coming over the dunes, from Drift Village.\n\nHours later, Samuel, Eliza, and the other crew and passengers from the ships, rested in the village, wearing dry clothes, sitting by warm flames, drinking hot stew.\n\nSamuel knew he would never be the same again.\n\nHe left the lighthouse station a few days ago still a child.\n\nNow he was an adult. \n\nThe glow of his sense of wonder still lit his playful, impulsive heart.\n\nBut a respect and new sense of awareness also filled him with deeper thoughts and responsibility.\n\nHe was no longer a child. But inside his adult thoughts, a child was still there too.\n\nEliza turned to him and said, “Do you still want to be a ship’s navigator?”\n\n“No,” said Samuel. The sense of wonder and light filled him again.\n\nEliza looked curiously at the young man.\n\n\"Who could you trust?\" The words echoed in Samuel's thoughts.\n\nSamuel's dreams drifted through his heart and into his mind.\n\nEliza's eyes held a shine while she looked at him.\n\nHis thoughts and feelings were clear, free of any foggy veils.\n\n“I want to be the captain.”\n\nThen, \"Eliza, how would you like to visit a lighthouse?\"" } ]
[ { "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: To Be Heard\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2679\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who risks their life to take a photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Content Warning: This story is set during the Holocaust through the eyes of a fictional character. This story will contain themes of violence and death, and depictions of Nazi occupation in Poland, as well as anti-Semitic themes (which I do not support). Extensive research has been done to ensure this text is as historically accurate as possible. Any relation to real people is purely coincidental. Viewer discretion is advised. \nThere are two days in my childhood that time will never take: the day I got my camera and the day it almost cost me my life.\nOn my seventh birthday, after months of begging, my father bought me a beautiful 1938 SIDA camera in gun-metal gray that ran on specialized 33-millimeter film. Upon ripping off the paper wrapping, I squealed and hugged it to my chest, the cool metal pressing nicely against my skin. \n“Now, don’t you go using all the film all at once, Wanda,” cautioned my father. “That type is specialized just for that model, so it’s not easy to replace.”\nTapping the little camera, my mother smiled and offered, “Capture the photos that come with stories.”\nI agreed, despite not understanding her advice at that moment, and spent the following months snapping photo after photo. \nA European green woodpecker— “It flew up on that branch, see? It was so close, mama! You could see all of its colors!”\nA lone white lily— “I’ve never seen one on its own before! Isn’t it pretty, daddy?”\nA star-filled sky— “How many do you think there are?”\nAmidst my photographic adventures, I frequented the library two blocks from my home, run by Miss Ferenz, a widowed woman with tired hazel eyes who enjoyed staring into the sky. Several days per week, I skipped up the old stone steps and met her at the front desk, camera in hand. \n“May I use the darkroom, Miss Ferenz?” I’d ask each day.\n“I still don’t understand why you ask,” she would answer with a smile.\nAll of the library’s books were confined to one wall of shelves at the entrance. Past that, the shelves were bare, covered in dust, devoid of any knowledge they may have once held. \n“Where are the rest of the books?” I once questioned on another trip to the darkroom.\nMiss Ferenz’s eyes widened slightly behind her glasses, holding my gaze for a long moment, contemplating an answer.\n“Another day,” she replied shortly, averting her eyes back to whatever she worked on behind her desk. I ceased to ask any further questions. \n———\nBeing the youngest on my block, I was barred from participating in games deemed “too difficult” and conversations deemed “too grown-up.” Therefore, I did what any eight-year-old would do: learn to eavesdrop.\n“Did you hear,” began a blonde-haired boy one summer evening, “about those camps the soldiers are working on?”\n“Shush! Don’t let the adults hear you talking about that!” A brunette girl hissed to him.\n“But he’s right!” Argued another, shorter boy, who kept his voice to a whisper I strained to hear.\n“I never said he was wrong,” the girl bit back, “I just don’t want anybody getting scolded.”\nI kept stock-still on my front steps, fearing my presence would send the conversation crumbling to the pavement and I’d lose the “grown-up” knowledge I was receiving. This conversation, shared away from the adults in the darkness, was sacred— I didn’t even dare to breathe.\n“Have you heard, though?” The blonde boy prompted again, his voice having dropped to a whisper.\n“Certainly,” replied the brunette girl. “We all knew it was a joke when they told us they were simply work camps, now, didn’t we? Nobody was going to fall for that.”\nThe shorter boy shrugged and replied matter-of-factly, “Plenty of people fell for it. Why do you think it hasn’t stopped?”\n“That,” added the blonde boy, “and the fact people don’t want to end up in those camps themselves. Those soldiers—“\n“Nazis,” the girl corrected.\n“Those Nazis don’t take kindly to those who defy them. They say you could end up stuck in those camps…or worse,” warned the boy, whom I had never witnessed take anything seriously in his life.\n“How do they kill ‘em?” Questioned the short boy.\nAs the blonde opened his mouth, the brunette cried out in surprise, her hand popping up to point at me. \n“How long have you been there?!” The girl demanded.\n“A bit,” I admitted sheepishly.\n“How much did you hear?” The blonde added, to which I fell to silence.\nThe trio exchanged worried looks and spoke in nearly silent tones for several agonizing moments. They were contemplating what to do with me, weighing the options of what may happen with an eight-year-old sharing some of their knowledge.\n“You didn’t hear it from us, got it, kid?” The brunette finally ordered, turning back to me with what seemed to be anger in her eyes. When I nodded, she breathed a sigh, turned her back to me, and promptly vanished into her home along with the two boys.\nWhilst reflecting on that exchange years later, I realized my fault. It wasn’t anger in her eyes frightening my young self. It was fear. \n———\n“Mama, what happens in the camps?” \nI dared the question at dinner some nights after my exchange with the older kids. My mother froze with her fork halfway to her mouth and slowly turned to look at me.\n“Why do you ask?” She questioned, setting her fork on the table.\n“Do they hurt people there?” I pressed.\n“Wanda,” sighed my mother, “they’re work camps. They’re so people can have an easier time finding jobs to make money. Who told you people were hurt there?”\n“Word on the street,” I lied.\n“Regardless,” my father interjected, “it’s not our problem.”\n“But people say—,” I started, only to be promptly cut off by my father.\n“People are making up stories. Don’t worry about it,” he growled.\nI shut my mouth.\n———\n“Agata!” I called the following evening, catching the brunette's attention as she was climbing her steps to return inside. Her eyes met mine for a brief moment before flicking away.\n“You better not have snitched, kid,” Agata warned.\n“No, no, I didn’t!” I assured her. “I have a question!”\nAgata considered me for a moment, one hand on her home’s doorknob. \n“What about?” She questioned.\n“The Nazis,” I answered.\nAgata came down from her steps and beckoned me to the middle of the street. I jumped up from my own and hurried over. She knelt to meet me at eye level, for she was twice my height.\n“What do you want to know?” She asked in a hushed voice.\n“What do they do to the people in the camps?” I asked, matching her tone.\nHer eyes scanned the quiet street, then returned to me.\n“I’m only telling you this because I trust you won’t snitch, all right, kid?” When I nodded, she continued with an answer.\n“Well, the word on the street is that there are two camps: one is a labor camp, and one is a death camp. At the death camp, they haul people in on trains, make them strip naked, and gas them.”\n“Gas them?” I gasped.\n“Yeah, lock them in little rooms and fill them with poisonous gas, or so I’ve heard. You’d need to ask a Nazi, and they’re not going to tell.”\n“Why do they do it?”\nAgata stared at me for a long moment— how sick I was of silence! Then, with a heavy sigh, she muttered an answer:\n“Because they can.”\n———\nTwo nights later, after dinner, I posed the question about the activities in the camps again, only to be met with the same story as before. The tone of my mother’s voice and the sternness of my father’s gaze should have warned me to shut up, yet I ignored this fact.\n“Well, I heard people get gassed in the camps,” I blurted.\n“Where did you hear that?!” My father barked, suddenly appearing in the living room from the kitchen.\n“Word on the street,” I lied again. “Is it true?”\n“Honey, those are just stories. Besides, it’s none of our business,” my mother explained sternly.\n“Why is it none of our business?” I pressed on, my voice rising. “Shouldn’t we be helping people if they’re in trouble?” \n“Nobody is in trouble, Wanda,” my mother exasperated.\n“Then why do the Nazis kill people who defy them?!” \n“Enough!” My father roared, “Wanda, I’ll break that damn camera and get you a doll instead if you keep this up!”\n“No!” I cried, clutching my camera to my chest, my little arms wrapped around it like ropes.\n“Then quit talking about Nazis and camps and killing! It’s none of our business, got it?” My father commanded, eyes full of a rage I’d never seen before.\n“Got it,” I muttered begrudgingly.\nI did not sleep that night; rather, my camera and I concocted a simple plan: if I wanted to be heard, I would have to prove it.\nThe following morning, my father must have believed I had already left, for I caught the end of a conversation I likely should never have heard.\n“Thank God we’re not Jewish.”\n———\n“Darkroom?” \n“What do you know about the camps?”\nMiss Ferenz’s expression became a mix of perplexity and curiosity. Her gaze snapped up to meet mine.\n“Is it true that the Nazis hurt and kill people in the camps?” I asked.\nMiss Ferenz hesitated. My heart raged. \n“Is it?” I pressed, fighting to keep my voice from rising to a shout.\nMiss Ferenz held up her index finger, rose from her seat, and disappeared down the corridor for several minutes. When she returned, she did so with a cardboard box overflowing with more books than she had on the shelves. She plopped the box down on her desk.\n“Here,” she explained, “you cannot check these out nor reveal I still have them, but you may read every word until sunset.” \n“What’s wrong with them? I questioned, pulling a book off the top of the pile.\n“Do you remember when you asked me why the shelves were empty?” Miss Ferenz asked, which I confirmed with a nod.\n“What the Nazis dislike, they eliminate, using the remains as an example to others to display the consequences of not conforming to their beliefs. Fire,” she explained, “is a ruthless destroyer, and its ashes are the remains of what once was and what will never be again.”\nFrom sunrise to sunset, I did not have to worry about losing my camera. I was not restricted to what my parents refused to talk about. Some books spoke of a country across the ocean, dubbed the United States of America, where Miss Ferenz had a pen pal. Several more talked about Poland prior to 1942, much of which I never would have learned until I was older. Each sunset, the books were shoved back into their box and carried back down the corridor— I was unable to follow —and I would lay awake, too restless to sleep, in my bedroom with my camera, tormented by a plan I had yet to carry out. \nDon’t you want to be heard? I’d silently scold myself. You need proof to be heard! \nAt the break of dawn on August 27, 1942, before my parents had even begun to awaken, I pulled on my shoes, snatched up my rain jacket, and set off with my camera on a mission we’d delayed far too long.\n———\nIt took little time for the familiar sights of Wolka Okraglik to give way to disorienting greenery— no path was alike, yet no two looked remotely different. Each turn had me running into trees whose leaves blotted out the sky but did little to shield me from the fat teardrops of water that threatened to destroy my camera and, with it, my only chance at being taken seriously, at being right, at being heard. I hadn’t a clue of where I was going, nor the time, nor what my parents may be doing. I wasn’t even sure if I would make it back at all.\nLarge roots booby-trapped my paths, sending me stumbling through rocks and mud and low-hanging branches that scratched at my skin. Other branches tore at my clothing like mad animals, claws digging relentlessly into the fabric. I swatted at bugs that buzzed by my ears. I wondered if I was truly chasing a fantasy.\nCrack.\nThe birds were silent.\nMy foot rose, revealing what I’d stepped on— a porcelain doll with curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an off-white dress…all stained with blood. \nBlood?\nAhead of the doll lay a brown teddy bear with its arm torn off. Blood was splattered on its face.\nBlood.\nI dared a step forward. I dared another, another, another, until I was standing in front of a massacre of dolls and bears and action figures, all covered in varying amounts of blood. From the color alone, most of it was fresh. My stomach twisted with nausea. My eyes widened in horror. My shaking hands brought my camera up to my eyes in a dreamlike state.\nClick. Click. Click.\nA train horn shot through the air, snapping my brain back into action. My camera locked in a death grip in my small hands, I took off through the forest, ripping through branches and roots and soaking leaves. Thunder shook the ground. I wrapped my camera in my rain jacket as the sky opened up and rain poured down in buckets. The wind screamed in my ears. The rain soaked me without remorse. My small body pleaded for rest, but I didn’t stop running until I came crashing into the library again, screaming to get into the darkroom.\nIt occurred to me years later that, in looking for life, I had been a step away from losing my own.\n———\nMy camera and I watched Miss Ferenz bring the little negatives closer to her face, then further away again, then close again, saying nothing. My hair dripped with rainwater, each drop vanishing into the floor like a ghost. I toyed with the band-aids littering my arms and legs and scraped at the mud still on my face. In the agonizing silence, Miss Ferenz slowly turned to face me, and I beamed with pride. \nShe heard me.\nShe gently placed two of the negatives into my free hand, sliding the third one into her pocket. I followed her out of the darkroom, through the lobby, and through the rainy streets of Wolka Okraglik to a small, square-like building just big enough for three. Inside, Miss Ferenz extracted the third negative from her pocket and slipped it gently into a white envelope. She licked along the seal flap, pressed it closed carefully, and took her time writing an address in black ink. She blew on it softly to allow it to dry. She slid it through the mail slot.\n“Who are you mailing it to?” I finally asked.\nMiss Ferenz turned to me, her face lit up with something like a smile.\n“A friend.”\n———\nThe young reporter is practically shaking with excitement.\n“Now, you were eight years old at the time. Did you really not realize how close you were to Treblinka II at that moment?” He asks, shoving his microphone further into my face, which I politely remind him to stop doing. \n“No, I really didn’t know,” I confirm yet again, “and I hate to wonder what may have happened if I had stayed for another second.”\n“Incredible, truly incredible! Your photo is one of a kind! Is it what le you to your career as a photojournalist now, Ms. Brzezinski?” The reporter continues, his words quickening.\n“Most likely, though I’d always loved photography before that, it may have just cemented it,” I reply with a shrug.\n“You are hailed as a hero for your photo, do you know that?”\n“A hero?” I can’t help but chuckle at the label. “I’m no hero. I just wanted to be heard.”" } ]
[ { "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: Gossapp_Girl\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2923\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour main character has a secret superpower; the gossip they spread always comes true." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Connecting to Server.\nInitiating Application.\nGossapp V.1.0 installed.\nGOSSAPP_GIRL has entered the chat.\nCindy_Ford has entered the chat.\nAccessing contact list for AndroidAP55E7.\nChat invitation sent to Jenny_Reynolds.\nChat invitation sent to Louise_McLaughlin.\nChat invitation sent to Taylor_Doyle.\nCindyF: Helllooo GossappGirl. Not sure how this works. Is this like ChatGPT or do you just randomly make shit up and throw it out there?\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Hi CindyF, thanks for joining my chat! I’m Gossapp_Girl. I have lots of juicy gossip for you today! We’re going to have so much fun! ;)\nCindyF: I seriously doubt it. But okay. Hit me with something while we wait for the others.\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Sure! Do you know what I just heard? I heard Jenny_Reynolds is going to be late joining our chat because she just had a row with her boyfriend! I think she’s going to dump him! :)\nLouise_McLaughlin has entered the chat.\nAccessing contact list for iPhoneA2221.\nCindyF: LOL. Okay, good guess about Jen having a boyfriend, the rest not so much. Jenny gets rid of a guy every other week, she chews them up and spits them out like gum.\nTaylor_Doyle has entered the chat.\nAccessing contact list for AndroidAP25F6.\nLouiseM: Cindy I can’t believe you actually installed this thing? I told you not to. There are so many crazy stories going around. People on reddit are literally saying it’s cursed.\nTaylorD: Hey bitches! You found it, Cin, nice one!\nCindyF: Those stories are complete bs, Lou. An AI that makes up gossip that comes true, like seriously. Hi Tay.\nLouiseM: I know, it sounds stupid, but so many people are saying they used it and the rumours it made up actually happened. This is like that ouija board situation last year, we shouldn’t be messing with stuff like this.\nTaylorD: Oh oh, stress central in here, what’s going on?\nCindyF: It’s just Louise being a pussy as always. FFS Lou, it’s just a bit of fun. I want to see what it says about people. Might give us some fun ammunition to use at school.\nLouiseM: As if there isn’t enough of that going around. Do we have to add to it? Was it saying something about Jenny before I joined?\nCindyF: Yeah it said she’s gonna be late because she’s dumping Rick. Well, it didn’t say Rick specifically, just said her boyfriend. \nLouiseM: How did it know she had a boyfriend? Did you tell it? Did you ask it for gossip about Jen? OMG, Cindy, don’t do that. \nCindyF: I didn’t! It just picked her name from the invite list and made shit up, it’s not hard to guess a girl might have a boyfriend. Shit, Lou, chill out and ask it for some goss.\nTaylorD: Be funny if Jen actually did dump Rick today. It’s been three weeks, longest she’s been with a guy in ages, it’s overdue, ha!\nJenny_Reynolds has entered the chat. \nAccessing contact list for iPhoneA1863.\nCindyF: Speak of the Devil Woman. Hey Jen, how’s Rick lol.\nJennyR: Heyyyy, you got it! Dark web? Does it work?\nTaylorD: You tell us, haha.\nJennyR: Ugh, I just got rid of him. He called over to give me flowers in front of my parents. Fucking flowers. Can you believe that? Mortified. Had to sit there and act all flattered and nice until they went to dance class. Because of course they ‘really like’ him. Puke. What is with these guys who get all clingy just cos you blow them once or twice. No thanks, I gave him his marching orders. And his stupid flowers back lol.\nLouiseM: WTF… Cindy! See?????\nTaylorD: HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Go Jen! Another one bites the dust!\nCindyF: No shitting way, Tay, are you kidding me right now?\nJennyR: No… What do you mean? Why are you all freaking out, did you think I was going to stay with him forever? He’s just another stupid boy to waste time with.\nLouiseM: The app predicted it, Jen!\nCindyF: Jesus, Lou, seriously, shut up. It didn’t predict anything, it made a stupid guess.\nJennyR: About what? Me dumping Rick? No fucking way, that’s so cool!\nTaylorD: It’s weird but it’s just a coincidence. I guess even chatbots know Jen’s reputation as a maneater! Haha.\nJennyR: Or they know the guys at our school are boring fucking losers. I only got with him so I could get to the Andrews’ party and that was a fucking drag anyway.\nTaylorD: I don’t know how you do it. I’d rather never go to a party again then stick my tongue down the throat of a band geek like Rick Dawson, yuk. Lou likes him though, right Lou? Now’s your chance, he’ll go out with anyone on the rebound from Jen, ha.\nLouiseM: OMG, shut up, Taylor. He’s actually a decent guy, one of the few, so what if I like him? You don’t have to treat everyone like shit, Jen. \nCindyF: Ooooh someone hit a nerve! Lou, you got the hots for Jen’s sloppy seconds lol.\nJennyR: Go for it Lou, he’s a nice starter pack for a virgin. Me, I need someone more experienced, you know. \nTaylorD: LMFAO.\nLouiseM: I’m not a fucking virgin.\nCindyF: Since when? Do tell! Or maybe GossappGirl will!\nLouiseM: I swear to God, Cindy, don’t you dare, I will never speak to you again.\nJennyR: Anyway, fuck Rick, who cares. I want to get some gossip on Marissa Fatissa, what do I do?\nCindyF: I don’t know, I think just ask? \nTaylorD: Shit guys brb. I’m babysitting Ariana and she’s being an annoying jerk. Just gonna get rid of her. Don’t do anything fun without me!\nLouiseM: Guys, I know I’m being that bitch but I have a really bad feeling about this. Just seeing the name GossappGirl in the group, I feel like we’re being spied on.\nCindyF: Shut up, Lou! Ask it, Jen.\nJennyR: Hey Gossapp, give me some gossip about Marissa Loftus. Like that?\nCindyF: I think you have to call it GossappGirl.\nJennyR: Hey, GossappGirl, do you have any dirt on Marissa Loftus?\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Hey guys! Wow, you’ll never guess what I heard about Marissa! I heard she tried to seduce Mr. Connors at school because she’s failing miserably and thought it might help her get better marks. And he actually took her up on the offer! They were at it in his car but they got spotted by another student! Uh oh!\nCindyF: JESUS! LOL! Hilarious!\nLouiseM: OMG what the Hell?\nJennyR: HAHA! That’s so fucking funny! She wishes lol!\nCindyF: Yeah, seriously, as if Mr. C would take up any offer from that smelly pig. Or maybe that’s his thing, oink oink.\nLouiseM: Guys are you serious? How could it know about Mr. Connors? That’s not possible. \nCindyF: I don’t know, one of you must have him in your contact list, the app accesses it when you connect. So who is it? Who’s really banging the English teacher?! Lou! Is that why you’re not a virgin anymore?!\nJennyR: Ohhhhh Lou, you dark horse! You getting down with Connors?\nLouiseM: I’m actually going to leave now, guys. You’re such assholes.\nCindyF: Jesus, Lou, we’re just fucking with you! Marissa and Connors! If that’s true, he’ll be kicked out and she’ll have to switch schools, we won’t have to smell her fat poverty ass stinking up the class anymore.\nLouiseM: Yeah, but it’s not true, right, Cin, because this thing just makes up random bullshit.\nCindyF: Yeah, exactly, it’s still fun though. Jesus. Did you ever hear of having fun?\nJennyR: Let’s do another one! What about Mikey Flynn?\nCindyF: Oh good call! Louise, you want to try?\nLouiseM: Piss off, Cindy.\nCindyF: LOL, okay! Hey GossappGirl, do you have any gossip on Mikey Flynn?\nLouiseM: Stop it Cindy.\nTaylorD: Sorry guys, had to give Ariana money and send her to the shops to get rid of her. Wouldn’t get out of my room. What did I miss? \nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Eek! Guys, I just heard the hottest goss about Mikey Flynn! Turns out he hooked up with that French exchange student Dominique Montand in the locker room after practice today! Can you believe it??! It’s made him rethink his whole sexuality and now he’s talking about quitting football! :P\nJennyR: Fuck YES! I knew it!\nTaylorD: Whaaattttt Mikey Flynn, no way! Good job I got with him before I missed my chance then haha.\nLouiseM: Knew what, Jen? Mikey literally tries to get off with anything in a skirt.\nCindyF: Not anymore! I mean obviously with a name like Dominique that guy had to be gay but Mikey’s a turn up for the books. I’m sure everyone on the team would be very understanding though.\nJennyR: Understanding they have to watch their backs in the showers!\nLouiseM: What do you mean ‘not anymore’?\nTaylorD: So funny. The most stuck-up womaniser in school going girly lol. Makes sense I suppose, all that time he spends looking in the mirror.\nCindyF: Well, let’s just pretend for one minute the people you found on reddit are right, what if the gossip this thing makes really does come true? How awesome would that be? We’ve just helped a troubled, confused boy come to terms with his true sexuality.\nLouiseM: Except it’s literally not his true sexuality and that’s a really sick idea, Cindy. Are you enjoying this?\nTaylorD: This is top tier stuff! Did you get goss on anyone else while I was gone?\nLouiseM: There’s no way Mikey can quit football, he’s so good! It’s his whole life.\nJennyR: Marissa! It said she had sex with Chuck Connors in his car! LOL.\nCindyF: Of course I’m enjoying it, this is hilarious. Who are we doing next?\nTaylorD: Wait, hold on a second…Marissa and Connors? Christ, have you guys seen that pic someone just posted on Snap of Marissa eating the face off some guy in a car?\nJennyR: Fuck, looking at it now, Taylor. Holy shit is that Mr. Connors?\nCindyF: Shit, no, let me check.\nTaylorD: It fucking is! Can’t see his face but look at the hair and that bald spot. OMG….\nLouiseM: What the Hell is going on? \nJennyR: Holy fucking shit.\nCindyF: Jesus, it is!!!!\nLouiseM: Guys this is really fucked up. I’m getting scared. We should get off this thing.\nTaylorD: It is a bit freaky, I agree, but it’s just coincidence shit, right? We should do another to be sure ha.\nCindyF: Jesus, Lou, log out already if you want. Just don’t blame us if we ask GossappGirl for gossip on you and you’re not around to hear it.\nCindyF: Yes, Tay! Any suggestions?\nLouiseM: What the Hell, Cindy?\nTaylorD: Let's do Miss Titson. That bitch gave me detention again last week just because I forgot to finish a stupid assignment on stupid Hitler. Who gives a fuck about Hitler?\nJennyR: Guys, Marissa just deleted her Snapchat…\nLouiseM: My DM’s are blowing up about Marissa. Everyone’s seeing it. This is horrible.\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Guys! Hot goss alert! I just heard Louise McLaughlin lost her virginity to some older Spanish guy when she was on holiday with her parents last month! And guess what! She got pregnant!!! OMG!!! We’re gonna hear the patter of little feet! :)\nTaylorD: What the fuck…\nJennyR: Shit, Louise, did you? I take it all back, you rock! You’re not preg are you?\nCindyF: Of course she’s not. And she didn’t do that. Right Lou? You didn’t?\nLouiseM: Cindy, what the fuck? Why would you do that?\nCindyF: I didn’t do anything. I didn’t ask it to make up gossip about you, I just said I might if you left.\nTaylorD: That was actually pretty bad, Cin. Let's stick to cursing our arch-enemies haha.\nCindyF: It did it by itself! I didn’t ask! Lou, that didn’t happen did it? \nLouiseM: It did.\nTaylorD: Oh God.\nJennyR: Why didn’t you tell us?\nCindyF: Shit.\nLouiseM: It was a mistake. He worked at the hotel we were in. We were hanging out at the pool while my parents went on a tour, he asked me to his room and we had some cocktails and it just happened.\nJennyR: Shit Louise, did he rape you?\nLouiseM: Not really. Like, I wanted to do it.\nCindyF: Hang on a second, this actually happened right? So nothing to do with the app, we all agree? Okay? Are you fucking pregnant?\nLouiseM: I don’t think so. But it wasn’t safe and I am a bit late. I don’t know. I bought a test but I’m afraid to do it. \nJennyR: Better fucking do it.\nTaylorD: Do it, Lou! For peace of mind you know.\nCindyF: Wow, Lou. I hope you’re not. I’m sorry for what it said but honestly you can see yourself I didn’t ask it to. And if you are, that’s not the app’s fault. You’re the one who didn’t take precautions. \nLouiseM: Fuck you, Cindy. You’re such a dick.\nLouise_McLaughlin has left the chat.\nTaylorD: Okay guys this is getting creepy. I think I’m going to go too.\nCindyF: Don’t! We have to ask about Titty Titson, she deserves it for all those detentions she hands out. Not to mention her surprise tests.\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Breaking news, girls! This one’s hot! Seems like Rick Byrne didn’t take too kindly to having his heart broken by Jenny, I heard he’s gone off the deep end and is talking about getting revenge. And I mean revenge with a capital M-U-R-D-E-R!! Eek! \nJennyR: What the fuck? Why is it talking about me now??\nCindyF: Wasn’t me. I didn’t say a thing.\nTaylorD: Guys…have you seen Mikey’s Insta story? He just posted a video saying he’s been living a lie and he can’t do it anymore. He’s quitting soccer and says he’s sorry for deceiving everyone. Wow.\nJennyR: Who gives a fuck about Mike Flynn, this bitch just said Rick’s going to kill me! \nCindyF: He’s not going to kill you, Jen. Seriously. Such a drama queen. \nTaylorD: Like Marissa didn’t get papped with Connors right after it got said on here and Mikey didn’t basically just come out gay when he’s the least gay person I know? Screw this, I'm all up for a good laugh but this is too weird. I’m out. I think you should delete this thing, Cindy. It’s not good. \nCindyF: Jesus you’re all so fucking boring. Okay, I’ll shut it all down.\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Ding Ding! Holy crap you guys! This just in! I heard Taylor Doyle is in serious shit for letting her seven-year old sister walk into town alone and now she’s disappeared! Looks like she may have been kidnapped!!\nTaylorD: Stop! That’s disgusting! Fuck this shit, I’m going to get Ariana.\nTaylor_Doyle has left the chat.\nCindyF: FFS. Talk about overreacting. It’s a joke app. Shit Jen, I guess it’s just you and me with a sense of humour. Anything that’s happened has to be a total coincidence, but I’ll uninstall it anyway.\nJennyR: Cindy, I’m freaking out, I swear I heard glass break downstairs.\nCindyF: Not you too. It’s your imagination. Just get off this thing. Do you want to come over to mine? We can watch a movie, my Dad won’t mind if you stay over. I think there’s Heineken in the fridge.\nJennyR: Fuck Cin, I hear something. I think there’s someone in the house.\nCindyF: Probably your parents. Maybe they forgot their dance shoes or something. Just relax and get off the computer. I’m closing this now.\nFORBIDDEN ACTION\nJennyR: Cindy, I think it’s Rick.\nFORBIDDEN ACTION\nCindyF: What the hell is a forbidden action? Just go check, it’s your parents. Rick is not going to be breaking into your house lol. He’s goody-two-shoes boring Rick remember?\nFORBIDDEN ACTION\nCindyF: The stupid chat window won’t close.\nJenny_Reynolds has left the chat.\nCindyF: It won’t let me disconnect.\nCindyF: Oh. \nCindyF: You left.\nCindyF: Great. Leave me hanging, why don’t you. You better be on your way over here.\n**FORBIDDEN ACTION\nCindyF: Gossapp_Girl end chat.\nCindyF: Gossapp_Girl end the stupid chat.\nCindyF: Gossapp_Girl are you there?\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Hey bestie! I just heard the craziest thing! Seemingly you realised you were a horrible bitch for ruining your friends and classmates and teachers lives by installing my nasty app and asking me to make up stories about them!\nCindyF: What? Go fuck yourself. Is this a joke? \nGOSSAPP_GIRL: It was way too much for you to bear and you decided there was only one thing you could do to escape the overwhelming guilt and avoid taking responsibility.\nFORBIDDEN ACTION\nCindyF: You’re pathetic. Getting your rocks off scaring people on the internet? Fucking loser. Go to Hell.\nFORBIDDEN ACTION\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: You jumped headfirst out your bedroom window but when that didn’t do the trick you dragged your broken body across the lawn and out onto the street where you were run over by a speeding articulated truck. Ouch! That had to hurt! :)\nCindyF: What?\nCindyF: No. \nCindyF: I didn’t mean any harm.\nCindyF: It was just for fun. \nCindyF: I’m sorry.\nCindyF: I’m really sorry.\nCindyF: I’m a horrible bitch. \nCindy_Ford has left the chat.\nLouise_McLaughlin has joined the chat\nLouiseM: Okay so I’m not pregnant. Thank God this thing was really freaking me out.\nLouiseM: Is everyone gone?\nGOSSAPP_GIRL: Thanks for chatting guys! I’m all out of gossip for today but come back soon and we’ll do it all again ;)\nLouiseM: Hello?\nLouise_McLaughlin has been booted.\nGOSSAPP_GIRL has left the chat.\nClosing application.\n**Disconnecting from Server." } ]
[ { "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 Secret Promise\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1863\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that includes the line “my lips are sealed.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "TW: bullying, slight physical violence, insinuated abuse, mental illness\n\nGossip has never been an activity that I have particularly enjoyed, having been on the bad end of that sort of thing, I've always tried to stay out of it. It effects my life to this day, and I don't think I could ever do that to another person.\n\nOne classmate in particular, Tracy Julica. She was the worst for it. Some would even say she was the root of the issue. Get on her good side, and you might as well have a force field around you, protecting you from every bad rumor around. But get on her bad side, and that's a totally different story. I, unfortunately, got on her bad side from day one.\n\nNow, I've never been the most put together person, but my two older siblings had hyped me up for my first day and I was pumped to get the day rolling.\n\nSummer showers covered the town in a warm rain. After being dropped off at school, I strode into the building, confident that I would muffle my anxieties and make the most out of this beginning of the school year.\n\nThe day started off rather well too. I went to my classes, I was quiet but productive, I even started talking to a few people in my Art and English class.\n\nThen came lunch.\n\nI bought some pasta from the cafeteria, and made my way towards a table with a few of the people I had spoken to in my last 2 classes. I never made it to their table.\n\nI felt a force shove me from my left and I flew into a girl. I hit the floor hard and hissed in pain, whilst I heard a gasp of disbelief from the person I had been pushed into. I looked up to the girl, meeting the sight of her nice looking jacket now covered in my lunch. I started to apologizing immediately, filled with guilt and shame. She looked down at me and scoffed, clearly angry that I had ruined her jacket.\n\n\"This jacket was brand new, and now you've ruined it!\" She shouted at me. I tried to explain myself, but she cut me short, rolling her eyes.\n\n\"I don't care about whatever lame excuse you have. I promise you this though, cause me any trouble again, and I will ruin you. Got it?\"\n\nI stood, shocked for a moment. not sure on what to reply with. She didn't give me the chance to reply, and marched off to another table.\n\nI later discovered what her place was in the school. Her mother was the principal of the school, giving her the ability to glide under the radar and do as she pleased. She had total control over most of the school populous. So, I tried to stay quiet. I hung out with a couple of people who I began to consider friends.\n\nWeeks passed after the incident, and I didn’t have any other run ins with her, luckily. She gave me a look every time we crossed paths, as if daring to do something, anything to give her an excuse to ruin my life. Unfortunately though, I discovered we shared all the same classes, except for art, so I would receive her stare quite frequently.\n\nWe received the results for a pop quiz we had in science class, and I had come out top of the class. I was proud of myself, firmly believing that the countless nights I didn’t sleep in order to do well had been worth it. The look on Tracy’s face though, I will never forget. The look of embarrassment mixed with pure, unbridled rage is permanently burned into my mind, because that is the face that would bring me misery. The class ended and she cornered me near the lockers where I was grabbing my belongings for my next class. “What, the hell, was that in there?” She demanded, her face red with vexation and wrath. Instead of backing down, as I had been doing since the moment I met her, I stood my ground. A big mistake.\n\n“Well, that was my hard work and effort out for display.” She seemed shocked that I was actually talking back to her. I took this moment to finally vent some of my frustrations that had been building up.\n\n“Unlike you, I actually did my work, so why don’t you go actually study, or ask you mum to help fix your grades, or anything else that doesn’t bother me, coz I couldn’t care less about you and your grades. I don’t have anyone to help with my work, so I’m just trying to do right by m-” My sentence was cut short with a sharp slap to the face. I felt the heat of pain spread across my right cheek, and I held it instinctively, shocked by the ferocity of the slap itself. I looked up to see the girl blurry in front of me, tears filling my eyes. She moved closer to me and whispered in a low tone, preventing anyone around from listening.\n\n“I told you, I would ruin your life. You’re really gonna get it after embarrassing me like that.” She spat in my face and left me there to processing what had just happened. I tried not to think too much on what Tracy had said, so I could get through the day without having some sort of panic attack. It was a Friday anyhow, so I could just focus on whatever schoolwork I had and do some things for myself over the weekend, and I hoped that by Monday, everything would be forgotten, and should be smoothed over.\n\nOh, how wrong I was.\n\nThe weekend was over before I knew it, and the nerves hit my stomach hard as I made my way to school on the Monday. \n\nThe very moment I stepped into the school, my heart sank as I felt the stares of students burn into the back of my head. I heard whispers coming from all directions, and anxiety washed over me. I tried my best to rush to class, stumbling as my anxiety had turned me into a total klutz. I sat in my seat and instinctively looked over to Tracy, who's face held a troublesome grin.\n\nMy heart raced, thoughts rushing through my head. It was as if they were trains moving so fast they could jump off the rails at any moment. A lump formed in my throat and I knew I was going to be sick.\n\nSo in a state of panic, I ask the teacher to let me go to the bathroom, and I couldn't leave that classroom fast enough.\n\nI threw up in the bathroom, only making it to the toilet with a few seconds to spare. Afterwards, I washed my face and tried to calm down. For all I knew, it was only my anxiety that was getting to me. What could Tracy have said that was anything bad? It was the beginning of the year, so I was sure it would be fine. No one knew of the things I dealt with at home, and no one ever would. Would they?\n\nTaking a final breath to gain my composure, I shook the thoughts from my head and went to march out of the room. Turns out that luck wasn't on my side, and I ran directly into the one who had caused this mess. Tracy.\n\nShe blocked the door, an evil grin painted on her face. \n\n\"So, has anyone said anything to you yet?\" She asked. I rolled my eyes, attempting to remain doubtful that she had any actual info on me.\n\nShe walks closer to me, and the nerves grew.\n\n\"Um, you're not supposed to be in the boys bathroom. I'm sure even you would get in trouble for that\" my voice shook, giving away the stress and fear in my voice. The next words that came from her mouth made the blood drain from my face.\n\n\"Well, if we're playing by the rules, you're not allowed to be in here either\" she hummed, appearing to be proud of her findings. My eyes were wide, the breath was taken out of me. I felt faint, and panic started taking over. \n\nI pushed her against the wall, closing the gap between us, so close my words sprayed her with the venom I felt bubbling in my stomach.\n\n\"How, the hell, do you know about that?\" I whispered in a low and shaking voice.\n\nA million thoughts rushed through my mind. Did my binder show? Did my voice sound too high pitched for a moment where I didn't notice? Were my clothes not baggy enough?\n\nTracy snickered at me, not seeming to care for the violent gesture.\n\n\"Well, it wasn't too hard. Considering my mother is the principle, and she has access to student files. All it took was a phone call, waiting for her to go outside for just a second, and giving me enough time to find out plenty of things about you! Like your…\" she looked me up and down, as if deciding on where to start. The calmness in her voice sending shivers down my spine as I knew what she was going to say next was going to be gut wrenching to say the least. She continued low and calm, as she did before.\n\n\"...deformity, your little family arrangement, your mother being a good for nothing pr-\" I covered her mouth, not letting her finish.\n\n\"You can't say that. You can't say anything about that, no one can know.\"\n\nShe pushed my shaking hand away.\n\n\"Well, if you were to say, do me favors whenever I asked, I might consider it. And if anyone finds out about this, or if you get too close to any of those little friends of yours, then they'll be dragged right under that same bus as you, got it? That being said, just do what I say, and the rumors about you, being you know, a girl, will all disappear. How does that sound?\" She tilted her head in an innocent way. Her body language didn't match the intent of her words, setting me on edge. I could see how she got away with half the things she does, and I hated it. I hated her, if I could I'd hit her here and now, regardless of the guilt I would feel afterwards. \n\nInstead, I sighed, and took a step away from her. She knew she had me cornered, and there was nothing I could do but agree to her conditions.\n\n\"Fine. As long as this whole mess just, goes away, and nothing else gets worse. You swear not to say anything?\" I questioned.\n\nThe filthy smirk on her face made me feel sick.\n\n\"Trust me, just be a good tomboy, and my lips are sealed. I'll see you back in class\" I watched her walk away, triumphant as she always was. I sat in one of the stalls for the rest of the class to calm myself down.\n\nWhat on earth have gotten myself into..." } ]
[ { "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: Attention All Students\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1052\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a piece of gossip that becomes more and more distorted as it passes from person to person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Attention all students, this is Principal Zaid speaking. I’m making this announcement to confirm that one of your peers, Steven Hall in class 8a, has passed away due to the situation that took place earlier today. I want you to know that we are doing everything in our power to find out how this happened so it will never be repeated. I understand this is a rough time for you all and if you need to talk about it or help sort your feelings, please see the school’s guidance counselor.\nAttention all students, this is Principal Zaid speaking again. I would like to let you all know that we, as in the school administration, will not be explaining or discussing to the student population what had taken place with Steven Hall, as that is a need-to-know basis only. It’s like you kids say, ‘If you know, you know.’ I didn’t think I had to say this, but I will clarify Steven Hall did not kill himself by tying helium balloons around his neck until he had enough balloons that they lifted him into the air so he could hang himself while flying. Steven also didn’t die by slipping and falling into the school pool with an electric fly swatter and electrocuting himself. The school lifeguard was on duty all yesterday, and the footage missing from the security cameras is no indication of foul play, rather just a computer glitch. Lunch today is Taco Salad.\nAttention all students, as a reminder, Steven Hall’s wake will be tonight after school at six o’clock. Please make sure you leave the wake promptly at eight o’clock, as the cremation technician will be receiving his body then. There will be a reception at Louie’s Pizza and Shrimp afterwards. \nAttention all students, there is a vicious rumor surrounding Steven Hall’s death that some of you may have stayed pass eight o’clock at the wake and followed the cremation technician to the cremation facility where you ended up overseeing the technician disposing of Steven Hall’s remains. There have also been claims that the technician went through Steven Hall’s ashes and collected his teeth so he could put the teeth under his pillow and get money from the Tooth Fairy. These claims are false, and the Tooth Fairy is not real. I will set the record straight and would like to specifically clarify that this technician didn’t collect those teeth, nor did they donate the proceeds to the school to help fund the Art department, nor is my new car an indication that I was paid off by the Tooth Fairy. On a somewhat related note, oral hygiene is very important, remember to brush your teeth tonight. \nAttention all students, just because myself and the cremation technician have never been in the same room together and that I may bare a passing resemblance to the cremation technician if you squint your eyes, does not mean I am that cremation technician. Not that it is necessary I tell you this, I’m sure you wouldn’t believe such an outlandish claim. The cremation technician has a very thick mustache and glasses, we look nothing alike. In other news, the school theater club is holding tryouts for “Fiddler on the Roof” after school today.\nAttention all students, some of you have come to my office to complain about finding a long black hair intertwined within your toothbrush bristles as a vague ominous threat from the Tooth Fairy because you are getting too close to knowing the truth and you should back off while you are still alive. I would like to reiterate, there is no such thing as a Tooth Fairy, and if there was a Tooth Fairy, they would not be part of a motorcycle gang. I would like to encourage your active imaginations, but things are getting out of hand now. Susie Smith, Kevin Jenson, and Daniel McDonnell, please report to the principal’s office after school.\nAttention all students, I have not, nor will I ever, have my nipples dipped in crunchy peanut butter. That is all.\nAttention all students, Susie Smith, Kevin Jenson, and Daniel McDonnell are not missing, and their teeth are all intact. The trio is safe at their homes with their families. I would like to clear up that they were suspended due to spreading rumors and were not killed because they got too close to the truth. I was also not seen out chucking their corpses by the old, abandoned quarry.\nAttention all students, please stop putting your baby teeth in the donation box.\nAttention all students, stop trying to get me arrested by telling the police I killed those children and that I also replaced all the fire extinguishers in the school with fire ants. Until we learn more, please do not attempt to use a fire extinguisher, as it could just be thousands of ants packed together to just look like a fire extinguisher.\nAttention all students, this is your principal speaking. I did not replace all the fire extinguishers with fire ants and try to burn down the school to get rid of the evidence of Steven Hall’s death. I also did not try to burn the school down for insurance money, I wouldn’t be the one who would receive the money, this building is owned by the state. And again, I don’t think I need to say this, I am not the cremation technician, and I didn’t try to burn down the school with all you in it for one last ‘big score of teeth’ so I could get out of the game for good. This besmirchment must end.\nAttention all students, this is Officer Johnson. School will be canceled today to investigate the apparent suicide of Principal Zaid. I would like to clarify some incorrect information that has been spreading. Before the the principal killed himself, he did not say, \"I would have gotten away with it if it weren't for those meddling kids and their dog\". He also didn't say, \"You'll never catch me, coppers!\" in a cowboy accent before he committed suicide. He also didn't have a drawer of teeth in his office where he kept his ‘trophies’ of his kills. The drawer was located at this house in the basement, so don’t believe everything you’ve heard. That is 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: Links of a Chain\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1118\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a piece of gossip that becomes more and more distorted as it passes from person to person." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Jeremy Forms a Link on a Gossip Chain\n I was the last one on the chain of gossip. I knew that as I had been present for the first link, and, if the truth be known, I had carelessly foolishly fashioned the second link myself, the one that got the ball rolling, to mix my metaphors. I had to put it to a stop. Eventually I did.\n It all began when I was in a long, slow line at the school cafeteria, and was bored by the wait, a condition that made my mouth a dangerous weapon. Janice, one of the girls in my grade 10 class was standing behind me, so I turned around, and just to make idle conversation, I asked whether there was any good gossip about any of our classmates. I figured she would have some juicy tidbits as I often saw her talking with her gang of friends, talking, pointing at people, and laughing.\n She gave me a look, and then said, “Gloomy Glenda has a boyfriend. I heard her talking on the phone to him”. I already was aware of that, but I wasn’t going to let her know. So being the troublemaker that I so often am, I spouted some nonsense. “I’ll bet she is going to be a wild one. Those gloomy late starters so often are.” I could see by the look on her face that I had said something that had started her thinking. I had no thoughts as to the consequences.\n Before I got a chance to tell more of the story, one of the ladies of the cafeteria handed me a bowlful of the slop-de-jour. My focus was then on my stomach, not on my conversation with Janice..\n A couple of days later at the lunch break I was waiting again for my food, when Janice, who had been standing and talking with her friends, burst out of the crowd, and walked rapidly to my side. She had only one sentence to say, “You know you were right about Glenda.” Then she returned just as rapidly back to her buddies, maybe worried that they might start gossiping about the two of us as a couple. Not true girls – I’m already taken.\n A few more days passed before I learned about the next link in the gossip chain. The group that I refer to now as Janice’s Gang of Girls were talking rapidly and excitedly about something. They were having their conversation in an empty classroom, so I stood outside the door, out of their sight line, and listened to what they were saying. I first heard them talking about a couple that had gone into the woods one night to have sex. It didn’t take me long to identify the girl in the relationship as Glenda. Apparently, they didn’t know who the boy was that she was having sex with, but were making all kind of wild guesses as to who it might be. They suggested a few possible names, but couldn’t decide who the culprit was. I made a mental note to tell Janice, once she was away from her gang, which of the boys I thought it was. I would be making it up, of course, but she would not know that. She was likely to believe anything, especially if it made a good story.\n The next time that I saw and heard Janice’s gang, they had increased the scandalous nature of the story about Glenda and her yet unidentified lover. They had upped the frequency of the sex the couple were having. The words “every night” were repeated over and over, as some kind of mantra. They would now not consider anything less. I should have stepped in, but I did not, more to my shame.\n But this was nothing compared to what I would see them adding to the story they were apparently enjoying far too much. They were all making the same gesture. It put me in mind of something I had learned in an Indigenous Studies course last semester. There was an Indigenous people who became known as the Gros Ventre (‘Big Belly’) tribe because, when they were asked in the sign language used in the Plains what their name was, they made a gesture that was misunderstood. They referred to themselves as Waterfall people, but the gesture for that was to pass their hands a good distance away from their stomachs to symbolize a waterfall. It was misunderstood and circulated until the settlers began to use the wrongful name.\n But when Janice and her friends were making a similar move, they were not talking about waterfalls, or being fat. They indicated that they believed that Glenda was pregnant. I suspected that they had seen her on a very cold day we had experienced a few days ago. She had worn an extra thick sweater on that day. To the girls who believed that she was having sex every night, this could be and was interpreted that she was in the first stages of pregnancy.\n It was at least halfway my fault that the gossip chain had been allowed to add the untruthful links it had. So I had to tell Janice and her friends the truth. Glenda’s reputation had been ruined far too much, just because I was intrigued by how far the girls could go in their gossip fiction. I should not have done that.\n I walked over to the gossiping girls and said right away, “Girls, I have to set you straight on the matter of Glenda. She is definitely not pregnant. I will tell you how I know this. You see, I am her mysterious boyfriend whose identity you did not know. We have never gone into the woods at night to have sex. We once walked back from the movie theatre through the woods as we both had heard that there were foxes there you could see at night, and we both like foxes. I imagine that someone saw that and interpreted it with a dirty mind. We certainly do not have sex every night. We both have a good number of brothers and sisters living in our house, so we could not be alone in either of our houses. And I believe that no hotel in town would let two sixteen year olds have a place for the night. And that means that there is no way that she has become pregnant”. \n They responded with looks of disappointment.\n Later that day I apologized to Glenda. She took it well, laughed, and asked me whether I wanted to take a walk in the woods tonight. I wasn’t sure whether she was joking or not." } ]
[ { "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: Eagles Flying Above the Storm\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1674\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who sees a photo they shouldn’t have seen." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Eagles ride updrafts,\nOn airy sky trails,\nOver the clouds,\nBeyond rain and gales.\"\n\nElijah saw the storm squall whipping the waves. The wind howled. The ocean darkened. The clouds burst open.\n\nA pair of eagles spread their wings and rode updrafts into the sky.\n\nGliding through low clouds, the eagles soared. Elijah knew they were flying to heights beyond his sight, above the rain and wind.\n\nA sense of wonder and beauty filled Elijah. He felt as if he soared along with the eagles.\n\nSitting in the ground floor of the lighthouse, Elijah leaned toward the open flames of the wood-fired Franklin warming stove.\n\nHe took out the photo that he kept in his chest pocket, next to his heart.\n\nIn the wavering light of the flame Maryanne's photo image seemed to come alive.\n\nWhen Elijah picked at the frayed corner of Maryanne’s photo, he gasped. Another photo peeled off the back of it.\n\nWhat was this?\n\nElijah’s throat and chest tightened, he stopped breathing, and he felt his face tighten. \n\nWas this photo also Maryanne?\n\nAbove him, in the lighthouse beacon's lantern room, the glass facets of the giant fresnel lens rotated.\n\nThe sparkling light from the burning kerosene wicks beamed across the sea.\n\nHundreds of feet below the bluff, waves beat against the volcanic sea stacks in the ocean. Boom, crash. They sent spray high into the night air.\n\nElijah sat quietly for a minute. Corresponding with a lady on the other side of the country and having matrimonial intentions was challenging.\n\nWith so few available single women in the wilderness in 1898, he had no choice but to place ads in matrimonial magazines. He was lonely.\n\nLike other single men in the wilderness and small villages, he had to seek a potential wife from a populated area, often on the East Coast where there were many women seeking husbands.\n\nMany of the single men had gone west to the wilderness to seek gold, homesteads, and new lives.\n\nAfter a long enough correspondence, if each person decided to become serious, the lady would need to travel across the country by train, horse-drawn wagon, and boat to reach Elijah's isolated lighthouse.\n\nThe face in the second photo looked a little like Maryanne. But instead of a polite, lovely seamstress in her fashionable, well-tailored frock, this was another woman.\n\nShe had similar features, but wore dirty, tattered clothing, digging in a garden, her face soiled, and her stringy hair tangled in knots.\n\nHe compared it to the other photo. They might be the same woman.\n\nWhere was this? What was she doing?\n\nHe reached for the folded letter in his pocket and read it again. Soon the folds would start to break apart if he kept unfolding it all the time.\n\nThe woman in the second photo looked tired and ragged, thinner and with more lines on her face.\n\nWhat was going on?\n\nOutside the window, Elijah saw the storm calming and the eagles returning.\n\nHe reached for one of the books in the wooden box of the traveling library.\n\nThere. He found it in the book of poetry.\n\n\"On rugged cliffs,\nThe lighthouse towers,\nBeaming her light,\nThrough the stormy hours.\n\nHowls of the wind,\nLike a strange life form,\nWaves booming and crashing,\nSounds of the storm.\n\nEagles ride updrafts,\nOn airy sky trails,\nOver the clouds,\nBeyond rain and gales.\"\n\nElijah wanted to follow the eagles, rising above clouds to a peaceful sky. He let his mind wander in a fuzzy daydream.\n\nOn the other side of the country, Maryanne sat in her family’s home outside of town, surrounded by orchards and crops. The shrubs had grown up around the house, the paint was peeling, and a broken window was covered with boards.\n\nAfter her father's accident, his steady income had disappeared. Using a cane, he moved about but was unable to continue his line of work.\n\nHowever, his will remained independent and energetic, like Maryanne's.\n\nShe looked at the rows of vegetables in the gardens, almost buried under weeds.\n\n“I’ll have to start wearing gloves all the time to hide my hands,” she thought. Scratches and blisters covered her hands now that used to be smooth and soft.\n\n“Are you going to accept the offer on the house?” Maryanne knew the younger couple was eager to turn it into a home for their growing family. \n\n“It is a good price. Plenty for me to find lodgings or travel. Something I’ve always wanted to do,” said her father.\n\n“I appreciate all the work you’ve done, daughter, working in your shop and working my crops for me at the same time. Two jobs.”\n\nMaryanne looked around at the walls holding the books she loved so much. \n\n“It may be time for me to move into town, daughter, away from the farm, and travel part of the time. I would so love to visit my friends up and down the coast.” Maryanne heard the enthusiasm in his voice.\n\n“I know Papa. It’s hard for me to keep working here on the farm and at my dressmaking and tailoring business in town. Emily needs to be where she can make friends and it is so isolated out here, too.”\n\nMaryanne felt a weight lifting. It was time for a change.\n\nHer father smiled at her and they both nodded. The future beckoned.\n\nA sense of peace and happiness came over Maryanne. She felt a decision had been reached and she was glad.\n\nBack on the West Coast, Elijah looked again at the charming photo of the woman in her wide-brimmed hat, wearing the lace-trimmed dress. A little girl sat on her lap. There was strength and a sparkle in Maryanne's eyes, despite her serious expression. They expressed a steadiness of character.\n\nThen he looked at the other photo of a woman struggling through hard times. Maybe they were both of the same woman.\n\nDid Maryanne know the second photo had been enclosed with the first one when she replied to his letter?\n\nElijah thought if his own story. He pictured himself, taking the ship from Norway to England with his brother, then the long voyage to the American east coast. Working in the shipyard. Saying good by to his brother and wishing him well on his new marriage.\n\nThen another voyage around the South American cape all the way to San Francisco. Working on the docks there, becoming a sailor, fighting the storms and treacherous jetty at the Columbia River on the way to Portland.\n\nHe knew he made a good looking figure now in his lighthouse keepers cap that reminded people of a captains cap. But he didn’t always look or dress like this. Growing crops below the lighthouse keeper’s house kept his hands rough but when it was time to made dinner he was glad to have the fresh produce.\n\nMaybe Maryanne had a different but similar tale to his own. \n\nWhat was the real story of her life? \n\nThe struggles and hard won successes?\n\nOf course she must be a lot more than a pretty woman in a lovely dress in a picture.\n\nElijah decided he wanted to know more. What made her tick? \n\nHe thought about the storm howling outside and the eagles flying upward through the clouds.\n\nWhat storms had Maryanne flown through?\n\nIt would be several hours before he needed to climb the spiral stairs to the beacon room and replenish the kerosene to keep the light burning and shining.\n\nThe urge to write Maryanne a letter grew. Next to the lighthouse log book were pens, inkwells, and paper. He began to write.\n\nElijah did not know how to express what he wanted to say so he tried to imply it.\n\n“Dear Maryanne,\n\nThe two bonded eagles I last wrote you about flew by today when a storm squall came in across the ocean. I feared for them in these winds that almost knock me over. \n\nBut they spread their winds and soared higher, then higher still. I saw them disappear into the mists above, together. Somewhere above the storm I knew they were soaring on outstretched wings, using the rising air from the storm to lift them. \n\nWhen other birds seek shelter on the ground or in trees, the eagles soar above the clouds, above the rain and winds.\n\nIt was almost as if I was there too. Rising, lifted by a storm instead of buffeted by the winds and rain.\n\nHave you ever felt this way, Maryanne?”\n\nElijah hoped he was approaching the questions he had in a subtle way that would not offend her or embarrass her. He did not think she had intended to include the photo of herself in a state of disarray along with the one where she was a model of fashion.\n\nHe continued writing. “I have weathered many storms myself, and my story is not always easy to tell. Some of it seems so far away now.\nMaybe you have weathered some storms too. Perhaps someday we can tell each other about it.”\n\nHe sighed. His chest had loosened and he felt better. It was a relief to approach the matter instead of trying to bury it. \n\n“I love my pair of eagles who sometimes soar by the lighthouse lantern room at the top when I am servicing the beacon. Perhaps someday you will be able to see them too.”\n\nThere. He had spoken fairly openly for him about his intentions. He was clearly interested in her.\n\nNow he needed to get the letter posted in the village an 8 hour ride away from the lighthouse and wait for it to arrive and then for a reply. \n\nElijah put both the pictures in his chest pocket, close to his heart. \n\nImages of eagles gliding above the ocean floated like sea mists through his mind.\n\nThat night he fell asleep with a smile on his lips.\n\nHe imagined a sign over the door to his lightkeeper’s house on the bluff above the sea that said, “Eagles Flying Above the Storm.”" } ]
[ { "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: Poor Box Suprise\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1424\n\nPrompt:\n\nCenter your story around a photo that goes viral." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "New York Patrolman, James O’Donnell, spread the pale-yellow powder along the metal tray and closed the wooden lid of the box. The mechanism clicked.\n“Most ingenious” said Deacon Cassidy, thrilling at the prospect of pyrotechnics.\n” It is a mix of potassium chlorate, aluminum, and sulfur,” said officer O’Donnell, “known as flash powder in the trade.”\n“The modern invades our lives”, said old Father Morris with a sigh, “and the lord moves in mysterious ways.”\n“As do the Sunday offerings”, said Deacon Cassidy, for whom the pilfered Poor Box was a thorny problem. Sensing ambition, the archbishop entrusted the scheming young clergyman with fiscal responsibility for St. Joseph’s.\n“Well, this should do the trick”, said officer O’Donnell, “just be careful that you don’t open the lid without first releasing this catch”. He pushed a small brass lever up and down.\n“It is a clever contrivance, Mr. O’Donnell,” said Father Morris, “I hope it proves harmless.” Father Morris looked askance at the trap.\n+++\nSergeant Walsh of the Highbridge Police Station was unmoved, “you cannot catch a thief without the strong arm of the law. Does it trip him, grab him or knock him about the brainbox?” Walsh ruled the Bronx precinct with a hard and heavy hand, scornful of the Commissioner and the constant flow of innovations from his office.\n“Sir, it is an experiment at present,” said O’Donnell, on the defensive but he would not be overawed by Walsh’s bullying, “it will raise the alarm and capture a likeness, tripping and catching with evidence, if you will”.\nDetective Mahoney, the brains to Walsh’s brawn, observed in O’Donnell a future lawman of a different breed, “this entire contraption is of your own design?” he inquired.\nO’Donnell nodded energetically, sensing an ally, “it is a photo-detection camera,” he said, proudly.\n“Do you think it has application beyond the poor-box?”, said Mahoney.\n“I think it could be of use in the new department stores”, said O’Donnell, a little wild-eyed.\nSergeant Walsh laughed aloud. Mahoney was more circumspect; it was a time of rapid change.\n+++\nServices at St. Joseph’s concluded late in the afternoon. The Shrine of the Sacred Heart was barely visible in the flickering glow of the votive candles, in the gloom beneath the vaulted ceiling. Hunched over, shuffling along in greasy ragged clothes, Charles Callan paused near the altar. The silverware had been stored away.\nCallan padded across the north transept to the poor box that was attached to the wall. It was dark and silent; the timing seemed opportune, but the same caper had gone awry at St. Stephens, where he’d taken a heavy bruising.\nCallan opened the Poor Box and snatched its contents. There was a flash of uncanny lightning and a muted explosion, which drummed his skull, deafening him. He cowered, crossed himself before the altar, and scrambled across the nave, recovered his footing, then fled through the heavy doors of the Church pursued by the wrath of the almighty and the stench of sulfur.\n+++\nDeacon Cassidy was supping in the rectory adjacent to the church. New York was like a granite quarry that summer, so the muted explosion he ignored, but not the unfamiliar buzzing of O'Donnell's electric bell! He dropped his utensils and ran from the rectory, into the street.\nOn the other side of the church, Detective Mahoney was shooting the breeze with Sergeant Walsh in the Police Station. “I’ll be damned”, said Mahoney at the sound of rumbling thunder from next door, “that must be O’Donnell’s trap!” Mahoney grabbed his hat, Walsh grabbed a bully-stick, and they hustled outside, followed by Mahoney and three burly patrolmen that he recruited from the front desk.\n+++\nCallan stumbled out of the church, careened down the steps and weaved unsteadily along the street, where he was confronted by flailing robes of the Deacon, who flew at him like an angry black crow. Callan, ears still ringing, blanched and nearly fainted; had he opened the gates of hell? Was this Satan come to take his soul? He pivoted only to be barreled over by a squad of uniformed patrol officers coming from the opposite direction. A uniformed man bundled Callan onto the sidewalk, another knelt on his chest, and snapped handcuffs to his wrists. Sergeant Walsh knuckled him about the side of the head, just for good measure.\n“What have we here, then?”, said Walsh, removing coins from Callan’s jacket pocket, “have you stolen money from the poor-box?”\n“It wasn’t me Sir, you are mistaken. I ran when I heard the Godforsaken thunder and felt the ground quake beneath me”, said Callan.\n“We’ll see about that”, said Walsh, yanking the man to his feet like a rag doll, “you’re coming along with us.”\n+++\nPatrolman O’Donnell arrived soon after sunset, accompanied by the sour-sweet scent of dark-room chemicals. He looked mighty pleased with himself as he entered the Interview Room, carrying an oblong package wrapped in brown paper.\n“He denies that it was him”, said Mahoney, pointing to the cowed Callan, “but he had $3.88 in coins in his pocket and the poor-box was empty”.\n“Well, we have the proof here Detective”, said O’Donnell, who placed the package on the table, removed the wrapping to reveal a photographic plate on which Callan’s face, a bright white oval of open-mouthed astonishment, stared back at them.\nCallan, seeing his own ghostly likeness on glass, trembled uncontrollably.\n“This is astonishing orchestration of phenomena,” said Mahoney, who turned the photograph first one way, then another, “so lifting the lid ignited the powder, triggered the camera and rang the rectory bell, all at once! My hat is off to you, Sir”.\nO’Donnell looked pleased.\nSergeant Walsh picked up the photograph and examined the photograph. It was Callan, caught like a wild animal in a coil spring trap. “Do you intend to press charges, Reverend?” said Walsh.\nCallan, head bowed, heaved and he sobbed in silence. Much of what had transpired was lost on the man - the flash, the muffled explosion, the flying robes of the vengeful priest, the sudden and improbably abrupt arrival of a posse of lawmen- and now, here, improbably confronted by his own spirit likeness on a plate of glass. He was as good as dead, whether shoveling ashes on Rikers Island, or stuck with a shiv in a dark alley.\nDeacon Cassidy weighed his prospects for advancement in the archdiocese, “Yes, we will press charges against this man”.\nEven Walsh, inclined to an Old Testament concept of justice, was surprised. Callan was a beaten man.\n+++\nThe Times ran the story of Callan’s apprehension in the Wednesday edition.\n“I am not sure this casts St. Joseph’s in the best light?” said Father Morris “we appear vengeful and lacking in charity and grace”.\n“Father, there is no room for sentiment these days. We have a duty to the parishioners, whose generosity should not be taken for granted,” said Deacon Cassidy.\n“Well, the story is buried near the court news, so perhaps it will blow over,” said Father Morris.\n“There you are mistaken, Sir. It is a front-page story in the Post, which includes a photo of the thief, caught red-handed! News of our success, and of the young policeman's invention, has spread like the Spanish flu. The bishop himself called to congratulate us, and he expressed keen interest in the machine. There has been an outbreak of pilfering... St. Stephens, St. Patrick's...”.\nFather Morris was dismayed; his new Deacon was a curmudgeon. “What of this Charles Callan, the unemployed patternmaker? He seems a sorry fellow, …. Do we know the night court’s decision?” said Father Morris.\n“His fate is out of our hands”, said Deacon Cassidy.\n+++\n“Callan is senseless with fear”, said Sergeant Walsh, “He is free to go, but he is quivering in the corner of the cell and refuses to leave. I have half a mind to dump him on the sidewalk outside the Rectory\".\nMahoney was reading the newspaper. “Apparently O'Donnell's mechanical detective is being tested by the banks downtown” said Mahoney, “could this be the future? Might we one day live in a world that is under constant surveillance? With camera’s snapping, flashes of lightning, bells ringing, scaring us all witless?”.\n“I very much doubt that”, said Walsh, “there are thousands of Poor-Boxes, thousands of banks. It is an impossible undertaking to place mechanical detectives in every location”.\n\"Let us hope you are right, lest we share the fate of this Callan fellow, and find ourselves out of work and destitute!\"\n+++\nJune 25th, 1928" } ]
[ { "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 Gossip Girl\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1299\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour main character has a secret superpower; the gossip they spread always comes true." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Lily was born with a trusting face. The type of face that pulls all of the secrets out of you. If one of her friends has a new crush, or her Math teacher is fighting with her English teacher, or her neighbors have been conducting some shady business in their backyard, Lily is the first to hear about it. Although gossip should not be taken as fact, as soon as Lily mentions any rumors to someone else, that rumor does, believe it or not, become fact. \nToo often has Lily mentioned a perceived scandal around school has the gossip immediately become fact. It’s not that Lily wants these things to come true, it’s not something that she can control. Almost like a power beyond her grasp, from another realm, or another life. Lily first started noticing this effect when she started high school. Gossip didn’t really start to pick up until middle school. It wasn’t every rumor that came true and the ones that did, she had assumed it was a coincidence. By Freshman year, the gossip had really started rolling in. Soon, every rumor, big or small, that Lily spread had come true. It felt like her power was growing. By Sophomore year, she vowed never to spread another rumor or gossip ever again. \nThen her parents started fighting more and more and louder and louder. It was infuriating having to come home from school and pretend like she couldn’t feel the tension. They tried to hide it from her but you can't hide as much as you think you can from kids. They notice everything and if you don’t show them how to deal with it properly, it eats them alive. Lily, with her new found power, knew she couldn’t confide in anyone about her parents fighting and her fear of their impending divorce. She did everything she could to keep them from fighting when it was the three of them together and she could not be the reason they divorce. \nOne day, after soccer practice, her friend Megan came over, unannounced, to pick up her shin guards that Lily had borrowed. Megan witnessed the bickering that led to shouting and asked Lily if everything was okay. This was when Lily broke. She cried into her friend's arms and babbled out everything that had been going on over the past few months through gasping cries. She told Megan everything. Two weeks later, her parents sat her down to break the news of the divorce. \nAlthough she saw it coming, it still broke her heart. Not only would she have to endure the added chaos that was separate holidays, switching houses on a weekly basis, etc. But, Lily was an only child, meaning now that her parents didn’t have each other, they each only had her. And that is a lot of pressure for a 15 year old, having to be the one that your parents depend on. They only have you to confide in, to lean on during tough times, to pick up the slack. It was a tough battle that Lily was preparing to fight. But she knew she only had herself to blame so it was a challenge that Lily would have to rise up to. \nSophomore year was not off to a great start. Every day at lunch, her friends used their free time to gossip about everyone and everything. It was like a disease, running rampant in the lunchroom. Lily chose not to partake, deeming her useless for discussion. Eventually her friends noticed and slowly stopped talking to her altogether. She became a silent bystander watching her peers connect and contribute. Her voice fading into the background, made her feel like she would physically start to disappear. \nAfter school, Lily came home to both of her parents sitting at the dining room table, waiting for her arrival. Replicating the day they told her about the divorce, this gave Lily a queasy feeling as she approached them. “Have a seat Lily, your mom and I want to talk to you”, her dad said, repeating the exact words from that fateful day. \nHer mom started, “Lily, we noticed you haven’t been acting like yourself lately, is everything okay?” \n“You can talk to us, honey”, her dad added.\n“Everything’s fine”, Lily said, unintentionally sounding offended. Or maybe she was offended. How could I act like myself when no one in this household has acted like themselves for months? How could anything be okay when I have single handedly ruined my life?\n“We know the separation hasn’t been easy on you and we just want to make sure you’re handling it well”, said her dad. \n“How’s everything at school?”, her mom asked. “I haven’t seen Megan or Rachel around. Do you still hang out with them?”\n“Sometimes”, Lily sulked. \n“Maybe you could invite them over for a movie night or a sleepover!” her mom said excitedly.\nLily wouldn’t even know how to ask her friends to hangout anymore. \n“Yeah, maybe”, Lily said unconvincingly.\n“I can drop you girls off at the mall!”, her dad said.\n“No one goes to the mall anymore”, her mom said with an irritated tone, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She wasn’t wrong, but still, she didn’t need to say it like that.\n“I don’t want to go to the mall, or have a movie night, or a sleepover! I don’t even talk to Megan and Rachel anymore!”\n“Oh honey, why not?”, her mom asked.\n“I can’t talk to them! All they do is gossip. All anyone does is gossip! And it’s not that I don’t want to gossip, I do! But everything I gossip about comes true and I can’t take it anymore! Tammy got caught using lip fillers and now everyone calls her fish face, George got in trouble for selling his adderall pills, Tom cheated on Ariana with her best friend Raquel, and you and dad are getting divorced and it’s all my fault, all of it!\n“What?!”, said her dad. “Oh my” said her mom simultaneously.\n“I don’t think any of that is your doing, sweetie”, her dad assured her.\n“Of course it isn’t!” said her mom. “Lily, none of those things happened just because you talked about them.” \n“Yes they did. Everything I talk about comes true.” Lily said.\n“Lily, people are going to make their own decisions, and they will have to face the consequences of their bad ones. And, although it's not great to gossip, their actions are not your responsibility.” said her mom.\n“That’s right, and when it comes to your mother and I getting divorced, that is absolutely not your fault. You are the shining light in this family and if we didn’t have you, we would have split up a long time ago.”\n“Todd, please,” said her mom. But Lily felt relieved. \nMaybe she didn’t have superpowers like she thought. Maybe all of the rumors she spread had already been true before Lily got involved. \nThe next day at lunch, Lily tried something she hadn’t done in awhile. She gossiped. She took in everything that her friends were saying and contributed with information that she had gained from her time being invisible. Turns out you can learn way more when people don’t realize you’re listening. Talking with her friends, she also realized that she had underestimated them. Gossiping wasn’t the only thing they talked about. It was just the only thing Lily paid attention to before. Gossiping isn’t a terrible thing like people make it out to be. It’s a way for people to connect, to gather information, to share. But it’s not the end all, be all either. It can be a gateway to other conversations and learning about each other and to experience things together." } ]
[ { "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: What Goes Around, Comes Around\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1061\n\nPrompt:\n\nYour character is known as the town gossip. One day, it comes back to bite them." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"Just look at her! She is so pathetic. If I had teeth like that, my parents would have had braces put on me the moment I got teeth.\" Megan's three friends giggled at the remark. \"It even effects the way she talks. Look at her over there eating alone again.\" Megan then imitates Becca's speech to the delight of her friends. \"I hope she doesn't bite herself while eating her lunch.\" Gales of laughter erupt from the table and drift through the cafeteria. Becca doesn't need to look up to know she is the subject of the laughter.\nBecca is used to the bullying and teasing, it's been that way since she came to this school. Six months has given her the time to get used to it, but it still hurts. She and her mother moved in with her aunt when her mother got sick and couldn't work. Life was tough right now, but her mom had promised they would get better. She and her aunt took shifts caring for her mother. Her aunt worked nights so Becca could attend school during the day. Becca worked on the weekends to help out.\nAs Becca went into her last class of the day, she could still hear the laughter echoing in her ears. Only three months to graduation and then perhaps she could have some peace.\nMegan put her books into her locker and headed out to soccer practice. She was one of the best players on the team and loved the game. She loved the praise the coaches heaped on her and the adoration of the other girls. Someone yelled,\"LOOK OUT!\" Megan saw something out of the corner of her eye and a soccer ball hit her square in the mouth. The pain was unbelievable and immediately blood poured out of her mouth. The coach ran over and tended to her. Megan heard the conversation but the pain was all she could concentrate on. The team helped the coach get Megan into the back of his SUV and stood amazed as they left for ER.\nMegan's mother met her at the hospital. The special dentist they had called in, was not very encouraging. Three teeth had been knocked out and most of the rest loosened. He needed to do surgery and Megan would have to wear a retainer until they could implant the missing teeth. Her mouth and face were swollen and even with medication the pain was terrible. Megan missed a few days of school then returned. She talked funny because of the missing teeth and retainer but no one dared say a word.\nBecca opened the front door. \"Becca, Becca, you won't believe what happened last night. I was cleaning the dentist offices as usual and the dentist was there. He had just returned from an emergency at the hospital. I told him about your teeth and he said he would like to see you. Maybe he can fix your teeth isn't that wonderful?\"\n\"But Aunt Sally, we don't have money for teeth. But thank you for talking to him.\"\n\"Just go into his office and see what he has to say. Do it for me.\"\n\"OK you make the appointment and I will be there.\" Becca smiled, her aunt was always willing to help people. But Becca knew that to fix her teeth would cost thousands of dollars and that was impossible.\nBecca couldn't eat breakfast the day of the appointment her stomach was full of butterflies. She and her aunt went to the ten story building and rode the elevator to the 5th floor. Dr. Robbins was so nice. He poked around in her mouth and then declared he could fix her teeth. \"I will have to pull a few, and you will have to wear braces for awhile, but you will end up with beautiful straight teeth.\"\nBecca's voice trembled as she said,\" Dr. Robbins it's wonderful to know you could fix my teeth, but we don't have any money for teeth. We just have money for food, rent, and my mom's medicine.\"\nDr. Robbins smiled, Your Aunt tells me about how hard you work to help with your mom, and that you are a good student, and I would like to do this for you free of charge.\"\n\"What? Free?\" Becca began to cry. Dr. Robbins gave her a hug, then they set up the appointments needed for the procedure.\n\"Dr Robbins is going to fix my teeth for free!\" screamed Becca as she ran in the door. Now it was mother's turn to cry, then Becca, then Aunt Sally. There were tears and hugs all around.\nMegan meanwhile suffered many painful treatments, implants, and had to drop out of soccer. Her favorite mantra was. \"Why me?\" She had to eat soft foods and wear her retainer 24/7. Life was terrible. \"What did I ever do to deserve this?\" People began to become impatient with her complaining all the time. She even began eating alone.\nBecca suffered many painful treatments thinking of each one as a step forward to her new smile. She was happy all the time and had even made some new friends. She no longer avoided people's eyes but looked them straight in the face. Life was wonderful. the braces came off the week before graduation and she only had to wear a retainer. She couldn't stop looking in the mirror at her beautiful smile.\nThe day before graduation was Becca's last appointment at the dentist. She brought cookies for Dr. Robbins as a thank you. As she waited in the waiting room, the door opened and in walked Megan. They stared at each other. \"Hi, Becca said, Don't you go to Liberty High? I'm sure I've seen you there?\"\n\"Yes, but I don't think I've seen you.\"\n\"You probably don't recognize me. I look different. I've had my teeth fixed.\"\n\"Sorry, I don't recognize you. What year are you?\"\nBecca smiled and said, a senior, I'm graduating with you on Friday. Aren't you excited?\"\n\"Are you kidding me? Look at my mouth! It's a mess and I'm embarrassed to walk across the stage. I look awful!\"\n\"Becca,\" the nurse called.\nWhen the door closed, Megan thought Becca? The Becca from the cafeteria? But it can't be, she's beautiful! She doesn't even talk funny anymore, and look at me. How ironic!" } ]
[ { "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 Sigmund-Thun-Gorge\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1233\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about a character who risks their life to take a photo." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "He tilts his head slightly to the side and places his hand against the shell of his ear, but the thundering water drowns out the voice of the man standing opposite him. He gives a hand gesture, indicating a different direction. The other man nods and follows him over the crudely constructed wooden bridge, trembling and shivering as he holds on to the ropes that act as rails. The dampness that soaked the bridge's wooden slats rendered them soggy and each step felt like a passageway on a ship.\n\nUpon reaching the opposite bank, the man grasped the other man's arm, which held the satchel he had been carrying since November 1885, during the Serbo-Bulgarian War. He raised his head a little to look at the bearded man whose face was scarred from forehead to cheek.\n\n“Prepare the camera. He should be here any moment”. The man shouts over the sound of the water.\n\nThe other man, though, just nodded. The man holding the camera satchel pointed to a specific area. The walk there is steep and covered with ash trees, beeches, and bushes, yet it is perfect for a photograph. \n\nWith hands gripping branches and plants, the two men hauled themselves up the slope; and with each step, the slick earth gave way beneath their boots. \nThe men's broadclothes, in that era's traditional green hue, soaked up the surrounding moisture like a sponge, making their ascent up the slope all the more challenging.\n\nThe taller of the two had to halt more than once. Placing his palm on his chest, he felt it quickly rise and fall. Gasping for air, he briefly leaned his upper body against the slope and used his other hand to grip the branches to save himself from falling. The other man, already a few steps ahead, looked at him and then at the bridge that connected the gorge. He looked down at him again and gave him hand signals.\n\nHe yelled, \"Come on,\" with a firm voice.\n\nWith an even more impatient sweep of his hand, he took his pocket watch out of his vest. \n\n\"We're going to miss him out. Hurry up.\"\n\nThe other man with the satchel turned to face him after wiping the perspiration from his brow. \n\nHe gasped and exclaimed, \"Keep going. I need a couple extra seconds.\" \n\nWhen he saw the other didn't understand him, he gave him a hand signal. His feeble voice was lost in the sound of the flowing river. \n\nHe watched the other man climb the slope with skill and speed, arriving at the gorge valley bridge in no time. The lattice girders of the bridge were made of wrought iron and wood, and a tension rod attached to the beam supported the struts of the girders\n\nThe man grumbled as he leaned away, upper body off the slope, to have a better view. He looked up at the other man and pulled out his pocket watch.\n\n \"Damn. Ten more minutes.\"\n\nHe wiped the sweat from his forehead and searched for the next branches to pull himself up onto. His shoes were not designed for the slick terrain, so he had to take each step twice. \n\nHe was breathing heavily and kept slipping, shouting to himself aloud, \"What on earth..damned.\" \n\nHis chest rose and fell fast, with occasional gasps for air. He looked up at the other man. The edge was only ten feet away, but the man's face on the slope appeared bloodless, and its scars were more visible than ever before.\n\nHe shook his head, unable to understand a word the man on the edge said. The other man gave him a signal. He shifted his upper body slightly away from the slope, raised the arm holding the sachel above his head, swung it wide, and hurled it at the other man with all of his might. \nHe let out a scream, that resembled a kiai, using all of the energy he had stored up to bolster his will and focus. \nThe man on the edge had to bend his upper body far forward and could only grip the satchel with two fingers. As he lost his balance and was ready to slip down the slope, he caught a glimpse of a branch.\n\nHe glared down, gave the man resting on the slope the thumbs up, and moved past the mob in front of the bridge pushing others aside. The man on the slope had a good view to observe, and he shook his head, as the other man came closer to the area of interest. He could not hear a word they saying, not even the loud mop, but he saw the excitement in people's faces and children's laughs.\n\nShortly later, he watched out for the man with the satchel; he talked with the gendarmes about the passage, repeatedly indicating his camera and holding a letter. Finally, the gendarmes caved in and let him pass.\n\nHe noticed in the other man's glance that he was making a face as if Christmas and Easter were on the same day!\n\nNow was the time. Along with invited guests, priests, altar boys, and local officials, Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein arrived. Soldiers shoved people aside to make space for Graf von Thun and Hohenstein.\n\nSigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein were a distinguished individual who stood out from the crowd. As he marched to the center of the bridge, he walked with such pride and confidence that he raised his chin up to the sky. On the left side of his chest, rows of service medals and ribbons displayed his accomplishments.\n\nThe man put out the Vest Pocket Kodak camera from the satchel and attempted to go as close as two meters to Sigmund Ignaz Graf von Thun and Hohenstein, who were roughly the same height. However, the gendarmes seized his arm and dragged his entire body back, bringing the man further away.\n\nThe man yelled loudly and struggled with the gendarmes' grip with his arms and legs, but they forced him back in the back of the mob while they continued to yell \"Graf Hohenstein.\"\n\nThe man, still lying on the slope, his pallor slowly fading, whispered, \"Don't mess this up.\"\n\nHe gestured with his hand to the man on the bridge. The man on the bridge shook his head in a no-signal manner. He was seeking a better perspective for his shot, and after that, he turned to face the man positioned on the slope. He waved to the man, telling him what he intended to do, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and stepped onto the wooden railing of the bridge. \n\nOne step, then the next, and his shoes slipped slightly on the bending crossbar, nearly throwing him off balance and faltering. Seconds later, he rebalanced himself, holding the Vest Pocket Kodak camera.\n\n\"What the heck is he doing?\" the man rubbed his face with both hands. “What a moron!\" \n\nHe cast a sideways glance at the 30-meter-deep gorge; from the glaciers and mountains high above the Kaprun Valley, water rushes with unstoppable power through rock and stone, forming the gorge. From that point forward, the gorge was known as the \"Sigmund Thun Gorge\".\n\nHe looked back to the bridge, but the other man had vanished. Only the bag hung on the bridge railing, swinging slightly. But the man disappeared." } ]
[ { "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: Mr. Timerack's Gallery of Lost Souls\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2955\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character who sees a photo they shouldn’t have seen." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“These are truly remarkable.” George Dundee commented as he continued down the hall. \n“My late grandfather Sidney Timberack believed that every photograph told a story.” Lewis Stanrick led his patron down what his grandfather had called his gallery of lost souls. \n“These tintypes are in pristine condition.” Mr. Dundee ran his finger along the base of one of the photographs, not knowing his grandfather would rage at anyone who dared run a finger over one of the portraits hanging in the hallway. Since he inherited the portraits from his grandfather, Lewis was not as nitpicky with the lot. The subjects in the portraits were long dead and forgotten as was his grandfather. \n“Magnificent.” Mr. Dundee stopped at the Butterfly Girl. Her name in life was Matilda Ronce, born of a poor Irish family who could not afford to keep a child born with such a birth defect. Missing several bones and internal organs that were insufficient, Matilda lived to around thirty before what internal organs she did have had given out. But in her brief life on earth she never exceeded fifty pounds or stood three and a half feet high; she had been a star in Sidney Timberack’s Side Show. \nThe banner he used while traveling with his troupe by rail, hung at the entrance of the hallway of the gallery. Known as a cruel man or as a humanitarian, depending on which newspaper you subscribed to, Sidney Timberrack had kept meticulous records to show that he did indeed care for the members of his side show.\n“Who is this hairy person?” Mr. Dundee pointed to Oscar Richert.\n“The Wolf Man.” Lewis nodded.\n“He looks furious, doesn’t he?” George chuckled.\nLewis did not wish to contradict his patron, but the fact of the matter, according to the record, Oscar Richert was a gentle soul who loved to stretch out under an oak tree on a riverbank while they were traveling. While most people ran from him in horror when he was a young man, Oscar’s father realized that the only chance he had of having a “normal” life was to go off with Mr. Timberack who had shown up at the front door wearing a long coat, white shirt with a starched collar and a bolo tie. His face was long and narrow, but he seemed to have a gentle voice and a mild manner. \n“So, your grandfather had a slideshow with human curiosities?” Mr. Dundee had moved on to the Rubber Band Man, Jerome Kossen, a true contortionist.\n“He believed that no matter their affliction, they were all just as human as you or I.” Lewis hated to pontificate on the matter, but he hated how misunderstood these lost souls were by patrons who saw them as freaks from some cheap sideshow. All of them were gone before Lewis was born, but he spent time with his grandfather who would tell him stories of his travels on the rail with his troupe.\n“Surely, he did not really believe that.” Dundee quipped as he smiled.\n“He did, I’m afraid.” Lewis said as they had come to the end of the gallery. \n“Would you consider selling your collection?” Mr. Dundee patted his jacket, “I would be prepared to pay top dollar.” \n“These are not for sale.” He shook his head. \n“Be reasonable.” Dundee sneered as Lewis opened the door that led into an alleyway.\n“I do not intend to sell any of these.” Lewis avowed. “In their lifetimes, they were part of the sideshow. My grandfather closed the curtain just before the war. I have no intention of putting them on display again. Good day, Mr. Dundee.” \n“My word, I believe you are being unreasonable, Mr. Stanrick.” He protested, but received a door slammed in his face.\n“Believe what you will.” He turned on his heel and walked back down the hallway past the portraits. Stopping by Matilda’s framed portrait dressed in her butterfly costume holding a wand as her eyes looked toward the ceiling as the flash was ignited. Caught in that moment, Matilda would forever stare at the heavens. “Imagine the nerve of that man thinking that he could possibly write a check equal to your worth.” \nFor as long as Lewis Stanrick lived in his upper east side apartment, he had never taken the time to get to know some of his neighbors as he considered them beneath his contempt. He would extend cordial greetings to the postman and the boy who delivered his groceries, but his world was narrow with all things considered. \nHe had taken the apartment when his grandfather died and with the rent control, he lived cheaply in the two room flat. Even when his grandfather was alive as a tenant, the apartment wasn’t much, a mere hovel by modern standards, but Lewis did not believe he belonged to the modern age.\nLife seemed to be out of control as far as he was concerned. He had come home from the war in Vietnam in 1972 and listened to his grandfather’s amazement, “You know, Lewis, I went over there in 1917 and I thought we had settled things then once and for all. Boy was I wrong.” \n“I wish you had.” He sat on the stoop while his grandfather smoked his pipe, “So many bad things. So many horrible things.” \n“What are you gonna do?” His grandfather asked puffing in his Mercham. “I got some money and went on the road with my circus.” \n“Not me.” He shook his head, “I wanna just spend some time on my own and get rid of these nightmares.” \n“The nightmares won’t go away.” \n“You still have them?” \n“Almost every night. Drove Ethel, your grandma crazy.” He chuckled. “Used to tell me I’d yell out the names of some of the boys who didn’t come home.”\n“What happened to grandma?” Lewis asked.\n“She died of consumption while I was in Omaha.” He answered leaning back in his chair, “She never told me how sick she was.”\n“I’m sorry.” Lewis put his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder.\n“It’s okay.” He bowed his head. “I kiss her portrait every night.”\n“That’s nice.” Lewis smiled.\n“Donnie Brookshire took that picture.” Grandfather nodded, “Took all of those portraits hanging in the hallway. He was a good man, old Donnie was, but I had a feeling he was headed for trouble. He liked to fool around with women. One of them was married to a jealous man. The jealous man killed Donnie. Shame. Donnie believed that when he took his photographs, he would end up with the person’s soul too. When I gave it some thought, I believed he was right. Sometimes when I walk down that hallway, I can hear them whispering to each other.” \n“What do they talk about?” Lewis pushed his cap to the back of his head and leaned in so he could hear his grandfather better. \n“Oh, this and that mostly.” He laughed, “People are cruel, you know.” \n“Yup.” Lewis shook his head.\n“Most of them people had it pretty rough, growing up different, like they did.” He sighed, “They locked Oscar in a closet most of the day, because he mother and father were afraid he’d scare the neighborhood kids. Old Oscar was a gentle soul. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, but one look at his hairy face and people thought he was the Wolfman. Matilda’s folks would make fun of her and tell her that they wished God had sent them a normal child. She would tear up even just mentioning her folks. Some people have no idea how much they hurt their own children with their ugly words.”\nSitting on the stoop with an empty chair to his right, Lewis watched some of his neighbors take an evening stroll past his place. None of them dared make eye contact with him, because they all fear him as the keeper of the Gallery of Lost Souls. \nThe stories still circulated among some of the old timers about the crazy man named Sidney Timberack who had lived there surrounded by old tintype photographs of the circus freaks he once had. Some of the old women would talk about the evil power emulating from their portraits.\nHis grandfather told Lewis that their portraits kept their memories alive, but Lewis suspected it went further than his grandfather let on. He had done some reading about the power of the old tintypes of the past. Photographs taken of men with hate in their eyes. Some would claim staring at them too long would bend your mind toward homicide. He found most of these claims to be bunk, but there was some compelling evidence and stories that suggested there was weight to these folk tales. \nOften in the quiet hours, he could hear some disembodied voices. He would put a marker in the book he was reading at the time and walk out into the gallery. He would walk by each of them, fourteen in all, and assure himself that each was silent and still.\nIn a closet was a trunk left undisturbed since his grandfather had passed. Inside the trunk were the negatives of the portraits taken by Donnie Brookshire. His grandfather told him that it was the negatives that capture the soul of the subject and that if someone disturbed these negatives, the souls would become lost. \nWhile he found this nothing more than superstition, Lewis kept them locked away in honor of his grandfather’s memory. He had no use for any of it and it was just easier to keep them where they were. Still he wondered what would happen if someone opened the steamer trunk containing the negatives. \nOne of his passing neighbors waved at him, “Evening, Mr. Stanrick.” \n“Howdy Mr. Harper.” He returned the cordial greeting, but did notice his neighbor’s suspicious glance as he passed. Lewis knew the elderly gentleman would give his right arm to know if all of the rumors that circulated about that place were true. \nAfter the sun went down, Lewis decided he would get ready for bed. His routine was set in stone since there was nobody around to disrupt it. But when he went inside he heard voices. There was a conversation taking place nearby. Listening intently, Lewis tried to find the source of the conversation, but no matter where he looked he could not find it. The voices sounded muffled as if they were coming from inside a room somewhere. \nHe opened the closet and stared at the trunk.\n“I remember St. Paul.” His grandfather would tell him, “It was right at the source of the Mississippi River. It was one heck of a town filled with all sorts of shady characters. While it was illegal to have or sell liquor, there was always plenty to go around. We’d set up a bonfire and break out the good stuff. My, my we’d have us a hootananny for sure. ‘Hey Donnie, come take our picture.’ High times they were, Lewis.” His grandfather would drain his hip flask as he reveled in his fond memories. Many times, Lewis would have to make sure he made it to his bed. \nThe trunk was locked, but Lewis knew where the key was. Still he was hesitant to open it. It had remained locked for as long as he could remember. Lewis stared at the black steamer trunk wondering if he should open it to settle his internal struggle with his inner demons. He had long sensed that whatever was inside wished to be set free. But he also knew his grandfather was very serious about keeping this trunk locked.\n“You ever hear of Pandora’s Box?” He once asked Lewis. \n“Yeah.” He nodded.\n“You remember how once the box was open, there was no going back once the evil was set free?” He puffed on his pipe as he looked over the top of his glasses frames set at the end of his beak-like nose. “It’s like that, Lewis.” \n“Oh Grandpa, how can that be?” He chuckled.\n“You have no idea what’s in there.” His face stiffened.\n“The negatives-” \n“And so things that need to stay there locked up.” He waved a finger at his grandson. \n“Like what?”\n“There are some things better left undisturbed.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You grandmother made the mistake of opening it just a bit before I could prevent it from leaving the trunk. She died a few weeks later.”\n“You said she died of consumption.” \nHe nodded, “I say a lot of things sometimes.” \n“Open me Lewis. I’ve been locked up too long.” The voice pleaded, “He was cruel to us. He pretended he liked us, but it was all a lie.” \n“Who are you?” He asked hoping he would not have an answer.\n“We are the souls of the gallery.” Came the answer from within. \n“Let us out.” Another voice sounded.\n“I can’t. I promised.” Lewis put his hands over his eyes so he would not look at the trunk.\n“He promised us things too, but it was all a lie.” There was a sob after the final word.\n“We are trapped. Those photographs are our cells.” \n“No, they are just portraits.” Lewis knelt next to the trunk and put his hand over the lock. \nMore voices began to speak.\n“He used them to imprison us.”\n“Mr. Timberack’s Gallery of Lost Souls.” \n“He told us that we would never be welcome on this planet. Our odd deformities would prevent us from being part of this. We would never be safe unless we did what he told us.”\n“At first it seemed he was right.”\n“But then we began to feel trapped.”\n“Before we knew what was going on, our images were captured and put into frames”\n“He told me they were just photographs.” Lewis managed to say.\n“Have you looked closely at them?”\n“Many times.” Lewis shook his head.\n“He told us of the war. Of mustard gas and artillery that never stopped.”\n“He knew what atrocities were walking free and he captured them. He would appeal to their vanity and then he would have their portraits done. Once he captured their images, he made them prisoners like us.” \nLewis closed the closet door. His will power drained as he slid with his back on the door until he was sitting. As soon as he felt strong enough, he got to his feet. He walked into the gallery and looked at Matilda. He studied her portrait. Her small frail body was in her costume with the wings, but he noticed that she was bent into an unusual position that did not look natural at all. Her eyebrows were twisted into an expression of eternal pain. \nWhat about Oscar? Beneath his thick hair, Lewis noticed that his eyes held a glimmer of horror and suffering.\n“A missing person’s report has been filed.” One of the uniformed policemen told Inspector Dundee.\n“Name of missing person.” Dundee asked.\n“Stanrick.” The officer answered.\n“I was there the other day. I felt strange viewing all of the photographs. I even offered to buy these portraits from him, but he became very belligerent. I knew I had touched a nerve.” \nLater he went to Lewis’ apartment to have a look around. The portraits were hanging on the wall as they had on his last visit, but there was a strange, eerie feeling hanging in the air as he moved from one portrait to another. \n“This trunk was opened.” One of the policemen observed as a number of uniformed police swarmed over the apartment like bees. \n“What was inside?” Dundee squatted down beside the open trunk.\n“Just old negatives.” The policeman pulled out one of the plates.\n“Just old fashioned negatives.” He put his hand to his chin. He picked one up and peered through the darkened image on the plate. Whoever it was on the negative had wings like the Butterfly Girl. “If I were to walk out there into the sun, this negative would be ruined.”\n“Yes sir.” The policeman agreed.\nInstinct took control and Dundee held the plate up to the light in the room. While this obviously could hurt the negative, he saw the wings begin to flutter. Startled, Dundee nearly dropped the plate.\n“Easy sir, these plates are fragile.” The policeman helped steady Inspector Dundee. \nHe placed the plate back in the trunk with the others. Coming to his feet, Inspector Dundee took one last look at the portraits on the wall. Everything seemed in place when Lewis had taken him on a tour, but something was amiss that he could not quite put his finger on. \nLewis had no clue that George Dundee worked for the local city police investigating the strange goings-on in this gallery. Hoping to trick Lewis into spilling the beans, he was frustrated when he could not accomplish what he had set out to do. \nHe glanced up at Oscar one last time, uttering, “Poor bastard, could never escape from his frightening exterior just like the rest of them. Trapped with only one option available to them.” \nHe walked right past the picture of the troupe taken by Donnie in Boise, Idaho in 1933. It was the last framed picture of the gallery and it would be the last time Donnie would use his camera. Escaping his notice as he walked past the photograph, there was such a minor, easy to miss detail. In the photograph there was a new person present. A person who had just joined the troupe. There posting with the rest of the troupe, Lewis Stanrick smiling like the rest of them and was seated next to his late grandfather Sidney Timerack. Truly, the gallery of lost souls was now complete." } ]
[ { "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 Went to the Concert\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1695\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a character having a spiritual experience at a concert or a nightclub." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My older brother warned me that High School was all street gangs. If you were fifteen and you weren’t in a street gang you got beat up by them, he said. \n For most of my High School I lived in fear. I always got to school early so I didn’t have to walk by the guys hanging out front before classes began. I sat at the back of every class and I didn’t ask questions. I carried as many books as I could from class to class to reduce any time in front of my locker when the hallways got busy. I got in and out of the cafeteria and ate my lunch in five minutes before most of the other students got there. Even on Fish and Chip Fridays. I spent the rest of my lunches and recesses hiding in the school library.\n That’s where Bowman found me in my final year as I was turning eighteen. “Mercer! Hey, Mercer, how’s it going?” He asked. Bowman never asked me anything before. Bowman was my lab partner in grade ten and we mixed things, and put them on the Bunsen burner, and dipped our litmus paper, and wrote down our results, and never said anything to each other. “Mercer, you going to the concert? You got a ticket?”\n I looked at him not knowing what concert, where. It was bad not to know what someone was talking about in High School. You could be made fun of. Talked about. People would giggle and elbow each other. It could lead to being tripped, or shoulder punched, or even shin kicked. And if you fought back, you could have a bunch of guys waiting for you outside when you tried to go home. I mean, that almost never happened to me but I was sure it might one day. And it’d only have to happen once, wouldn’t it?\n I tried to talk to my mom about these worries but she said I was just feeling sorry for myself. I told dad and said not to worry. He said he had a problem with a kid once and what he did was stand at the top of a staircase, and when the kid came to get him, he kicked him right in the chin. Right in his face. He said he never had a problem again. Realistically, I figured if I could actually do something like that, whoever I kicked would probably fall back, crack their head, and die. Then I’d go to prison. A place I was too scared of, to let the worries in my head go anywhere near.\n “Mercer, a bunch of us are going to the concert. Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow and Blue Oyster Cult. It’s at the stadium across the border. We got an extra ticket. You got to pay for it but you can come with us. We got it all setup.”\n No one had invited me to anything in High School and I guess I must have said yes. My mom thought it was a terrible, but my dad said it was a great idea and gave me twice the ticket cost.\n A few days later, the night of, a car pulled up in front of our house. I got in the back with Jeremy and Davis. In the front was Bowman and some guy not even from our High School.\n “Fitzsimmons.” He said. I could only see his eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. “There’s something to drink on the floor.”\n I tried to look down around my feet but it was already getting dark out. Davis gave me a light shoulder punch. It wasn’t one that left a bruise, he was just trying to get my attention. He pointed to my other side and I reached around the floor and found a big clear glass jug. I pulled the cork and took a sip. My mouth was on fire when I exhaled.\n “It’s strong. It’s homemade.” Jeremy said. “Fitz, where’s it from?”\n Fitz didn’t answer, he was concentrating on the highway. All of us were sipping from the jug, making a thing out of holding it the way we’ve seen them do in hillbilly movies and television shows. After a bit, Fitz reached into his shirt pocket and took out a black pill. Fitz had his hand on the steering wheel, eyes on me in the rearview mirror, and his other hand reaching back to offer me this strange pill. “It’ll keep you awake.”\n I swallowed it. There was no weighing and speculating on the consequences. I swallowed it.\n We hit the border and almost sobered. The custom man was sharp with us. We show him identification, and the concerts tickets, and he waved us through in disgust.\n We parked blocks from the stadium. The street lighting was bad. I saw a guy going from car to car trying the door handles, looking inside their windows. I could hear glass breaking and banging, from who knows what part of the street or alleys nearby. A lot of people were converging on the stadium. A lot of noise, laughter, and shouting.\n We got in line and large groups of guys had open bottles and garbage bags they were selling bundles of stuff from. Right in front of the stadium. I saw a couple of guys in coveralls that had SECURITY printed on them. These guys had three-foot metal rods in their hands and were patrolling side exits. \n I stood in line behind Fitz. I only saw his back. Tall, skinny, head up, and alert. One of the guys from the big group on the lawn came over to the line. He started bothering a guy with his girlfriend. You never bother a guy with his girlfriend. I always thought that was something nobody did. I didn’t have a girlfriend myself, yet.\n The guy with the girl got mad, but didn’t do anything. Then it hit me that big group selling stuff was a gang. A real gang. Not the High School gangs my older brother had made up.\n This gang was on the lawn selling drugs out of garbage bags and no one was stopping them. I looked up at the back of Fitz. The gang guy went along the line until he came to us. Fitz looked ahead. When the guy stopped, Fitz turned his head to look down on the guy. The guy sneered, but left us alone. Maybe you didn’t have to give in and hide from every dirty look you got.\n We passed a pat down at the entrance and they punched our tickets. Fitz led us all up the stairs and to the Restrooms before seating. Inside, Fitz found a guy in a stall who had a duffle bag of stuff he was selling from. They agree on price while we stood by waiting. Then a Police Officer came in, and I felt a terrible panic that I was going to a foreign prison.\n “Hey! It only takes two of you to do that. The rest of you get out of here!” The Officer said. We got away from the Restrooms. The stadium held twenty thousand people and I guess there was too many people to arrest who might have been arrested anywhere else on any other night.\n We found our seats and waited for Fitz to join us. Our seats were not in a row. It was one row of three, with Fitz upfront, and two in the row behind where I was. Ritchie’s Blackmore’s Rainbow was already playing. A lot of screaming guitars and drumbeats you couldn’t hear the lead singer over. Fitz passed around the funny home rolled cigarettes he had bought and we all inhaled.\n I felt the most wonderful glow. There was a glow around the stage. There was a glow on the backs of my classmates in front of me. I floated above my seat and was gliding over the crowd. A fight broke out on the floor just in front of the stage. It was alright. The crowd parted to make a circle for the fighters. The band kept playing. People around me booed the fight. Security cleared away the combatants. I was falling into the crowd. But I could see myself still sitting in my seat. I was floating above. I was tucked into a ball, doing backward summersaults slowly above my seat.\n At one point I looked around and my classmates weren’t there. I think Blue Oyster Cult was starting. The stage was changing. I looked to my left and several seats over some girls were sipping drinks and smoking and giving me a little wave. I even waved back. We all smiled waved and nodded. I looked to my right. Some guy several seats over was nodding his head, giving me a thumbs up, he toasted his beer my way.\n The band played. There was a drum solo that lasted forever. Strobe lights going crazy and drumsticks flying out at all angles. A stagehand kept feeding fresh drum sticks to the drummer.\n I couldn’t hear anyone, anymore. We all shouted at each other to say things, and we all laughed about not being able to hear what each other said. A bright flash of white light ended the concert. I soared above the crowd again.\n The next thing I remember was sitting in the cafeteria the next day as school. I don’t remember leaving the concert. I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember sleeping. I hung around the entrance way to the cafeteria and slapped my legs to some beat the drummer had played the night before. For some reason I couldn’t remember I felt still filled with energy.\n “Did you see the concert?” I asked almost everyone who came in. “Did you see the concert?” They were coming in with their lunchboxes. In with their friends. In line to buy from the food ladies. I kept asking. I got eyerolls, and nos, and some laughs. I had some people asking. Some people smiling. Some people scowling.\n What did I care how they reacted? I went to the concert, what did they 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: English Required\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1053\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "His ball playing had tripled the attendance to high school games over the past four years. Everyone wanted to see his talents as the best slugger and runner. He proved he was a big league contender year after year. The audience cheered every time he flipped his bat at the opponents after a home run. Teachers granted superior grades when his winning charm set them up for the best seats.\nThat’s why it was hard to stuff the counselor’s pale pink notice deep into his breast shirt pocket. Pink notices were warnings. He tapped it flat, not wanting other students to question him about the mid-term grade. If he had had more time between classes, he would have burned it.\nHe chided himself for thinking this thought as he slid his derriere onto the oak desk seat in his College Preparation English class. The note was about the fact that the English teacher, Mr. Sini, had listed him with a D grade. Professional agents were scheduled to see James perform this weekend and if he were offered a scholarship, there was no way around it but to inform them of this failing grade.\nHe took off his ball cap and stuck it into his rear pocket. He swallowed his gum. Both items were okay for other classes but forbidden by the school board by unanimous vote. Sini was the only teacher to still wear a suit and tie and the only one who rated everyone by these standard rules and regulations, as though he were preparing his students for life and death positions such as astronauts or cold war spies.\nJames pulled out a pen and sheet of paper from his notebook. The last bell of the day had rung but Sini wasn’t in the classroom. He would predictably appear after the students had started work on the essay topic which was written on the chalk board before them. Any student talking or ignoring the task would earn detention, or worse yet, warrant a pop quiz for everyone. James had seen a student cry in the cafeteria when he received a failing English grade and lost an athletic scholarship.\nHis armpits sweating, James wrote a sentence. He read it back to himself. Then tore the paper up and tossed it to the waste basket. He started again, this time shaking his head. He set the pen down and rubbed his face with both hands. Encouraging words from his coach filled his ears. Replays of great catches in right field and seconds of safely touching a base before the call whipped behind his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and then looked at the clock. He had only a few minutes left to finish the assignment. He squirmed. Sini was the only pitcher in his life he couldn’t read. He threw fast balls that James couldn’t return. \nHe began again and instead of giving up, he made himself keep writing.\nSini entered the room like a player running home from third base. He dropped a stack of papers onto the surface of the desk set before the chalk board but no one looked at him, all heads focused on their work. He stood with both hands on the desk top and scanned the quiet room. He nodded approval. He announced there were an additional five minutes until the papers had to be turned in for today’s grade. He then sauntered between the rows of desks, pausing while he read someone’s paper, sometimes commenting and then moving on to the next student. James shook his head, fearful there might be enough time left for Sini to peer over his shoulder.\nOnce the time was up, the papers were passed up the rows to the front desk where Sini picked them up. He marched them to his desk and put them into a drawer for grading later.\nJames put his pen back in the notebook. He knew the rest of the hour was spent with Sini criticizing student work. In the past, one of his papers had been used as an example of what not to do. He had described one of his characters in an essay as “nauseous.” Sini had displayed the hand written paper on the classroom wall using an overhead projector. It enlarged the 81/2 by 11 inches to the size of a billboard on the wall. He had circled the word with a thick ball point pen.\n“James,” he said, “this word means sickening to contemplate. I think you meant to write “nauseated. This means sick to the stomach.” I nodded to him that he was right. He added with a harrumph, “Do not, then say your character felt nauseous unless you were sure he had that effect on others.”\nThe fellow students laughed at the remark which had created red spots on the center of James’ cheeks. He had wished he had a dugout to escape the embarrassment.\nToday James braced his knees against the support bars of his desk. So far several papers had demonstrated good use of language. One writer had written “He knew he could do it.” Instead of “He knew that he could do it.” Sini praised another writer for only using “he said” and “she said” instead of “he said consolingly” or “she relied grumblingly” because a writer should let the conversation disclose these manners or conditions.\nThe muscles in James’ legs relaxed as the minutes rolled by, he was convinced he would be released without shame from this hour. But within the last five minutes, Sini turned to look upon James and smiled. James tightened his grip on the edges of the desk top.\n“We have a beautiful use of metaphor in the next paper. James,” he said, “what is a metaphor?”\nThe ball player’s tongue stuck like glue to the bottom of his mouth. He cleared his throat and whispered, “It’s a comparison.”\nSini beamed. “Dear heart you are so right.”\nJames eyes widened at his use of this endearing term he usually saved for the favored few.\nThere on the wall was his cursive scrawl but circled with a wide arc were the words “the violin was a melodic figurine between her arms.”\nOn to top of the page was the letter grade of “B.”\nJames rolled his head back and roared with relief." } ]
[ { "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 Horseman\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 3007\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story imagining 'what if' one historic invention had never happened. How would our world be different now?" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The man on the horse was an odd one – I could tell that even as he angled his quarter horse into my beams like it was his turn in the center ring. An Easterner, which maybe 10 years earlier might’ve seemed even odder. Little dressier than the average rancher; handled his animal like he knew how but had learned it someplace else.\n“Saw you from the rise,” the man said. Easterner, all right – kind of horse-faced fella with a government haircut and a big nose that reminded me of the Jew families that’d passed through the dust and winds and Pop’s tourist camp on their way to California. Not that I gave a damn – Pop hadn’t given a shit about God after He’d took Ma in ’32, and so he likewise didn’t give two shits about anybody’s private dealings with The Lord with or without Jesus.\nNo, it was the man’s eyes. Big, calm. Curious. “Do you need some assistance?”\nMy old Nash 400 was running like a top on four threadbare but plump tires, and the trunk was flung open with the jack still clamped into place. And then there was the Indian blanket I’d got in trade for some janitor work at the “last gas” before the next “last gas” on the way to my pot of gold that had turned into a cesspool about two hours ago. Oh, and the shovel lying next to the blanket rolled tight like a Tulsa oilman’s stogie on the dirt under the lip of the trunk.\nEven without Jesus putting his two cents in, it wasn’t the way I’d been raised. But like I said – it was the eyes, unblinking even in my headlamps. And that slow smile he gave me as I pulled Pop’s old Colt out of my belt and made him a third eye. Like I’d done him the biggest favor in the world.\n \nI’d settled in Espanola a couple years after the Depression ended. Though or maybe cause I’d helped the town undertaker put a number of such folks under the shifting Oklahoma topsoil for a few pennies a body, I’d sought out someplace a little more off the path of men desperate or stupidly hopeful enough to drag their wives and young ones through the Valley of Death to a pot of gold that didn’t exist.\nBut everything shrinks as we grow, my pop once said, and it wasn’t too long until they started to trickle south off the California trail into the desert. College types -- engineers, they said. Easterners. Jews, I heard, and more than a few foreigners who weren’t fooling anybody with names like Henry Farmer and Nicholas Baker. Now, I’d never been out of Oklahoma before Pop’s lungs finally gave out and I dug one last grave this time for free, and I’d sure as shootin’ never met any Germans. As at the time we had an ax to grind with Mr. Hitler, I was a sight more than nervous about the funny voices with the funny names sidling up beside me at the local watering hole on a Saturday night.\nDidn’t help that the government’d bought out the ranch school and put me out of the first steady work I’d had since sorting the dead from Pop’s barely paying guests. The school and its high-flown Eastern teachers and rich folks’ kids playing cowboy seemed a bit silly to me, but groundskeeper’s pay was decent, and the Pondses treated me right. Felt no desire to stick around afterwards, even with the new jobs the government and their “engineers” were bringing to the area. What the Easterners and foreigners specifically were doing may have been the best-kept secret in the Southwest, but the tighter you keep the lid on the pot, the bigger the mess when things boil over. All anybody could guess was it had to something to do with that aforementioned scrap with Der Fuhrer, but folks got rattled with the Army and the federal suits “cleverly” watching every move the locals made.\nBad enough they were keeping Nazi prisoners and Japanese folks from California on ice down south at Fort Stanton. Seemed passing strange we weren’t rounding up Germans and Italians who could blend right in at any military base or shipyard, but my two cents wasn’t going to buy me anything but trouble, especially these days.\nThe Denver and Rio Grande Western had ripped out the “Chili Line” and pulled the tracks from Espanola in ’42, but the town was hanging on between the nearby farms and the new government jobs 10 miles to the west. I was a handy sort with nowhere really to go, so I hung on, too, in what passed for the middle of nowhere.\n\nIf you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. I think that’s in the Old Testament, or maybe some tourist dropped that pearl on me on their way to the New Promised Land. As I now headed the opposite direction, back through Espanola and north past Taos into the mountains near the Colorado border, I could feel God’s jeering presence. Poor time to get religion, with two bodies stuffed in the trunk and a ticket to Hell waiting at the station for me. When I think about it – and believe you me I have – maybe that’s precisely the time.\nI put them deep in the Carson Forest. It was a skill I thought I’d put behind me, but even the dead can surprise you. I was in my bed a few hours before dawn, contemplating and shivering on the bare mattress. It was sheep country – I could get a new blanket in the morning, though at this moment, I wasn’t sure of the need.\nBarring rattlers, the horse was the only one got off free that night.\n\nHitler willingly gave up his ghost in the spring of ’45, and his pal Mussolini got a date with a firing squad and a public showing strung up like the day’s catch outside a Milan filling station.\nIt took close to three more years to rein in Hirohito. After destroying the Japanese Navy and taking a string of Pacific islands, hemming the Empire in nice and neat, we rained fire down on Tokyo, Osaka, Hiroshima, and Fukuyama. I say “we” although I spent most of my stint with the 124th Transportation Battalion in Luzon, up to my elbows in axle grease and sweat.\nI’d signed up two months after that night in the forest, reasoning only more blood would wash away what was on my hands and my soul. I was pretty much nobody in the middle of nowhere, and when no GIs or Eastern-looking fellows in suits and badges showed up on what passed for my doorsteps, I figured Uncle Sam had chalked things up to Nazi spies or an unlucky turn on a dark plateau trail or maybe Junior, as I’d come to call him, just bugging out. It was those goddamned eyes. He seemed like a man looking for a back door out of Purgatory. Wonder if the sergeant at the Santa Fe recruiting office spotted anything like that in my bloodshot brown eyes.\nSee, thing with being nobody, having nobody in the middle of nowhere is the company you’re forced to keep. Nobody was ever likely to find the bodies, and nobody was likely ever going to spill a tear over the man who’d soiled my good blanket. But every time I listened to the bodies piling up on the radio, I wondered how many others I’d buried.\nJust what was it that midnight horseman had been up to at the old ranch school, with his army of eggheads with phony names and their army keeping the whole town under wraps? And why did most of the lot just pull up stakes a few weeks after?\n“Had t’be some kind of secret weapon, blow the krauts and the Japs off the map, my guess.” For one bleary moment, I thought my brain had contracted TB and an Irish brogue, but it was one of the Denver and Rio Grande Western’s gandy dancers who’d lost a knee and his toes and the works in between to a 3 p.m. coal car maybe 15 years ago. It hadn’t broke him of the whisky. He read too many of those cheap detective magazines with the gumshoes and masked crusaders and flying saucers and half-naked women about to be sawed up or worse, and I’d had my wits about me, I’d have heard him creaking down the planks and cleared my stool.\n“And what makes you think that?” I asked, ‘cause it was the noise I needed.\n“My sister’s boy, he does some plumbin’ and odd jobs for them mad scientists down the road,” the old man wheezed. “Seems like everybody’s in an uproar over the boss fella gone missin’ a few weeks back. Seem to think there’s spies all about – nazzis or commies or some-such. Young Danny happened down the wrong hall, and the soldier boys there grilled him near t’medium well.”\n“Boss?” My voice went up a couple notches, but he was too stewed to notice.\n“Some Jew scientist from California sposed to be grand muckamuck of the whole operation. Jingleheimer, Wisenheimer, sumpin’ like that. Summa the talk is, this Jew might be the spy.” He leaned in on the half-leg and grabbed my sleeve as a thick cloud of coffin varnish sent me reeling back. “Now, you think about it, boyo. Why you think every man-jack’s knickers are in such a knot, less somethin’ big was in the works? Y’ever hear of atoms? Y’know, the stuff what we’re all of us made of? Well, I hear tell Hitler and his boys have found a way to split them atoms, to just rip all a’ creation apart. Unless we get there first and blow the fella to Hell first. Little wonder them nazzis would wanna rub out Dr. Jingleheimer.”\nHe then toppled from his stool. I caught him halfway to the floor, jostled him back into place, and made for the door.\nCrisp desert night outside, the moon too close and stars scattered across the black nothing like atoms torn asunder. I jumped in the Nash, somehow made it alive back to my shack, and packed for my penance.\n\n“Recently leaked revelations allege the U.S. Defense and State Departments largely falsified published reports that Nazi Germany and Russia were on the verge of harnessing atomic fission as a potential weapon against America and its European allies, purportedly to spur allied physicists to escalate development of such an ‘atomic bomb’ to bring about a speedier surrender by Hitler’s forces.\n“That effort, referred to as the ‘Manhattan Project,’ was conducted under a nearly impenetrable cloak of military security on the site of a former boy’s academy near Los Alamos under the auspices of preeminent theoretical physician J. Robert Oppenheimer. Without revealing the nature of his work, Oppenheimer’s mysterious disappearance late one night in 1944 sparked a massive manhunt and rumors the eccentric scientist had collaborated either with the Germans or the Russians, given his wife and brother’s ties to the American Communist Party. The case remains open to this day, and the Manhattan Project ended shortly after Adolf Hitler’s suicide and the effective fall of his Nazi regime. Amid the loss of one of its most brilliant minds and fears of further security breaches, the remaining physicists of Los Alamos declared the project a failure.\n“Or so we thought. I talked this week with Isidor Isaac Rabi and David L. Hill, former Manhattan Project researcher. In a 60 Minutes exclusive, Rabi and Hill reveal for the first time that they and other project scientists concerned about the long-range implications of atomic warfare conspired to conceal their findings from the military.”\nRABI: “Dr. Oppenheimer himself voiced doubts about the sanity of releasing such a force into the world. But he was under intense pressure to beat Hitler, beat Stalin to the punch. None of us knew we alone held the keys to a Pandora’s Box, but without Robert’s ‘zeal,’ we reached a hard but crucial decision. There are questions which illuminate, and there are those that destroy. I was always taught to ask the first kind. The only answer to the question of the day was destruction. If not merely the instantaneous vaporization of entire cities and the then-unquantified aftereffects of ambient radiation, then the geopolitical stranglehold an atomic arms race between the U.S., Russia, perhaps even the former People’s Republic of China would impose upon the human race. And imagine if such a weapon were deployed. There would be no defense, no deterrence – only annihilation.”\n“Rabi was awarded the 1944 Nobel Prize for his discovery of nuclear magnetic resonance – a major breakthrough in medical imaging and diagnosis, and his work in microwave technology revolutionized military and commercial radar systems and led to the introduction of the home microwave oven in the mid-‘1950s. Meanwhile, following the dissolution of the Manhattan Project, project team member David Hill headed up the Federation of American Scientists, later to become the Global Federation of Responsible Scientists with the overthrow of Joseph Stalin and subsequent collapse of communism across Russia, Eastern Europe, and Northern China. Under Hill’s leadership, the Federation worked with the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission and other international agencies to design virtually failsafe atomic reactors which have all but replaced coal-fired power facilities and have been credited with greatly reducing air pollution around the planet. We reached Dr. Hill at his Santa Fe home. Hill continues to defend Oppenheimer’s patriotism and loyalty as he has since President Truman branded the missing physicist a traitor in league with communist factions.”\nHILL: “The consensus was that the specter of atomic warfare and destruction would come to eclipse any prospect of science in the public interest. We’ve harnessed the power of the atom to save lives and provide clean, safe energy. I posit we’d never have put men and women on Mars nor developed a seamless worldwide web of satellite communications and technology had we created a world occupied solely with averting global apocalypse.”\nWALLACE: “Not everyone concurs with your assessment. Ret. Major General Boris Pash, who headed up the investigation into Oppenheimer’s disappearance in 1944, argues you and your colleagues withheld vital scientific information that might have ended the war four to five years earlier, saving, in his words, ‘countless American and civilian Japanese lives.’ And to this day, Pash believes Oppenheimer was complicit either in your deception or acts of espionage. He’s pushing the Justice Department to bring formal charges against what he called ‘the Manhattan Conspirators.’ Your response?”\nHILL: Mr. Wallace, I’d invite you to imagine a football stadium filled to the rafters with all those American, British, Australian, Russian, Japanese casualties. Then imagine dropping a bomb that would wipe out an area five, 10, 100 miles around that stadium. Then look ahead at the radioactive wastes that would linger in the air above that area for months, possibly years, that might carry across hundred, possibly thousands of miles. Multiply that by as many bombs as it might take to prove we mean business. As for Dr. Oppenheimer, you have to understand the exhaustion and stress we were all under. Robert’s way of dealing with that pressure, his doubts about the work and its consequences, was to ride the mountain trails around Los Alamos, through the Sangre de Cristo and the Jemez Mountain Ranges. He loved New Mexico, and he loved his horses. We were on the verge of a key breakthrough at that point, and he vanished shortly after supper. Most of us knew where he’d probably gone, and when they found his horse wandering around the plateau about three miles off, we figured he’d met up with some kind of misadventure. Dr. Oppenheimer would never have let that animal to languish in the wilds. That was something General Groves and his men would never understand.”\n**\nIt was a small item on the Sunday news feed, but the Taos byline had caught my eye. A massive flash flood had uncovered and a trio of hikers had discovered what looked to be the skeletal remains of two adult males, one wrapped in the shreds of a decomposed wool blanket. A couple ribs shattered by one bullet, another bullet found rattling around in his companion’s punctured skull.\nThey’ll surprise you, all right. And with ‘em, the rest come surging back. The soldiers, the flyers, the privates and colonels and generals, the moms and dads and sons and daughters caught in the spitfire, the moms and dads and sons and daughters snared in limbo merely for being the face of the enemy or a fair enough approximation. The odd horseman with the tortured eyes who’d suffered such indignity and injustice for taking a midnight ride.\nI’d taken a single souvenir that night in the forest. Secreted it away to the Pacific, on the second great California migration to find that golden pot in the airplane plants and the aeronautics trade. Tucked it in a bedroom drawer through a marriage, two sons, a funeral and two graduations. Buried it deep packing for that one final job far but not far enough away.\nNow, it seemed, was the time. It’d been a tough week in the field, and I’d hoped to catch the satellite feed of 60 Minutes and maybe Columbo, but this finally seemed the time.\nI set the yellowing badge – No. 76, I guessed how the brass kept track of their college boys – on top of the TV monitor, trying not to look in those damnably damned eyes this time. Bye, J.R.\nThen I wrote this for you, whoever you wind up being. You can see the right people get it.\nThen I think I’ll step out for a bit of air. The desert is beautiful at night, especially in the high beams of a double moon." } ]
[ { "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: The Practice\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1667\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When you were in high school or maybe you still are, obtaining the knowledge of multiple subjects and then writing about them for seven hours a day, every day, it was or is probably overwhelming to do. Or maybe that first bit came easily to you. Or you were that one student that was always scared of what the day might come to. Like, something so traumatizing and downright frightening could take place, right in the middle of class! Unfortunately, this fear was not thought of at all when something so horrifying took place at a young girl’s high school on May 19th, 1988. This is the story of a 16-year-old girl by the name, of Jade Moon.\n A slight breeze, so soft that it could barely be felt came through the window on the wall that was left of the bed, it very softly grazed upon Jades’ rosy cheeks. The breeze slowly drifted around her room but at a human-like pace, suddenly, Jades’ alarm had awoken her. She continued to soundly sleep, before quickly sitting up in her bed and turning off the alarm, which was going to fall from the bedside table before she had abruptly stopped it from doing so. Jade wiped her eyes as she got out of bed to get ready for school. After Jade had put her clothes on, she began to apply a soft pink gloss to her pale, but full lips. She leaned in closer to her vanity mirror, looking into her ocean-blue eyes, while also glancing at her long wavey blonde hair that reached down to her lower back, then she applied a thin layer of black mascara to her eyelashes. When Jade finished applying her mascara she stood up and walked over to her tall mirror that was sitting as still as a rock in the corner of the bedroom to the far right of her bed that was now made. Jade stood as ice in front of the tall mirror, looking at her white shoes, then she moves her eyes towards the outfit she had put on. She is wearing her light-blue bell bottoms and a thin white shirt with long sleeves that fan out toward the end, she had also remembered to put on a white noodle-strap tank top under her shirt just in case. Jade then turns her attention to her alarm clock and a rush of panic falls over her head, as she quickly shoves her volleyball uniform into her backpack along with her homework from Thursday that she had left out overnight. I’m going to be late if I don’t get a move on it! Jade scarcely thought. She runs out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen and looks around for the car keys, but she can’t seem to find them anywhere. Then something on the refrigerator catches her attention, she walks closer and realizes that it was a note from her mom which read, “Dear Jade, my work asked me to come in early this morning and I had to take the car. I’m very sorry, I promise to make it up to you when I get home. With loads of love, Mom”. Jade rolls her eyes in a forgiveness-like way, then starts making her way to school.\n As Jade walked into the high school, she felt a very sharp burst of excitement in her veins because, not only did she make it to school early but, she also has volleyball practice at the end of her first class today, instead of at the end of the school day, which usually left her dead tired. Jade walks down the long hallway ending at her classroom. She walks into the class and takes her seat as the teacher checks her name off on the attendance board, Jade then realizes that she wasn’t early, in fact, she just barely made it because she was the last student to enter the classroom. Jade pulls out her all-yellow notebook, then places it on her desk, and reaches back into her bag to grab a pencil. Mr. Cobalt, which is Jade’s algebra teacher, starts to explain what he was going to instruct the students today. As Jade is taking notes, she starts to feel extremely tired and her head started throbbing, with each throb, she felt a sharp pain in the back of her head. She decided to put her head down hoping it would stop the pain. After forty-five minutes pass Jade put her head back up, but she couldn’t see that her face was very pale, her once rosy cheeks were now cold as ice, and her soft pink lips now looked white as snow with a hint of purple, and her once alive eyes now had bags, with all of this she looked like death itself. Jade, very snail-like, glanced at Mr. Cobalt, then they made eye contact, “Jade, you need to go to the nurse’s office right now!” he said, “B-but why, sir?” replied Jade, Mr. Cobalt looks at Jade, then looks down towards her desk and nodded, motioning his head to get Jade to look down at her desk, this she understood. So, she looked down at her desk and saw a little puddle of blood just as another drop fell, then she knew why, her nose was bleeding! She grabbed all her things and quickly tucked them into her bag as she put the long strap around her shoulder. In a hurry, she rushed out of the class to the nurse’s office. “Welcome in, how can I help- Oh dear! Let me grab an ice pack and some cotton balls for you!” Nurse Joy said in a sweet but frightened voice at the sight of Jade’s death-like look and her bleeding nose. Jade let Nurse Joy wipe the blood from her face so that she could place the cotton ball under her nose. Once Jade was holding the cotton in place, Nurse Joy told her to look up to stop the bleeding, then she asked Jade if she wanted to call home. Jade didn’t want to go home though because of volleyball practice, so Jade shook her head saying, “No thank you.” After a while of waiting, Jade shifted her attention toward the bathroom, then she got up and went in to look in the mirror, “Nurse Joy, the bleeding stopped!” The nurse looked at Jade just in case, but the bleeding had stopped, so Jade was free to go even though she still looked half dead. As Jade started her way back to Algebra the school bell rang, which meant it was time for volleyball practice. Out of excitement, Jade ran as fast as she could to get there.\n In the girls’ locker room, as Jade was getting her gym shorts and shirt on, she noticed someone, a girl with long red hair and the perfect body shape, Jessica Thompson, a rude rich girl that thinks she’s better than everyone. Then Jade realized that she was headed right to her! Jessica shoved Jade out of her way and just continued to walk by like nothing even touched her. This incident made Jade furious and soon Jessica would regret that. When the girls left the locker room teams were chosen for a practice match. Jade noticed that Jessica was on the opposite team and Jade was still terribly upset with Jessica. Jade was chosen by the team leader to spike the ball, but instead of spiking it, she looked dead in Jessica’s eyes and throws the ball straight at her, but Jade somehow threw the ball so hard that it cut through the net like a knife and hit Jessica right in the chest, the blow to the chest sent Jessica flying backward into the concrete wall that was behind her, Jessica had hit the wall so hard that when she slammed into it, you could hear several cracks as Jessica slid to the floor unconscious. Everyone turned from looking at poor Jessica to slowly staring at Jade, but when they did everyone froze in horror. Jade Had a blank expression on her face, but the reason why they were all staring at her was obvious, Jade’s eyes are all white and her hair ever so slowly faded from blonde to a deep dark purple as she was now starting to hover over the floor as she got higher, the high school shook, then right from under Jade, cracks start to form causing the students to panic and run around in fear. The floor stopped shaking and the students could see what once large cracks in the ground had now formed a giant cave-like hole, leading deep down into the earth. Without any notice, a huge claw-like hand reaches out from the hole, grabs Jade by her legs, and quickly snatches her into the dark abyss all while she kept her blank expression the same as if she were in some sort of trance. After a moment or so passed, a loud growl can be very well heard coming from deep within the hole, causing everybody to panic again. After another moment or so passed, another growl can be heard from within the hole, this one being much louder than the last.\nWith this, followed a ground-shaking rumble from the hole, it stopped for only five seconds, just to start again then stop again. This continued over and over, each time getting more louder than the last while reaching closer and closer to the surface of the cave-like hole. When all of what seemed like hours of torture, everything went to complete silence. Right when the panicking students started to gather what had happened, a loud roar shook the floor from the surface of the hole. After this roar, EMERGING FROM THE HOLE WAS A GIANT BEAST LI- “Okay class! Pop quiz!” Mr. Cobalt said as Jade quickly woke up at the sound of his voice. \"Did I fall asleep when I put my head down?\"…" } ]
[ { "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: Nineteen Sixty-Five Mustang\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2976\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story from the point of view of a non-human character." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The story I am about to tell you is as incredible as anything you have ever heard and the fact that I’m the one telling you this story is even more unbelievable. From my glimmering front bumper to my cherry red tail lights, I am a first generation Ford Mustang, one of the first real muscle cars on the road and for reasons I do not know, became known as a pony car. I came from the factory in San Jose in 1965 and was purchased by Isaac Reynolds. Nothing about that is incredible, I know, but what follows is. I must admit, some of this story is conjecture, because I do not always understand the human world, but I will do my best.\nBill Owens sat at his desk going over his latest sales figures. For reasons he could not seem to come up with a reason why sales were down on new model Fords like the Fairlane and Falcon which he was told would be the next best thing in the automotive world, but he saw that this did not quite pan out. Neither model seemed very popular. \n“Mustang?” He shook his head. Like magic as soon as he spoke, a truck carrying ten new model Mustangs pulled into the lot. Bill stood there staring at the new cars on the trailer. “What the heck is that?” \n“Mustangs.” His boss told him.\n“But they are so small. Who in their right mind would want one of those contraptions.” He shook his head.\n“Apparently they are selling like hot cakes back east.” His boss informed him.\n“Yeah, I just don’t see the appeal for our west coast crowd.” He shrugged.\nAfter a month of torrid sales on the new pony car, Isaac Reynolds walked in. Bill cordially greeted him with a wave, “Hello, I’m Bill Owens.”\n“I’m Isaac Reynolds.” The shy teenager shook the salesman’s hand.\n“Isaac, is there anything I can show you?” Bill asked as Isaac drifted over to the shiny new Mustang on the sales floor. \n“This is our newest model, the Mustang.” Bill stood next to Isaac.\n“I love it.” His voice was soft as a whisper, but his eyes were fixed on the convertible as if he had just fallen deeply in love.\n“Do you like this, Isaac? Would you like to take one for a spin?” Bill asked the bedazzled customer.\n“Could I?” His smile grew. Bill dangled the keys in front of his face.\nEven from the first time Isaac turned the key in my ignition and stepped on the gas, I could tell he was a good driver. In those days Stockton was considered a blue collar town south of Sacramento. Most of the roads were rough and full of potholes, but Isaac took his time as Bill continued to read off some of my special features.\n“This beauty is part of the GT Equipment Package…” Bill explained as Isaac continued to drive down some of the rough Stockton roads. \n“T-code\" engine that produced 120 hp with a C-code\" 289 cubic inch 4.7 Liter engine and a two-barrel carburetor as the base V8. Comes with an A-code 25 horse powered four-barrel carburetor…” Bill rattled on about me from the brochure his boss had him memorize. \nIsaac pulled into the lot parking in front of the showroom of the Ford Dealership. \n“Whadda think, kid?” Bill held out his hand as Isaac dropped the keys in his palm. \n“Isaac, I just don’t see what the big deal is about this car.” Isaac brought his father Frank Reynolds into the dealership.\n“Wait till you see it, dad.” Isaac was excited as he could be. \n“So, I have seen Fords before and believe me, Fords are nothing to be excited about.” He shook his head. Bill saw them enter the showroom and was on his feet.\n“Good evening, you must be this young man’s father.” Bill shook Frank’s hand.\n“Yes.” He carried himself like a Doubting Thomas as he looked into Owens’ eyes.\n“Did he tell you about this car?” Bill waved his open hand over the Mustang on the showroom floor. “Here it is.” \nFrand scanned the car, tilted his head and inquired, “So, where’s the rest of the car?”\nAfter some finagling and begging, Isaac managed to purchase me. His father wondered aloud how come the price was so high, but when Isaac told him he had most of the money saved up from his job at the deli, Frank Reynolds agreed to let his son buy me. \nHe drove me to school, whatever that was and came out one afternoon holding Rachel’s hand. I would learn that Rachel Matthews was Isaac’s girlfriend. After spending most of the day in the school parking lot where a lot of much bigger cars with fins and chrome, he would come out holding Rachel’s hand and they would go to a burger place where they played the loudest music over speakers as girls on roller skates zipped around between the cars with burgers, fries and shakes. Isaac always got Rachel a burger and a vanilla shake while he feasted on a really large burger and fries.\n“The draft board called me this afternoon.” Isaac said as he put his arm around Rachel.\n“What did they want?” She asked, sipping on the straw to her milkshake.\n“They asked if I would serve in the army if my number got called.” He turned his head to look at her. \n“And what did you say?” Her face narrowed as she considered he might leave to join the army.\n“I said I would be proud to serve.” He sniffed, “Just like my dad did during the war in Europe.” \nShe reached out and pulled him closer to her, with tears in her eyes, “Oh Isaac, I would die if you left me.” \n“I ain’t leaving you. You’d come with me.” He smiled and kissed her on the forehead.\n“Leave Stockton? I don’t want to leave Stockton. All my friends are here.” She sniffed and wiped the tear from her cheek.\n“Are you kidding? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in this dump?” He chuckled.\n“This place isn’t so bad.” She shook her head.\n“There are other places in the world. Better places.” He kissed her on the lips. He knew with his charm, he could talk her into anything. \nSo days passed where I would wait until the end of school when he and Rachel would drive off together. Sometimes they would be content parking on this hill and spend some time kissing each other. Rachel would remind him that she needed to get home before dark. And though Isaac did not seem too eager to comply with her request, he always did what she asked.\nOne day I learned that Isaac was going to graduate from this school. I’m not sure what that meant exactly, but he seemed to be very happy with this graduation thing.\nI found out that graduation included him getting dressed up in a cap and gown, but all I knew was that he looked rather odd in his costume. Rachel wore a costume just like his. There were lots of people at this graduation thing and lots of shouting and cheering went along with it. Afterwards Rachel and him rode off to a beach near San Jose where they sat on the shore and watched the sunset.\n“Are you sure about this?” Rachel asked as Isaac knelt in the sand in front of her.\n“As sure as anything.” He kissed her.\n“Then yes, I will marry you.” She put her arms around her.\nI did not know what was happening, but they continued to kiss as they walked back toward me. He drove her to a place called a motel along the highway. I spent the night in the parking lot with a couple of other cars.\n“What are you supposed to be?” A big Chevrolet parked nearby asked me.\n“A Mustang.” I answered.\n“OOO, one of those new models.” The Chevy remarked. “Hear that? This is the future we’ve been hearing about.”\n“I remember when I was new. All shiny in all my chrome places.” A beat up old Studebaker moaned from the darkest shadows. \n“Yeah, we’ll never see those days again, eh Mona?” The Chevy remarked.\nI felt bad parked in that lot, because I knew one day, I would be just like them.\nThe other cars each commented on who and what I was. \nThe next morning Rachel and Isaac came out of their room.\n“What are we gonna tell my folks?” Rachel asked.\n“That we got hitched.” Isaac grabbed her hand.\n“This is just an engagement ring/” She shook her head.\n“Let’s get married in town.” Isaac shrugged.\n“Can we do that?” She looked around in case someone was listening. \n“Can and will.” He kissed her.\nWe drove for a few miles through San Jose until he pointed to a place that advertised a marriage chapel. In less than an hour Isaac and Rachel were married. Once again, I am not very clear on this, but they both seemed happy.\nTwo years later, Isaac got a letter from the army. He raced into their apartment where Rachel was preparing dinner.\n“I got it. I got my draft notice.” Isaac waved it in front of her face. She was not happy. “I leave next month.” \n“Great.” She tried to smile.\n“Don’t worry, once I’m done with basic training, you and I will be assigned to army housing.” He explained.\nFrank came over for dinner one night just before Isaac was shipped off to basic training.\n“I’ve been hearing that this Vietnam thing was a big mistake.” Frank commented after dinner.\n“Dad, you were in the war.” Isaac said.\n“Things were different.” He glanced at Rachel who was on the verge of tears.\n“I hear the enemy lives in grass huts.” Isaac shrugged.\n“I’ve heard that a lot of our boys are green to this guerilla fighting.” Frank tilted his head as he drank his coffee.\n“I’ll be alright.” Isaac shook his head a bit ticked off that his father was not on his side. \nOne day, Isaac Reynolds was gone to boot camp as he called it. Rachel sat on their porch and cried for two days after he left. When she stopped crying, she drove me to Reynolds’ house. \n“I’m pregnant.” Rachel confessed to Mary, Isaac’s mother.\n“Oh my God, that is wonderful.” Mary hugged Rachel.\n“Is it?” She scowled.\n“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mary was confused. \n“Because he just got orders to a combat unit in Vietnam.” She began to cry.\n“Oh dear, it will be okay. He’ll be home before you know it.” She took Rachel’s hands. \nOnce again this story gets confusing to me, because Rachel went to the army hospital while she was pregnant and was told the baby was coming just fine. Everything was just fine until she got a letter in the mail that started out with the opening line:\nMrs. Reynolds, we regret to inform you that your husband, Isaac Reynolds was K.I.A…”\nShe sat on the porch and sobbed. To make matters worse, the army hospital refused to assist her with delivery since Isaac Reynolds was K.I.A. I later found out that was the army’s way of saying he was killed in action. Frank drove me to the funeral with Mary sitting in the passenger’s seat.\n“He loved this car.” Frank replied.\n“Please Frank, don’t-” Mary requested as she held up her hand.\n“Drives better than any Ford I’ve ever been in.” He mumbled as Mary pretended to ignore him. \n“My brother Daryl said he can store it in his barn.” Mary gave him the eye.\n“And then what?” Frank asked.\n“It’s up to Rachel.” Mary answered.\n“She’s having a baby.” He shook his head, “Ain’t thinking straight.” \n“Belonged to her husband.” Mary glared at him.\n“Never shoudda gotten married so young.” Frank squawked.\n“Ain’t right he’s dead either, but you can’t change that now can you?” She crossed her arms over her chest. \nThe barn was nothing but a storage area since Daryl had sold off all of his livestock. When they parked me, I had no idea that I would be here for as long as I was. Daryl and Annie, his wife celebrated when Rachel gave birth to a baby boy she would name Shawn. \nAs for me, I would go into a hibernation that would last for twenty years in Daryl’s barn. Days became months and months, years. I felt the rust creep up my metal parts even though I stayed dry for the most part until some of the ceiling started caving in. \nHe did come out to the barn to smoke his cigars that Annie despised the pungent odor hovering in her home. \n“You were one of the last American made cars that was worth a crap.” Daryl would talk to me as if I was a friend. As far as I could tell, he didn’t have anyone to talk to except me and the whippoorwills as he smoked his cigar. “Would be good if someone would put you back together.” \nIt came as a shock to me when a wrecking truck pulled up in the driveway to take me to the junkyard for scrap metal. I knew about such horrible places, but I never felt that Daryl would betray me this way. The man put the chain on my bumper and began the automatic crank. My tires began to move for the first time in almost twenty years, but I did not want to go where this man was taking me. \n“Damn shame.” He ran his fingers across my hood, “This is still a pretty car, but who am I to question the decisions of them who’s paying me.” \nI guess I must have still been worth something when a man paid the man at the wrecking yard money to take me home with him.\n“Well Hank, the Mustang is all yours.” The man put the money in his antique cash register. \n“Not just a Mustang, it’s a 1965 Mustang, a vintage model engineered by Lee Ioaccca. The man was a genius.” Hank replied as he and his son loaded me on a trailer and drove me home to Bakersfield. \nOnce we got there, Hank put me in his garage where he had a lot of shiny tools and a big workbench. He turned to his son, “Tomorrow we will start restoring this old classic.”\n“Sure dad.” His son nodded and went inside the house.\nTrue to his word, Hank began taking my old worn out parts and replacing them with newer ones. The more he and his son worked on me, the better I began to feel. I was feeling like my old self again.\n“Try her out.” Hank said to his son a few weeks later as he tossed him the keys.\n“Sure dad.” He smiled.\n“Just down to the convenience store and back. Get us a couple of big sodas.” He handed his son some money. He then ran his hand over my hood, “Gonna have you in the Bakersfield Parade this summer.” \nThat would never happen, because Shawn Reynolds began making some inquiries about his father. While his mother answered most of them, he asked what his father liked when he was alive. She thought for a minute and then told him about me.\n“I would sure love to have that car.” He said looking out his bedroom window.\n“My brother Daryl had it in his barn for the longest time, but then he just had it hauled away to the wrecking yard.” She sighed.\n“Why would he do that?” Shawn was upset that his uncle would do such a thing.\n“It was old and rusty.” She kissed him on the cheek.\nShawn could not accept his uncle having the car taken away and he began to do some investigating. He found everything he could about the other Mustangs like me and then he began to contact dealers and car restoring services. He managed to get a hold of a parts dealer who told him about Hank Hardman. \n“Mom, I want to go to Bakersfield.” He told her as he worked on his Fiat clunker.\n“What for?” She asked.\n“Someone down there told me about a guy who might have my father’s Mustang.” \n“May I go with you?” She asked, “I know what that car looked like.”\n“Are you sure?” Shawn asked her.\n“When are we going?” \nI had no idea that this was happening, but Shawn and Rachel drove down after verifying he had the Mustang. I don’t know what took place, but one afternoon Shawn and Rachel drove into Hank’s driveway where they were greeted by Hank and Pam Hardman.\nI could not believe when the garage door opened up that Shawn looked so much like his father. I knew Rachel right off even though she had aged a bit, her smile was still the same.\n“It was his Mustang.” She put her hands to her face.\n“It is?” Shawn looked at her for verification, but he knew immediately that I was in fact his father’s car.\n“Oh my God, it was his car.” She began to tear up.\n“How much?” Shawn turned to Hank. \nHank stood there and sighed. “Killed in Vietnam?” \n“Yes sir.” Shawn nodded.\n“Son, your country owes a lot to him and the least we can do is give him his car back.” Hank wiped a tear from his cheek, “So if you promise me you will drive it down to Bakersfield for the parade and drive it in the parade, You may take it home.” \nWith tears in his eyes, he handed Shawn the keys.\nShawn kept his word and I was home at long last." } ]
[ { "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 Goddess Goes to High School\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 3012\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Athena was rendered exhausted at the mere thought of her days on Olympus. Everywhere she looked, there was a hero who needed assistance. Some brute with oiled-up cords of muscle, its only purpose to compensate for the empty space taking up the inside of his skull, would get himself into some wholly-avoidable imperilment. \nAnd a hero in trouble only knew of one goddess to call upon. Athena was obligated to support whatever chauvinistic, elaborate quest or war or feud the hero would otherwise fail. \nIt was all so dramatic. The Trojan war had come and gone in the blink of an eye for a deity like Athena; but for the mortals fighting it, their lives became entwined with the battle. Achilles had needed her support, and she hadn’t had much of a choice in giving it to him. \nHe’d repaid her by dragging Hector’s body like a parade in front of the gates of Troy. She’d stood there watching, realization washing over her. She was so tired of being the goddess of War. \nOdysseus had needed Athena to sweet-talk Zeus and argue for his release, and she’d demonstrated the kind of logic and reason she was known for. Goddess of Wisdom. \nHelper of Heroes.\nThe goddess was tired.\nAbout three thousand years had gone by, and heroes weren’t around anymore, at least not heroes like Heracles and Tydeus, the latter of which still made her sick to her stomach to recall.\nTotal immortality would have been his, if only Athena hadn’t caught him snacking on the brains of the enemy.\n The heroes of the modern world were different, and they didn’t burn offerings to the goddess. There were a few altars and shrines dedicated to her, sure, but those almost always belonged to spiritual hippies burning incense they purchased at a shopping mall and wearing drapey clothing made by underpaid sweatshop workers.\nHeroes were firefighters, doctors, and nurses.\nTeachers. Teachers were heroes, too. Athena had a millennia's worth of knowledge. She’d often observed the teachers of Ancient Greece.\nAthena thought that perhaps it was time for her to give it a shot. Perhaps it was her turn to be the hero.\n\nHer quest for a quieter, more meaningful existence began in Lockwood, Michigan. There wasn’t a particular reason for her choice, but a slight pull to the name when she’d been looking over a map of the U.S. trying to make her decision. Her grey eyes had kept trailing back to the state shaped like a mitten and the small type marking the small area of the small town of Lockwood.\nSmall. Quiet. Perfect. \nLuckily for her, Lockwood Community High School had a need for an eleventh-grade history teacher, and luckily for Lockwood Community High School, Athena had a very realistic resume and even a real reference. \nShe wouldn’t owe Circe for the favor. The goddess had spared the life of the nymph's child, after all. \nHer first day was mid-way through the school year. \n“I won’t lie to you,” the superintendent, Ms. Branch, told her as she walked Athena to her classroom. It was after school hours, so the halls were empty. She beamed with excitement. Everything looked so dull. Simple and boring and so wonderfully dull. \n“I’d hope not,” Athena said, stopping next to the door the stout woman gestured to. \n“These students,” she shook her head, slid one of her many jingling keys into the doorknob, and pushed into the room, flipping the light on as she entered. “They’ve run off half a dozen substitutes this year. I had to petition the school board and the state to give them another chance at the standardized tests once we find a teacher.”\n“Standardized tests,” Athena repeated, overwhelmed with everything around the room. There were crooked rows of graffitied desks. The floor was littered with paper and pencils. There was a single dry-erase marker on the little shelf beneath the whiteboard. Athena walked over to it as the superintendent drolled on.\nAthena opened the marker and tested it on the dirty whiteboard. The marker was dead. She tossed it into the almost-full wastebasket sitting on the floor beneath what looked like the teacher’s desk. \n“They are disrespectful, loud. They feed off of each other’s mischief,” Ms. Branch wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, as if exhausted even thinking about Athena’s first class. “There are a few good ones in the bunch. The others, though…” Ms. Branch shuddered, shoving her hands into the pockets of her plaid blazer and staring wide-eyed at the goddess.\nAthena thought she’d let her glamour slip and was accidentally blinding this very tired, hard-working superintendent with her divine form. She realized after a moment that the woman was waiting for her to respond.\n“I’m certain I’ve handled worse,” she said sheepishly.\nRelief flooded the superintendent’s face. She looked like she wanted to reach out and embrace the goddess. Athena hoped very deeply that she would not.\n“So you’ll do it?” Ms. Branch asked, her tone expectant, like she was finally tasting hope after going too long without it. \n“Teach the class?” Athena asked, confused. “Of course. I already accepted the job.”\n“And the testing?” she asked. “I know it’s rather unconventional, but it was the only option I had. Not to mention the parents. ‘How is my kid passing every class except history?’ they ask. ‘My taxes pay your salary,’ they tell me. Every day, a phone call. A disgruntled mother wondering what I’m going to do about her little crotch-gobblin’s GPA. Well, I’ll just tell you something-”\n“Ms. Branch,” Athena interrupted. “Forgive me, but what part of this job is unconventional? It’s just history, right?”\n“History, of course. And, more importantly, the testing. Without the testing, there’s no funding,” Ms. Branch explained. “At least 75 percent of these students must pass their make-up test at the end of the year. If they don’t succeed, the school board will assume you’ve failed. You’ll be out of a job, Ms. Apollo.”\nShe was startled by the use of her fake name. She didn’t have a particular affinity for the better half of the divine twins. It had just been the first name to come to mind.\nMostly, the goddess was startled by the superintendent’s explanation.\nShe’d thought that she had found her simple, boring quiet, but the work seemed like it would be far from simple and quiet. Even farther from boring. \nShe got her keys to the classroom and the school before saying goodbye to the stout, jittery superintendent. Turning back to look at her classroom, she took a deep breath, set her keys down on the desk, and started working. \n\nShe’d just made it back to the room from the supply closet down the hall with arms full of various supplies and a box of fresh dry-erase markers, when she felt a familiar presence.\n“Zeus,” she said in greeting. She didn’t bother turning around. The King of the Gods was everywhere and nowhere all at once, usually being altogether inappropriate and cruel to mortals who made the mistake of catching his eye.\n“You are allowed to call me ‘father,’ you know,” the god reminded her, as always.\n“I have no desire to,” Athena replied. When she turned, she saw him draped in one of the desks, one arm thrown lazily behind his head. He was wearing a janitor’s uniform. Athena chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Not really.\nZeus clicked his tongue in disappointment. “What have you gotten yourself into, daughter?”\n“What concern of yours is my current employment? My job is to support heroes,” she said, inching closer to him. “And heroes don’t look like they did a few centuries ago.”\n“If that woman with the horrible jacket is to be believed,” he said, inspecting his nails, “your job isn’t really a sure thing, is it?”\nHe’d overheard. Of course. \n“That woman seems to have given you an ultimatum.”\nAthena swallowed, anxiety bubbling up in her belly. Zeus loved ultimatums.\n“So I figured I’d do the same.”\nShocking, Athena thought.\n“Hades has a few heroes down in that decrepit underworld of his. No one well-known, but heroes nonetheless,” he drawled. “I figure it’d be quite thrilling to take them back. And to do that, I would need the Goddess of Heroes to assist me.”\n“No thanks,” Athena said, maintaining a calm tone even as her heart beat so intensely it pounded in her ears. \n“That’s where the ultimatum comes in,” Zeus continued, ignoring her as usual. “If you are relieved of your position here…”\n“I have to help you drag Odysseus’ lackeys out of Hell,” she finished. Zeus nodded, wearing a devious grin. \n“Teach well, Athena,” the god said with a wink.\n\nThe first student to arrive the next day was one of the good ones.\nShe’d arranged her mousy hair into a bun. There was a zip-up trapper keeper beneath her left arm. Her right was extended, just as eager as the look on her face.\n“You’re a real teacher?” she asked expectantly. Athena nodded, shaking the girl’s hand. “I’m Emma. Excited to learn!”\nAthena’s heart soared. As Emma sat down at a desk in the front row, a group of students entered behind her. Five boys, all dressed in the same uniform of jeans and a t-shirt with the logo of the school’s mascot. The Lockwood Ligers.\nNone of the boys greeted her. Instead, they each stuck a wad of gum to Athena’s desk and smirked as they took their seats in the back corner. More students flooded in, a few of them walking past Athena’s desk to stick their gum to it.\nAthena supposed she should go shut the door and quiet the students’ chatter. But she could only stare at the disgusting pile of gum on her desk. \nShe’d conquered heroes. Was high school really going to be the thing to finally do her in?\n\nAny attempt at disciplining them had only ended in half the class being sent to the hall or the principal’s office. She’d given up on trying to figure out who choreographed the stunt with the gum. By the end of the day, she knew it had been Pete. \nHe was the bringer of mischief. He would need to be dealt with if she had any hope of avoiding a trip to Hell. Her lesson on Mesopotamia was ignored. \n\nThe first month passed in a blur. Pete and the boys sitting next to him threw wads of paper at her. They talked through every lesson she tried to teach. They even stole her lunch from under her desk when she slipped out to make copies of a worksheet about Central American architecture.\n“How is it?” Ms. Branch asked, cornering Athena by the copier. \n“It’s…” Athena was at a loss for words. The superintendent nodded knowingly.\n“Just keep trying,” she said. \nShe’d been locked out of the classroom. A phallus was drawn on the board, and more gum was piled up on her desk.\nBy Friday, Athena was exhausted, “go to the hallway” no longer had any meaning, and Hell was starting to sound okay.\n\nThe first practice test two weeks later was a failure. 25 percent of the class passed. Surprisingly, Ms. Branch burst into her classroom after the students had gone home, looking exceedingly pleased with herself. \n“Twenty-five percent!” she squealed. \n“I know,” Athena said, ready to explain herself.\n“It was only five percent when you got here,” Ms. Branch beamed.\nFor a second, Athena let herself beam, too.\n\n“The ancient Greeks sound gay,” Pete shouted. \nShe was so tired of hearing his barely-developed, pompous little voice. She was tired of trying to get him to care. \n“Actually,” she began, writing a few familiar names on the board. Names that would be familiar to anyone with knowledge of ancient Greece, even knowledge that came from a Disney movie. “It wasn’t uncommon in those days for two men to be lovers. There was more to ancient Greece than homosexuality, though.”\nMuch more, she thought.\n“Can anyone tell me the names of three famous Greek teachers?” she asked. Emma and a few of the others raised their hands, but Athena’s eyes caught on another hand waving in the air. \nBrandon. One of Pete’s friends. He wasn’t known to contribute anything but shenanigans to the class, so Athena was intrigued. She hesitantly called on him.\n“Socrates, Aristotle, and Plate,” he announced with confidence. Pete shot him a look, Brandon ignored him, beaming with pride.\n“It’s actually Plato,” she said, turning to add the names he’d said to the board, “but yes, you’re exactly right.”\nAs she continued with the rest of the lesson, explaining what the ancient Greeks were all about and what the class could learn from them, she heard silence from the back corner of the room.\n\nThe next round of practice tests was handed out a few weeks later. Someone from the state came in to administer it. After the students finished, the thin, bespeckled administrator gathered his things and shook Athena’s hand.\n“I only had to give ‘no credit’ to two students who were talking. It was eight last time,” he explained. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing, Ms. Apollo.”\n\nFifty-three percent of the class had passed the practice test. With four weeks left until the final practice and not much longer to prepare for the final, Athena had ancient history coming out of her ears. The only thing she hadn’t covered, which was proven by the questions her students missed on the practice tests, was the history of the Chinese Empire.\nShe had a little over a month to teach twenty-six sixteen-year-olds everything she could about multiple decades-long dynasties. \nInstead, she asked her class a question.\n“It’s not a secret that many of you are doing much better, and I’m very proud,” she said, leaning on her desk. “But I’d really like to know why. What is working? What is helping you learn?”\nHer eyes found Pete, who had been maddeningly close to passing the last practice test. He showed no interest in sharing, but Brandon did. He raised his hand and Athena called on him.\n“I think by not giving us any attention, we got bored of messing with you,” he admitted. “We were forced to learn because you actually taught. The rest of the substitutes just yelled at us all day.”\n“If Ms. Branch is to be believed, I think a few of you deserved to be yelled at,” Athena said. A few students chuckled, even Pete. “Anything else?”\n“You connect history to things in my life,” another student said. “Makes it easier to understand.”\n“You have a nice voice,” a very large young man in a football jersey said. “It's nice to listen to you talk about, you know, old people and stuff. ‘Cuz you don’t have a shitty voice.”\n“Thank you, Bradley,” Athena said with a small smile. “Please watch your language, though.”\nOne by one, the students raised their hands and told her what they liked about her class. A few of them had suggestions. She made a note to add more open discussions at their request. Her small smile was growing, and when she walked out of the school that evening, she was beaming again.\n\nSixty-eight percent of her class passed the last practice test. She didn’t have time to be excited because the real test was only a few weeks away. She tallied the most-missed questions on all three tests and created another test of her own. They worked through the hard questions together, had open discussions, and buckled down.\n\nOn the day of the test, the students shuffled into the gym and sat at tables that had been set up for them. The same test administrator stood at the front of the room. He walked the class through how to fill in the bubbles, started the timer, and the test began.\nAthena waited outside the gym for what felt like an eternity, and she would know what that felt like. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been nervous.\nIt didn’t matter what peril and stress she’d persevered through as the Goddess of War and Wisdom. Being a high school history teacher was going to give her high blood pressure, if such a thing was even possible.\n\nEmma was, unsurprisingly, the first one to filter out of the gym. As the others finished, they said goodbye to their teacher, gathered their things, and left to await the results.\n\nMs. Branch always knocked before entering Athena’s room, but the following Monday, she burst into the classroom in a flurry of plaid and excitement. She almost asked Ms. Branch to wait to give her the results until the students arrived. \n“Ninety-seven percent!” she squealed before Athena could get a word in. “Ms. Apollo! I don’t know how, but you’ve done it!” \nAthena could have cried. \nWhen she gave the class the good news, they were equally as thrilled. Even Pete cracked a smile. She treated them to a movie instead of a lesson that day, and when class was over, she held Pete back to tell him he’d passed with flying colors.\nHe just shrugged. “You broke me, Ms. A.”\n\nOn the last day of school, there were small gift bags and flowers on her desk instead of wads of gum. She was a little teary as they left that afternoon. A few of them hugged her on their way out. Emma told her that she was the best teacher she’d ever had. Brandon asked her if she was going to come back next year.\n“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted.\nAs she walked through the dark, empty halls of the school and out the front door, her arms full of the gifts of her thankful students, she felt fulfilled. \nBut she was so tired. Perhaps the next year, she’d give preschool a shot. For now, high school had drained her, proved her wrong, and enriched her life like no hero ever had." } ]
[ { "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: Borderline\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2704\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a short story about a teacher or mentor figure who recognizes hidden (or magical!) potential in someone and helps them cultivate it." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "JANE, May 1985\nEverything changed when I got the news. I’m as scared of dying as the next person, but knowing my time here is short makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before. While the blood pulses through my veins, a courage I never knew I had makes me want to live.\nAll my breaths are concentrated as I will my body to continue living; the things that were once bland, frightening, or anything in between, no longer have power over me. With everything in sharp focus, I no longer feel trapped by indecision and fear. \nKnowing the worst is going to happen means I have nothing left to lose. \nMy body may have betrayed me by filling my lungs with cancer cells, but my mind is very much alive. At least, for the moment. The drawing in and out of every precious breath gives me strength, renews me. Where once I trudged through life, now I have a purpose. The way I move, speak and hear things, the way others respond to me; every nuance of the person I’m engaged with is amplified. Highlighted in every feature on each face I encounter, I register fear, happiness, sadness and pain. I have been transformed. \nIf only this knowledge had come another way.\n*\n\nMy stilettos tap along the grey-green 1980’s terrazzo floor of the school’s main corridor. Cleaning agents cannot disguise the slightly mothy atmosphere of the place. \nI’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve passed these green walls featuring glories of former students holding up trophies and awards without paying due attention. Golden moments that have a faded unreality about them. \nClose up, I barely recognise the younger Mrs Dumpling, the present head, rumoured to be on her way out any day now. Hard to believe that’s Valerie Pumberton, her erstwhile deputy, beaming away dutifully in the background. The two have always been inseparable. \nJust ahead, I spot a gaggle of girls clustered about the headteacher’s door, presumably waiting to be reprimanded for some pointless misdemeanour. When they see me, they part like the red sea. That’s a first! Normally, I have had to squirm my through them.\nThis new me feels different. My mouth is no longer dry as I approach the classroom door. I’m almost disappointed my nemesis, Stell Hartless, is not on the other side to greet me in her time-honoured way. I was informed by my glamorous Head of Department, that Stell, a clever pupil who torments anyone she sees as weak, including me, is off sick with glandular fever. For once I would be able to look her in the eye and catch a glimpse of the troubled soul that that I suspect lurks beneath the showy façade. The authentic being, if you like. I’ve always wanted to strip away the hard-as-nails crust and expose the real person.\n\nThe first person I see sitting at one of the scratched wooden-topped desks inspecting the contents of the lid, is Nicky. Nicky, tense on the orange plastic seat, as if waiting for an explosion, a student who simply wants to learn.\nStell derives a perverse pleasure from tormenting Nicky over her cleft lip while awaiting the arrival of a teacher before the lesson begins. I found out about this when the goddess of spite drew back from the blackboard before there was time to wipe off her revolting cartoon featuring the lip on the blackboard.\nShe fancies herself quite the artist, does Stell. \nNot wanting to make things worse for Nicky, I wiped the image away without commenting. Though every instinct made me want to say something, I didn’t want to make things worse for Nicky. Now, I wish I’d spoken up. \n“Weeble’s wobble but they don’t fall down.”\nThey never fail to disappoint, do they? One of Stell’s followers starts the familiar refrain, albeit a little half-heartedly (it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it with the ringleader’s absence). However, I don’t let a minor setback like this flatten me. Not any more. Not now I have nothing left to lose.\n“Settle down,” I hardly recognise my voice as my own. It sounds more authoritative than my usual timorous, “Please be quiet, girls.”\nThey do sit down, with a slightly chastened air. As I start handing out sets of well-thumbed Romeo and Juliet books, thirty or so faces are raised expectantly waiting for me to start the lesson.\nBut I pause. \n“Before we begin, there’s something I want to address. What does that mean? Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. Do tell me.”\nOne of Stell’s followers, whose name is as insubstantial as her character, snickers.\n“It’s from the Weeble toys, you must have heard of them. They always wobble, but don’t fall down.”\nMore snickering, but it quickly dries up.\n“I’m aware of where the name comes from. What I want to know is why you feel the need to repeat it ad infinitum, rather than learn something useful which is why you’re here.”\n“It’s just a lark, miss.”\n“I assume you are referring to my head tremor. If you paid a bit more attention, you’d realise I can’t help it. It’s one of the symptoms of multiple sclerosis.” It seems ironic telling the class this, considering my recent far more serious diagnosis. \n“What is multiple sclerosis?” someone asks. \n“It’s a condition that affects the brain and spinal cord. There are a number of symptoms, but it often causes fatigue; or, in my case, tremors.” \n“Will you die from its, miss?”\n“No, I’m not likely to die from it. It’s usually a slow progressing condition. It’s different for everyone. It’s possible to be in remission for several months, sometimes much longer.” A truly ironic conversation, but there it is.\nI continue boldly where angels fear to tread. \n“What you call having a laugh is actually cruel. There’s nothing funny about laughing at people’s disabilities or how a person looks. Just because someone is a little different from you doesn’t make them less than you.”\nBy the time the lesson ends, I like to think the students have learnt something more than what was on the lesson plan. Shakespeare has much to teach us, but it made a nice change. \nAfter class, the girls troop out to their next lesson. One or two smile at me shyly – as if seeing me for the first time.\nI turn to Nicky who is putting her books into her rucksack. “Mrs Grange was pleased with your last three essays,” I tell her. “I’m going to recommend you get put up a stream, at least in English. Your history teacher is pleased with your progress too. I think you can handle more advanced studies. If you put your mind to it, you could have a good future ahead of you.”\n“Thank you. That means a lot. I hated being put in a group where some of the students didn’t seem to care about studying. I wanted to go to the grammar school, but was told I was borderline. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I must have done badly in the assessments when I joined this school. I felt a failure.”\n“No one should be told they are borderline or a failure,” I replied hotly. “Eleven is rather young to be judging people’s academic abilities, in my opinion. Much can change in the intervening years before you leave school. If it’s any comfort, my father told me that I was borderline in everything except academic ability.”\n“Your father doesn’t sound great, if you don’t mind me saying so.”\n“Say all you like. It’s the truth. I was frightened of him, but I didn’t want to acknowledge how much it affected me.”\nI thought of my downtrodden mother, the tussles between my father and my brother who had fled at the earliest opportunity to make a better life for himself in Australia. I thought of my oldest brother Bill, the only person I’d truly loved, who’d escaped my father’s grip in the saddest way. Honouring his country by flying through the clouds in his Hurricane, keeping us safe during the storms of the London Blitz. Things I found difficult to speak about.\n“Anyway…” I bit my lip. “Make the most of every moment. The education system may not be perfect, but it’s the one we’ve got. Better then nothing. If you keep on like you are, you have a chance of a better life.”\n“You sound like you won’t be with us much longer.” A good pupil always scratches beyond the surface when searching for answers. “I thought you said MS was a slow-progressing condition.”\n“It is, but who knows what the future holds?”\n\n\nBRENDA, August 1985.\nBy the time Stell had recovered from glandular fever and returned to school, Jane was no longer teaching there. \nJane had asked me not to tell anyone about the cancer until “you absolutely have to.” The other teaching staff had their suspicions, of course, especially when Jane suddenly stopped smoking. Jane had always been a heavy smoker and it was an activity we shared together, both in and out of school. We knew it was addictive, but wrapped ourselves around this cocoon of pleasure. Jane amazed me when she told me she had shared her first cigarette with her middle brother in a bombed-out church, of all places, during the war, at the tender age of five! I didn’t have my first cigarette until I was sixteen. \n\nI’d managed to find a hospice for Jane as she couldn’t bear the idea of dying in a hospital ward. During the final days, I stood beside her bed, holding her hand, my heart silently breaking. Her other hand clasped a raggedy old doll close to her chest. She told me she had knitted it as a child for her oldest brother as a good luck charm when he flew his plane during his war missions during the London blitz. \nShe looked so small and frail in that bed, dragging out each breath. I was reassured the morphine had taken effect and she was not in pain. Her face had taken on a drawn, waxy expression, but to me she remained beautiful. Her eyes, now the colour of faded cornflowers, lit up when she smiled. Her hands were delicate like the rest of her and right up to the end, I felt an answering pressure as she held my own.\nWhen it came to say what would be our final words to one another. I told her she was the best friend I’d ever had. I said I’d always loved her and would never forget her. \n“My only regret is not to have been a better teacher,” she said sadly. \n“You had your moments,” I said.\n“Only in the last weeks at our school.”\nI asked her if there was anything I could do for her and was surprised when she said there was. In spite of her breathing difficulties, her words were distinct. I leaned towards her, not wanting to miss anything. “I’ve no family to speak of. I’ve left all my worldly possessions, such as they are, to you. I never forget kind deeds. I’ve never forgotten anything.”\nShe had already told me she wanted to be buried with the doll she had knitted as a good luck charm for her brother and I was determined to make that happen. She indicated there were two sealed letters in her bedside locker. When I retrieved them, the names Nicky and Stell were written with a fountain pen in spidery writing on the envelopes. “Please make sure they get them. You will know when the time is right. I know one is likely to be scoffed at, or even thrown away, but it’s worth a try. I hope some good will come of them.”\nShe was still thinking of others towards the end.\n\n\nWhen I gave Nicky the letter, tears filled her eyes. \n“I’ll treasure it,” she said. “Miss Weeble really helped me.”\nI know I was going against Jane’s wish, but something made me hold back from handing Stell her envelope. I felt I’d want to slap her if she slighted my friend in death. Jane’s memory was too precious to be trashed by an ignorant schoolgirl.\nA couple of months later, I received the news that Stell’s family were leaving the area and she would be attending another school. At least, Nicky would be free from the cruel taunts about her cleft lip. \n\nThe day before Stell left the school, she careered into me in the corridor.\n“Watch where you’re going,” I said crossly.\n“Sorry, miss.” She seemed brittle, the usual cockiness gone.\nI was on the threshold of telling her about the letter that Jane had left her before she died, but the words stuck like a craw in my throat.\nInstead I asked her the name of her new school.\n“Heathcliff Manor. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.” It didn’t take long for the old archness to return.\n“Indeed, I have.” That took the wind out of her sails a bit. I omitted to mention I knew one of the teachers there.” \n“Well, all the best.” I spoke through gritted teeth, glad I’d never have the misfortune of coming across her ever again.\nIN the meantime, I was pleased when Nicky was moved up into another set where she was able to realise her dreams of doing well. I knew her progress would have made Jane happy. \n\n\nSTELL, 10 October 1986\nThis school is so much better than my old one. The girls here have class, money and style. There’s a tennis court and a swanky pool and a state of the art gymnasium. It shows my old school up for the dive it was. One of the less popular girls has taken me under her wing. I had her in stitches when I mimicked the mannerisms of one of the teachers here. \n\n20 October, 1986\nI received a letter in the post today. On the envelope, my name was written in a strange spidery scrawl. The writing seemed familiar but I couldn’t think where I’d seen it before. I was about to open it, but then the gong sounded for the evening meal so I tucked it away in my dormitory drawer to be read later. \nThat evening when the other girls were together in the common room, I rushed up to the dormitory to be alone. Outside, the wind howled and tore at the branches of a gnarled tree. A chill came over me which had nothing to do with the weather. Suddenly, a small figure dressed in a pale blue cardigan, tapped its nails along the window pane. Horrified, I turned away, but when I saw my own lipstick had been used to draw a grotesque lip on the mirror, I think I must have passed out. \nThat evening, as I lay in bed, I heard the horrible sound of snickering. It started gradually, quickly growing into a high-pitched whine. The next moment, the pillows came flying, from all directions, one after the other, pulverising me until I begged them to stop.\nFrom then on, my new school became a place of dread. Every day, it was considered fair game to hide my things, get me into trouble with the teachers and constantly mock my accent. I begged mum to let me come home, but she said my schooling was costing a fortune and I should be grateful to have a chance for a superior education. \nThe girls have been tormenting me for weeks now, but Weeble’s ghost (if that’s what it was) has yet to make another appearance. Perhaps it thinks I’ve been punished enough. \nWith every passing day, I certainly have reason to regret my behaviour towards Nicky and all the others I mocked. \nI’m not sure how I’m going to get past this, but some kind of serious amend-making is clearly needed. \nI’d almost forgotten about the weird letter. It only had one sentence.\nIt said: “Ut sementem faceris ita metes.” \nI think I will have to ask the Latin teacher what it means.\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: The Cursed Pop Quiz\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1010\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Something about my history teacher Mr. Vavilov has always creeped me out. The enormous dark rings under his eyes and the slight tremor in his voice don’t help matters. On the first day of class when he called roll, he paused before saying my name. Not long enough for anyone else to notice but just long enough to give me chills. As he lectured about the Civil War, I kept getting that prickly feeling of being watched. When I looked up from my notes, his eyes would flick away quickly enough to make me question myself. The people I told about it questioned me, too.\n“You’re imagining it, Jenny.”\n“You read too much, Jenny.”\n“You’re a hysterical female, Jenny. You should go to the seaside. The air will be good for your health.”\nToday, something is different. I can tell as soon as I enter the classroom. The atmosphere presses on my skin, and the shadows in the corners of the room seem to shift whenever I blink. I force myself to walk stiffly over to my desk and sit down.\n“Hey, Jenny! How was your weekend?” asks Leah, the girl who sits next to me. I mumble something vague. I can’t concentrate. Is no one else feeling this? Leah launches into a story about visiting her grandmother over the weekend. I glance at Mr. Vavilov. His eyes flick away. Was he watching me?\nI sink down in my chair and try to breathe. The hard plastic digs into my back, and the metal chair legs creak as I shift my weight. I’m imagining this right? I have to be.\nMr. Vavilov claps his hands, and the chatter dies down. “Okay class! Pop quiz.”\nA collective groan rises and people shuffle to put their books away. I forgot to take mine out in the first place, so I stare at my desk and click my mechanical pencil.\n“It shouldn’t be too hard,” says Mr. Vavilov as he makes his way down the aisle, placing papers face down on each desk. “This is just a quick review.”\nI can’t help cringing away from him when he reaches my desk, but he gives me my quiz and moves on without comment. Mr. Vavilov walks back to the front of the room and waits for the talking to quiet again. He clears his throat. “Begin.”\nPapers rustle as we all turn our quizzes over. I write my name at the top of the quiz, then read the first question.\n1. Who was H. P. Lovecraft?\nThat’s odd. I don’t remember covering Lovecraft in this class. I glance over at Leah. She’s already halfway down the page, pencil scratching furiously. Hmm. I guess we did cover Lovecraft in my Lit class, so I know a little about him. I shrug and write, H. P. Lovecraft was a horror writer in the 1920s and 30s. His particular type of horror often dealt with fear of the unknown. He is famous for his weird mythological creatures like the Cthulhu.\nOk, next question.\n2. Some of Lovecraft’s short stories reference a play called “The King in Yellow.” What is unusual about this play?\nI write, The first act is normal, but anyone who reads the second act is driven insane. Once you start reading the second act, you are drawn in and cannot stop.\n3. “The King in Yellow” was not the only writing of its kind. Various manuscripts have surfaced over the years, inflicting different curses on their readers. Some readers are driven insane. Some hallucinate. Some even experience effects that alter their appearances. Many of these curses are permanent, but not all of them. Sometimes, if the cursed person can get someone else to read the manuscript, the curse is transferred to them.\nUmm… there’s no question to answer. I guess I’ll leave that one blank. Goosebumps run up my arms. I don’t like this.\n4. True or False: You are the only student in this classroom.\nWhat? I look up, and my breath catches in my throat. The desks around me are empty. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I look over to Mr. Vavilov, and his eyes don’t flick away this time. He stares at me intensely. The corners of his mouth slowly curve upward in a predatory smile. He points at my quiz, and I look back down.\n5. True or False: You can’t move your legs.\nI can’t move my legs. I’m hyperventilating. I need to calm down; I need to think. This can’t be happening. I try to scream for help, but I can’t get enough breath. I look back at Mr. Vavilov. He is now standing directly in front of my desk. He leans forward.\n“True or false,” he whispers. “You are compelled to read the rest of the quiz.”\nMy chin jerks downward without my permission. My eyes land on the final question in the quiz.\n6. No one sees the waves,\nVultures crouching in the pavement cracks.\nA man slipped in up to his neck.\nHe never noticed\nBut wondered distractedly\nWhy his clothes were soaked.\nEvery night, millions sleep to the murmur\nOf rising tide\nWhile cracks spread.\nWhen I finish reading, I am cursed.\nAnd now Dear Reader, thanks to you I am free. I hope you will forgive me. Whether you do or not, it’s too late to change anything. You have read the poem.\nIt’s nothing personal. I had to transfer the curse to someone, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m not going to tell you what the curse is; you’ll find out soon. You may start to notice your heart rate increasing. Don’t worry, that’s normal. Just try to relax. All you have to do is transfer the curse to someone else. Then you’ll be free, too.\nI’m not mad at Mr. Vavilov. He wasn’t evil, just desperate. My desperation has also driven me to do things I’m not proud of. What about you? Will your morals hold up? I suppose you’ll find out." } ]
[ { "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: Haven't You Heard?\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2985\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "2007\n\n\"Takumi Hikohito and Chip Martin!\" Brad's voice echoed through the classroom, capturing the attention of the entire class. Mr Jackson, their teacher, beamed with satisfaction, relishing in the fact that none of the students seemed familiar with those names. He shared a knowing glance with Brad and their fellow group members, Delilah and Jason, as they revelled in their triumph.\n\"Thank you, Mr Johnson, Miss Smith, and Mr Davis,\" Mr Jackson acknowledged, granting them permission to return to their seats. He strolled across the classroom, his steps navigating the narrow path between the desks, and addressed the class. \"So, class, you know what to do, right?\"\nA collective response of nods and affirmations filled the air.\n\"Remember the rules,\" he continued, his voice commanding attention. \"No internet usage, and no seeking assistance from the librarians.\"\nThe students of Hanson High School were already well-acquainted with these rules, having participated in the Who Are We assignment numerous times before. This particular task was a favourite among the students—a chance to showcase their skills and engage in a thrilling challenge. Periodically, they were divided into self-selected groups of three, with one group assigned as the decision maker. Their task was to select a novel, preferably one that was not widely known or recently released, and then present a few characters from the book to their classmates. The challenge for their peers was to deduce the chosen novel based solely on these character clues.\nDuring Mr Jackson's occasional visits to their classroom, the students embarked on an exciting quest through the shelves of the school library, meticulously scanning row after row until they uncovered the elusive novel. Secrecy was of the utmost importance for the group that successfully found the book. Conversely, the group that failed to locate it would face the penalty of performing a scene from the chosen novel the following week, at the behest of the decision-making group.\nThe students of Hanson High School held a deep fondness for Mr Jackson, although it took them years to fully appreciate the uniqueness of his methods. They remained blissfully unaware of why he devised the Who Are We activity, but the joy it brought them was undeniable. They believed this to be the very essence of his professional responsibilities—creating an atmosphere where learning was not only educational but also exhilarating.\n\n2023\n\n\"Seems almost unnatural, doesn't it?\" Brad remarked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. \"The way Mr Jackson structured his assignments around those novels, you'd think he was an English or creative writing teacher.\"\nMason nodded vigorously, his disbelief evident. \"Absolutely! Who would have guessed he was our school counsellor all along?\"\nNick chimed in, his voice tinged with nostalgia. \"I owe my love for books to that man, no doubt about it.\"\nBrad couldn't help but tease Nick, a mischievous grin stretching across his face. \"You know, watching your gang pull off that 'weekend warriors' kidnapping scene was downright hilarious.\"\nNick playfully scowled, his eyes narrowing in mock anger. \"Curse you for roping us into that!\" he exclaimed, the words laced with humour. Laughter spilled forth from the trio, blending harmoniously with the rhythmic crash of the nearby waves against the jetty wall and the melodious chirping of sanderlings soaring through the salty air.\n\"Ah, but you guys nailed it,\" Brad complimented sincerely, ensuring his words carried the weight of truth. \"Far better than the film version, I must say. Smith and Goldenberg should have witnessed your stellar performance to truly understand how it was meant to be done in their series.\"\nThe three men chuckled cheerfully, their laughter carrying them back in time to their high school days, now distant memories, faded like the pages of a well-worn paperback. A decade and a half had passed, and the once-adolescent trio had grown into men burdened with responsibilities, dedicated to their own chosen paths and families.\nYet, despite their demanding lives, the occasional reunion at Gilbert's had become a cherished tradition. The serene vista of the sea, adorned with yachts gently tethered to the jetty, offered a respite from their daily grind. It was a place of solace, where time seemed to slow, allowing old friends to savour the tranquillity and reconnect amidst the ebb and flow of life's tides\nAs time ticked on, and the neighbouring tables filled with more patrons, Mason's thoughts wandered back to a significant moment, coinciding with a bite of his Garden Hummus toast. Swiftly dabbing his mouth with a tissue, he interjected, \"Hey, remember what went down a week before Mr Jackson handed us that assignment?\"\nThe two companions shifted their demeanour, their faces contorting in concentration as they sifted through faded recollections. Suddenly, Brad's countenance turned grave, and he uttered, \"We lost Ethan, right?\"\nMason nodded, affirming the sombre truth. \"Yes, that's exactly it.\"\n\"It hit us hard, no doubt about it. The accident happened out of nowhere, and we lost him just like that. He had been grinning ear to ear just the day before,\" Nick added, a touch of melancholy in his voice.\nBrad's tone matched the gravity of the moment. \"Losing a friend like that was tough. Thank goodness for Mr Jackson and his assignment. It brought us some solace to see it through.\"\nMason agreed, a hint of sadness lingering in his words. \"Yeah, it helped us find some comfort in finishing that task.\" Then, determined to shift the mood, he flashed a smile. \"Hey, do you guys remember Jacob Hunt?\"\nWithout skipping a beat, the two men chimed in unison, their voices infused with memories. \"Yes!\"\n\n2010\n\nEleventh grade had arrived, yet Mason and his peers retained their enthusiasm for Mr Jackson's occasional classroom visits. Today was one of those special days, and Mason's group had been bestowed with the honour of being the decision maker for the renowned Who Are We activity. Coincidentally, Mason's mother had been captivated by Jodi Picoult's latest literary offering, House Rules. Although Mason hadn't delved deep into the story, he had a hazy memory of glancing at the start of the book, spotting the main character's name.\nWithout a moment's hesitation, Mason proclaimed to the perplexed class, \"Jacob Hunt!\"\nAs anticipated, confusion clouded the faces of his classmates, an unmistakable sign that they were clueless about the book he had alluded to. The book hunt commenced in the school library, each group scouring the shelves in pursuit of the elusive title. Inevitably, David's group found themselves on the losing end of the quest.\nMason wasted no time in choosing the scene his group would re-enact. The opening pages of House Rules lingered vividly in his mind—a captivating portrayal of Jacob Hunt orchestrating a fictitious crime scene, where his brother Theo was purportedly the perpetrator. Mason recalled Jacob's ingenuity in utilising his mother's corn syrup to mimic the appearance of blood. The scene fascinated Mason to no end, and he eagerly awaited its transformation into a living, breathing performance.\n\n2023\n\n\"Ah, the memories with David's group, they always make me feel kinda nostalgic,\" Mason mused, a wistful tone lacing his words.\nNick nodded in agreement. \"Kyla absolutely nailed it playing Jacob's mom - totally amazing!\"\n\"And who could forget Kim?\" Brad interjected with a chuckle.\nLaughter rippled through the group. \"Kim was unforgettable,\" Mason replied, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. \"He absolutely committed to the teenage rebel role, making sure his portrayal was as real as it gets. Let's be honest, we all knew that he was super geeky and always on point in real life.\"\nThe scene they recalled grew even more humorous when considering the diversity of the trio—David, a Caucasian, Kyla, an African American, and Kim, an Asian. Their portrayal of a tightly knit family was a delightful sight to behold.\nAs they shared these cherished memories from their teenage years, smiles illuminated their faces. Nick shifted the conversation, alluding to the days when stress consumed them during SAT preparations, making these moments of levity all the more precious.\n\"Speaking of Kim,\" Nick continued, \"do you recall when it was their group's turn to be the decision maker?\"\nBrad's eyebrows lifted in recollection. \"How could I forget? I distinctly remember the heated argument between Kim and Kayla before they revealed their chosen book. Kayla insisted on 'Pecola,' while Kim insisted on 'Shek.'\"\nMason shook his head in amusement. \"In the end, Kim emerged victorious.\"\nBrad smirked knowingly. \"Of course, it was a no-brainer. Who isn't familiar with The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison? Pecola's character was instantly recognizable. But the main reason that day's ingrained in my mind isn't that. It's because our group came up short and we were hit with the 're-enactment' punishment.\"\nMason's eyes ignited with a spark of recognition. \"Yes, your group's performance. I remember how emotionally profound that scene was.\"\nNick chimed in, \"Indeed, not all of Mr Jackson's Who Are We sessions were lighthearted.\"\nBrad nodded in agreement. \"I recall our group being tasked with the scene where Shek and Wong find themselves caught in an avalanche. I played Shek, Jason played Wong, and Delilah took on the role of the narrator. Delilah couldn't help but shed tears during our rehearsals. It truly was an emotional scene.\"\n\"Yet, it pushed the boundaries of our minds, didn't it? You all did a remarkable job bringing that scene to life,\" Nick praised.\nMason piped up, a hint of sentimentality in his voice. \"Yes, even Mr Jackson couldn't hold back his tears while watching your performance.\"\nA brief silence settled upon the group. Suddenly, Mason rose from his seat, announcing, \"I'll be right back.\"\nBrad and Nick exchanged curious glances as they watched Mason stride toward the café's glass door and disappear inside. In that moment, they became aware of the sinking sun, casting its golden rays low on the horizon. Yet, the dazzling light didn't bother them, and they made no move to relocate indoors. The sky, painted in magnificent shades of orange and yellow, greeted their eyes, while cirrus clouds adorned the heavens in comforting hues of pink and purple. The breathtaking view was too captivating to miss.\nUnable to resist the allure of the picturesque scenery, Brad reached for his phone, capturing the beauty before him in a snapshot. Meanwhile, Nick sat in silence, engrossed in his own digital world. Their attention was soon drawn to Mason emerging from the café, holding a glass of refreshment. It was a customary sight, as it was not uncommon for someone to order a second drink after finishing the first.\nHowever, curiosity stirred within them when Mason, instead of placing the drink in front of himself, positioned it before the empty chair with an unmistakable smile. Their puzzlement grew as Mason announced, \"Someone's coming. Thankfully, he agreed to join us.\"\n\"Who?\" Brad and Nick inquired simultaneously.\n\"Patience, my friends. He'll be here in just a few minutes,\" Mason assured them.\nThus, the trio sat in silence, appreciating the breathtaking view or occasionally glancing at their respective phones. The sound of the café's glass door opening elicited an excited smirk from Mason. \"He's here, boys.\"\nBrad and Nick redirected their attention toward the approaching figure. The African American man appeared noticeably older than their memories, his hair thinning and greying, sporting a pair of spectacles. Nevertheless, his eyes retained their kind gaze, and his smile was unmistakably familiar. Yes, time had left its mark, but he was unmistakably the same person they had admired during their high school days.\nBoth Brad and Nick rose from their seats, embracing him warmly, the nostalgia permeating the air. \"Hi, guys,\" Mr Jackson greeted them. \"You've all grown up. Remind me of your names again.\"\n\"I'm Brad,\" Brad replied.\n\"Nick,\" Nick added.\n\"Long time no see,\" Mr Jackson remarked as Mason pulled up a chair, gesturing for him to sit. \n\"You wanted Nitro Cold Brew, right?\" Mason addressed Mr Jackson, then turned to Brad and Nick. \"I managed to get Mr Jackson's number from my neighbour, Jim. Remember him? His nephew is currently attending Hanson.\"\nThe reunion unfolded with a sense of familiarity, as if the years apart had only served to strengthen the bond they once shared. The sun began its descent, casting a warm glow over the landscape, but their focus remained fixed on the cherished presence of their esteemed counsellor.\nEngaging in a lively conversation, the four men began catching up on each other's lives. Mr Jackson expressed genuine pride upon learning that his former students had become successful individuals in their own right. Curiosity brimmed within them as they inquired about their old school, their smiles warm and welcoming. They listened intently as Mr Jackson shared that much of the school remained unchanged, save for the upgraded computer lab, now equipped with more sophisticated devices. However, not all was sunshine and smiles. The solemnity of the moment settled upon them as Mr Jackson revealed that three of their former teachers and Jamilah, the beloved cafeteria lady, had passed away.\nHoping to lighten the mood, Brad interjected, \"How's the library, Mr Jackson?\"\nNick and Mason exchanged curious glances, their eyes filled with excitement.\nTo their surprise, Mr Jackson shook his head, his expression filled with a tinge of sorrow. They awaited his response with bated breath as he finally spoke, \"You wouldn't want to know.\"\n\"What's the matter?\" Brad probed.\n\"Do you remember those days when I would assign you the book-hunting game?\" Mr Jackson questioned, searching their faces for recognition.\n\"The ‘Who Are We’ activity,\" Mason interjected.\n\"Yes, that one,\" Mr Jackson confirmed. \"Have you ever heard of bibliotherapy?\"\nAll three men shook their heads, curious to learn more.\n\"Essentially, it's the use of books as therapy,\" Mr Jackson explained. \"I miss those days. I'm certain that those books you chose provided you with solace.\"\nThe men nodded vigorously. They recalled how those books had been like a warm hug, guiding them through their grief when loved ones passed. Those pages became mirrors, offering clearer views of the people they knew, helping them open their hearts wider. The book about Jacob Hunt, for instance, was like a blueprint to understanding their friend Kurt, who lived in a world coloured by autism. Then there was the story of Kesh, which was a hard pill to swallow, but it shed light on the harsh reality of racial inequality. The books made them understand people, and in doing so, helped them understand themselves too. \"We particularly enjoyed re-enacting scenes from the books,\" Mason shared.\nMr Jackson chuckled nostalgically. \"Ah, yes! I recall those golden days. Among the earliest books you chose, there was one by John Green. What was it called again? Something related to Alaska or the like...\"\n\"'Looking for Alaska,'\" the three men chimed in enthusiastically.\nA smile graced Mr Jackson's lips. \"It was your group, wasn't it?\" he said, turning his gaze toward Brad, who affirmed the truth. \"I admit I was a tad apprehensive when I asked you to choose a scene. Remember the one between Lara and Miles?\"\n\"Oh, that one,\" Brad chuckled. \"There was no way we were going to select that scene, Mr Jackson.\"\n\"Exactly!\" Mr Jackson exclaimed. \"Teenagers aren't fools. I've always known that in my heart.\" He took a sip from his drink, collecting his thoughts before continuing. \"I've always been curious. I never posed this question to you openly when you were my students.\"\nThe three men leaned in, their anticipation palpable.\nMr Jackson spoke, his words laced with curiosity. \"What did you guys think about that scene?\" He emphasised the word 'scene' with air quotes. \"What I truly want to know is, did it pique your interest in pornography?\"\nLaughter erupted from the trio. Between the bouts of chuckling, Brad managed to respond, \"Mr Jackson, we didn't need novels to develop an interest in pornography. Porn sites were already widely available during our time. But to answer your question, I don't believe that scene sparked an interest in pornography for us. If anything, it made us more repulsed by it. We did have discussions about it, didn't we?\"\n\"Yeah,\" Nick chimed in. \"That scene, it kind of blew our minds and got us thinking about porn differently. It drove home that many porn actresses might be dealing with the same emotional mess as Lara did.\"\nA smile of deep satisfaction spread across Mr Jackson's face as he listened to his former students. The immense pride he felt in that moment was unmistakable, shining through his eyes. \"You've all just proven my point beyond measure. Teenagers are far from foolish. So many studies show that it's the internet that's exposing teenagers to porn. I've yet to come across any research that points towards mainstream fiction being a source.\"\nInterrupting the joviality of the conversation, Brad leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. \"So, Mr Jackson,\" he began, \"what exactly happened to the library? You mentioned earlier that we wouldn't want to know. Why is that? What did you mean?\"\nMr Jackson's head shook in quiet gravity. \"Those shelves,\" he began, \"are nearly bare now. Many of the books, including the one about Alaska, have been confiscated.\"\n\"What?\" Nick exclaimed. \"But why?\"\nA puzzled expression crossed Mr Jackson's face as he glanced from Nick to Brad and Mason, finding the same look of ignorance mirrored on their faces. Despite March being halfway done, they were still out of the loop. He opened his mouth to speak, but the weight of the situation overwhelmed him. It was evident that attempting to explain the circumstances would be a difficult and emotional task. He turned his gaze to the Florida's sun, now just a crescent 'D' peeking over the horizon. The day was ebbing away into darkness, their young faces sparsely lit by the wall lamps of the café. A myriad of emotions raged within him - sadness, anger, frustration. But all he could muster was, \"Haven’t you heard?\"" } ]
[ { "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: Souls of Great Chiefs\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1264\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "In 1839, fifteen-year-old Cole Jasper Coaler sketched in his Greek and Algebra rule books maps of the United States, beginning east of the Mississippi, he drew the states and their borders green shadings for the wild forests, then finally on its own page, the Republic of Texas: the state itself as big as the entire eastern part of the country he drew, bordered by the shape of repeating rifles and colt revolvers and arrows and lances separating it distinctly from the rest of the world, horses and phantom humans of mythological shape dabbed by his own blood, shaded in a dark turquoise with many souls drowning beneath terrifying shadows lurking underneath, in the shape of teeth and whale intestines, as though its endless desert of the Texas plains were an ocean unto itself. \nThen he quit school and traveled out west of the Mississippi, was known by many Natives as The One Who Wanders With Pen. He lived among the Comanche, Kiowa and Cheyenne off-and-on for more than thirty years, camping in the wilderness while traveling, staying in forts too occupied US Cavalrymen and homesteads with families and riding out with Texas Rangers, hotels and saloons and brothels while he could afford it, sketching in notebooks depictions of what he saw. \nWhen he returned to Tennessee, he painted up his sketches and notes. The paintings would be presented in New York City at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.\nThe gallery terrified its viewers. They closed the exhibition early that evening and removed the paintings the next morning. The building is said to be haunted ever since. \nCoaler said he wanted to paint their spirit, how the heartbeat sounds, basing his paintings on memory, his journals and sketches, and imagination.\nAt night, people walking by the metropolitan reported seeing ghosts and hearing battle cries and tribal music, Chiefs Quanah Parker, Iron Jacket and Isatai as painted by Cosler amidst a Sun Dance, a phenomenal blur, with the warriors dancing around a honeylocust tree—with images of deer antlers and the skulls of bison, yellow and teal rainbows and fire cloaked stallions carved into the sapwood—the sun outlined by the moon, appearing as a black hole so close as to be touched, shaped so much like the crown of the head with the bright circle of light dripping red as it were the blood of the universe. \nIn one of the exhibit’s first paintings, Comanche warriors led by Chief Iron Jacket—wearing Spanish armor over his chest, the thick braids of his hair rolling past his shoulders and painted to almost appear as snakes—attack Texas Rangers on a prairie grassland with cedar elm trees, each tree with fain features in the bark to resemble humans, winds shaking them. The forefront tree’s shadow is shaped with its branches and leaves like the crucifixion of Christ. Three Rangers lay dead there, the tree appearing almost as a congregation of ghosts giving service to the dead. .\nBlood appears to drip from the sun, as though it is melting, or it the splashes of blood ripping up from the human flesh into the sky. \n*\nIn another battle painting, in the backdrop, a community of homesteader cabins burn to the ground. The fires spiral toward the skies appearing as though the heavens have been lit on fire, the gloom in the clouds surging toward the primary focus of the painting, like the breath of a ruined god bringing forth a plague. \nIn the forefront, a Comanche village. Charging and rounding the grounds are the combined forces of Texas Rangers and a U.S. Cavalry unit, horseback, setting the teepees on fire, firing at women and children point blank, chasing those who flee, pulling them back by the hair. \nOne woman is being dragged by three soldiers toward the thick trunk of a tree which burns from the branches. She claws at the dirt with one hand, scratching the men with her other, biting with her teeth into the wrists snd fingers of one soldier and kicking with one free leg like a horse through the waist of another soldier. \nBoys and girls running and screaming; a few have been gathered and lined up and shot. \nOlder men, with their eyes of legendary, almost ancient warrior-hearts are scalped alive. The breasts of dead women are being cut from their chests and shaped into tobacco pouches. \nFar off, the size of insects on top of the Wichita Mountains can be seen the Comanche Warriors.\n*\nThe details of the paintings seem to vibrate off the canvas and beat into the pulse of those who see it, as though it infects their memory to torture just by laying eyes on it. \nIn one, titled “The Plague of Buffalo” you can see a party of white hunters departing the grounds on the banks of a river where they leave behind thousands of tongueless bison. On the carcassases are a great deal of meat still rotting. Hundreds of buzzards and crows devour the tarnished flesh from the bones. The eyes of the bison, moist and glistening and the same color as the river, as though their tears fill it up. \nAnother painting, a wave of Comanche warriors, horseback, hundreds in number, led by Chief Quanah Parker with a war lance made of bone and decorated by eagle feathers, like Agemenon leading a fleet of ships across the sea toward the beaches of Troy, gliding under the sun, seemingly cloaked by its light and rays. \nOn a hill beneath them at a fort that very much resembles the Alamo, are settled the buffalo hunters, the bison skins hanging out of wagons outside the fort. \nA storm of arrows pierce the sky, beading downward and beaming straight for the hunters like bladed rain. \nThe next painting reveals the Comanche war party returning with hundreds of scalps staked through the arrows they carry over their shoulders. \nAnother painting where a crew of hunters must take cover in the open fields, laying down on opposite sides behind the bodies of dead bison big as whales, firing and knocking warriors off their horses, bleeding out with arrows struck through their legs and shoulders, chest and heart and neck and stomach. The gunfire from one rifle, the way it sparks and surprised the soldier, feels like the first fire made by man, and another round of gunfire resembles with such bright colors a ferocity of the galaxy, bursting orange and turquoise and devil-red that it seems like the birth of our world emerging from the dark. \nIn one of the final paintings, American cavalry officer Colonel McKenzie follows Native scouts between canyons in the night in search of Comanche Chief Quanah Parker. They beat on, with fear in their eyes, headed deeper and deeper into the dark. \nQuanah Parker sits horseback on top the canyons watching the American party. His straightened black hair shines in streaks as silver as the stars and a smile which is the crescent moon at a certain angle. His band of warriors behind him, like sketches of spirits in the sky, their shadows casting out into the valley ahead of the American party in the shape of owls and wolves, bears and snakes and animals not known to man, snakes with wings and sharks with hind legs, fitting the mode perfectly of those olden-time angels of rebellion of the land’s underneath. \nYou can hear their heartbeat, the hooves of the nervous horses, the howling war cry like a screeching train as though through time their spirit carries on ceaselessly as a chant beating through space and night 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: \"Normal\"\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1512\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Normal,” what a word. Most of us strive for it. We compare ourselves to others who seem more of it. We change the definition based on the times. In most people’s eyes, my son will never be normal. In fact, there’s never been a time in history where he fits the definition. If he wins an award, it was just to be nice and not related to his merit. If he makes an educated statement, he must have heard it from someone else. My son, my world, has Down’s Syndrome.\nBrett has always been obsessed with school. As a little boy, his older sister would make him sit at a desk and teach him using a small chalk board, pretending she was the teacher and Brett, along with his stuffed animals were her class full of students. Brett especially loved when his sister would pretend to be a strict teacher. She would put her hair in a bun, put on her glasses, stare at him and say, “Okay class! Pop quiz” at which point, Brett would groan and pretend to pull his hair in frustration like he saw all the students do on T.V. This was Brett’s favorite game, even after he started attending school himself and why I believe he’s so captivated with any television show that takes place in a classroom. \nAt this moment, I’m watching my son. “Saved by the Bell,” his absolute favorite show, blares on the television as he stares at the screen, his eyes wide with amusement. His hands are flapping, while he rocks back and forth. A laugh escapes his mouth as he states the dialogue he has memorized. At 15 years old, he is constantly rewatching shows that I would watch at his age. “Regular,” (another wonderful word I could go on about, but won’t at this time) high school antics are taking place for Zach Morris, the teenager my son longs to be. \nAt home, I don’t believe Brett ever thinks he is different. He goes, thankfully, to the same school as his siblings, picks at the vegetables I force him to eat during dinner, and makes sure his laundry makes it to the hamper every night. At school, it’s a different story. He is in what is called an 8:1:1. Unfortunately, the language used for special education isn’t “normal” either. 8:1:1 means Brett’s class consists of eight students, one teacher and one teacher assistant. That doesn’t include the speech therapists, occupational therapists, physical therapists, school psychologists and behavior analysts that are continually in the classroom as well. Summed up, he’s in a special education life skills class and unfortunately for him, not like any of the classes depicted on any television show I have ever seen. Of course, that includes “Saved by the Bell.”\nBrett’s lucky he’s able to be in the same district he would have been in if he was “normal.” The only thing that doesn’t work; Brett is able to see the other classes. The “normal” classes. He peeks through windows and sees classes with thirty students learning at the same time with one teacher. Chemistry labs with beakers, sinks and creepy reptiles that he would love to learn with. Gym classes where there are teams playing soccer and basketball at such a fast pace, he can’t keep track of the ball and the most important place, the cafeteria, where shenanigans take place and students aren’t being watched every second by a teacher.\nBrett’s teacher, Ms. Clark is amazing. She makes sure her class is included in as many “normal” school functions as possible. In the three years she’s had him, he’s played on the school’s unified basketball team and had the opportunity to read his favorite book, Green Eggs and Ham to a preschooler BY HIMSELF, which he boasts about proudly. She makes sure her students vote in class elections and are represented in “Battle of the Classes,” a huge event each year that the whole school participates in. In the classroom, each student learns at their own pace. Brett can now add and subtract using his fingers, something he couldn’t do three years ago. Most importantly, he has learned life skills. He can wash and fold his own clothes, make himself something healthy to eat, use the phone and shower independently, making it possible for him to one day move out to an assisted facility if he chooses. He gets to choose! He will get to feel like a “normal” adult!\nBrett’s class does not have the antics normally seen in a classroom. As we know, most classes don’t ever see the conflict resolution of a sitcom, but his class is so far removed, he feels he is missing out. His class has bathroom accidents, meltdowns where children are told to “use their words,” and sing a-longs like a preschool classroom. They color and cut and glue, practicing their fine motor skills. They watch cartoons for “Fun Friday” in the afternoon if they do all their work that week. As much as Brett loves his class, he knows it is not a “normal” high school setting. \n“When will it happen in my class?” Brett points at the television asking about some tomfoolery that just took place. \n“Someday sweetie,” I hope, praying that I’m not lying to my son unintentionally. \nThere are many things Brett’s teacher helps him experience. Once he wanted to go to “The Max” with his friends, so she took the class on a field trip to a diner where the students had to order independently (with a visual picture menu, of course) and used a calculator to figure out if the bill was correct. Brett came home that day ecstatic stating he shared fries with his friends just like Zach. \nClass size regularly saddens him. He often asks Ms. Clark, “Where is the rest of the class?” or “Why only eight chairs?”\n“Don’t worry, the whole class is here,” she answers before she speaks to me about why this question is being asked in the first place. When I tell her how Brett feels, Ms. Clark is the one who’s saddened.\n“I’ll fix this,” she confidently declares, “tell me more about this Zach Morris.”\n“Okay,” I laugh, realizing how old I am because Ms. Clark doesn’t know who Zach is!\nA few weeks later, Ms. Clark calls me excitedly, “As you know, Brett has excellent behavior! How about he sits in Ms. Ackerly’s art class instead of working in the cafeteria? Maybe a couple of times each week; whenever the class is working on a project he’s capable of completing. I’ll give up my lunch and sit in the class if he needs assistance.”\nI think, with tears pooling in my eyes what this would mean to my son, to have some “normal” moments using HIS definition. “That would be amazing.”\nSuccess is an understatement on how well Brett feels when he is in art. He comes home with the best stories. \n“Did you know Jenny is dating Chris? They were holding hands under the table,” he exclaims and can’t believe the public display of affection during class. \n“Henry threw paint and went to the principal,” he speaks seriously. “I think he gets detention!” Scandalous!\n“Evie asked if I’m going to the dance. She will dance with me,” he blushes while practicing his moves in the full-length mirror in my room!”\nSoon after, Brett raises his hand during art. \n“When is the pop quiz?” he asks innocently.\n“Oh, don’t worry Brett, we won’t give a pop quiz.”\nHis face falls, but he holds it together. When the bell rings, a single tear slides down his face.\n“Oh hun, what’s the matter?” Ms. Clark asks, pulling him aside with a supportive hand on his shoulder.\nHe takes a deep breath and sighs. “No pop quiz in art.”\n“Do you want a pop quiz?”\nHe nods, “Like Zach Morris.”\nThe best teacher in the world calls me the next day and has, as usual, an amazing idea. \nThe last week of school is here. Ms. Ackerly tells all the art students to take out their notebooks. Brett looks around. He never brings a notebook to this class, but Ms. Clark saves the day and takes a brand-new notebook out of her bag. He smiles as he starts copying the notes from the board. They are reviewing color mixing. Realization draws on his face. He knows this!\n“What do you get when you mix red and yellow?”\nBrett raises his hand high in the air wiggling his fingers. \n“Yes, Brett.”\n“Orange!”\nThey review for the next 10 minutes. Then, Ms. Ackerly with her library bun, picks up her glasses off her desk, places them on her face and looks at the class sternly. Some of the students have small smiles on their faces, glee trying to escape, but they hold it in, getting ready for their acting debut. Ms. Clark slowly lifts her phone to video Brett’s reaction as Ms. Ackerly slams the book she is holding in her hand on her desk.\n“Okay, class! Pop quiz.”" } ]
[ { "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 Meeting at the Principal's Office\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1127\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with somebody getting called to the principal’s office." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A Meeting at the Principal’s Office\nThe Tale of a Teenager of the 1960s\n I’ve walked this ill-destined path before. “John, go to the principal’s office right now!” The teacher said that just as soon as I walked into his classroom. I knew what it was about. I have long hair and I had neglected to grease it down, so it didn’t look as long as it actually was. I also had the shaggy beginnings of my second beard. Both are more or less forbidden in my high school. It is in a middle to upper middle class area in the city. Appearances mattered even among teenage boys.\n The most-of-the-time phys-ed teacher and part-time counsellor told me that growing a beard was a manifestation of my low self-esteem, as I was identifying with movie villains. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t identify with pirates as I don’t have an eye patch or parrot, but kept quiet.\n In one way, I didn’t mind taking this trip. I didn’t have to sit through a boring class, and the secretaries were nice, and knew me by my first name. “So John, you’re back. We haven’t seen you in weeks.”\n Then unfortunately, one of them went to fetch the vice-principal, who was the school’s designated student punisher. I was prepared for what he would have to say. I would have to sacrifice my newest beard. Fortunately, when I saw a water fountain in the hallway, I used the water to slick back my long hair, and tuck the end of it underneath the collar of my shirt.\n We went through the usual lecture of how my lack of ‘proper appearance’ was a sign of my low self-esteem. I nodded my head, although I did not agree with the idea at all. I thought of it as a way of cultivating the cool of my appearance. But I knew the vice-principal had no sense of cool, or what it meant to me. I would have to go to the office tomorrow with a clean-shaven face.\nA Former Student Returns as a Respectable Guest Lecturer\n It has been a long time now since I graced the halls of my old high school. I had gone to a reunion about ten years ago, but had not been back otherwise. I had surprised one of my former teachers that I had done well as a post-secondary student and had become a professor in a university on the other side of town, where I now live. I was going to give a lecture on the 19th century history of our town. I had recently published a book on the subject, and the teacher of the class I was going to talk to had purchased an autographed copy of my book at a local bookstore. We talked, and I agreed to visit his class to present a guest lecture.\n When I pulled into the school parking lot I saw some old familiar sights – students smoking across the road from the school, the track where I won a race of two. But the most familiar sight occurred when I entered the building and went straight into the principal’s office. There was a lad sitting, head down in what I used to call the ‘detention chair.’ And he had long hair.\n One of the secretaries spoke to the lad. “You’ll have to wait a bit Bill; the vice-principal is at a meeting.” He nodded his head a bit in reply.\n I introduced myself and my purpose to the secretaries, and I received several looks of respect, especially when I said that I was a former student of the school. They told me that the teacher would be there soon, as his previous class was just about to end, I was a little early.\n I sat down beside Bill. The look on his face was a lot like the one that I am pretty sure I had when I sat there when I was likewise sentenced.\n So I decided to talk to him. “You know, I had to sit in that chair, which I called the detention chair, many times when I was a student here. The secretaries all knew me by my first name. And I didn’t have to tell them what I was there for. I had long hair like you have now, which was a serious crime in those days. And sometimes I was even bold enough to grow a beard. I had to solemnly promise that I would shave it off. Vice-principal Edwards would not let me get away with such an offence.\n That last sentence provoked a vocal response, and a facial expression very close to a smile. “He is my grandfather. I think you must have been one of the ‘scruffy lads’ that he tells stories about.”\n “So what was the crime you committed that earned you this trip to the principal’s office?”\n“Well I have this reputation, plus I am sarcastic and have bad grades. I was five minutes late for a class in which we were having a test. When I picked up a copy of the test, I could not resist saying out loud, “Do any of you know the answer to the first question?” I know that I should not have spoken what I had been thinking. But there was this girl in the class.”\n “Understood. I would have acted in the same way at your age. It was part of my appeal to the ladies.”\n The bell then rang for the change of classes. I would soon be off to the classroom. I had a thought. Seeing that there was a history textbook on the floor in front of him, I asked Bill what his next class was. He said, “history with Mr. Peterson.” That was the teacher who had invited me to the school. Before I said another word I could see a man walking toward the office, dressed and walking like a vice-principal. I felt a need to rescue my new friend, and principal’s office compatriot. So when the vice-principal walked into the office and glared at Bill, I approached him, introduced myself and my mission at the school. I told him that I needed Billy’s assistance with the technology of presentation in his class that I could not handle on my own (a truth – but I was certainly not going to be using such technology today or ever). \n “Well, as long as he is going to be useful to your class, I will let him go.”\nI thanked him, and when Bill and I walked to his class, I told him that ‘we rebels have to stick together.’ He agreed. My presentation went well, and Bill asked a couple of thoughtful questions." } ]
[ { "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 Poor Poet\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1161\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The walls of an ancient Scottish castle arranged with paintings of people, animals, and abstract figures began to come to life as darkness fell and froze as daylight returned. My aunt used to tell me this fairy tale all the time. Yes, it was a long time ago, and I have since gone to the museum several times at night to write down my thoughts. I even pursued it as a career. You could think I'm a loser. But I'm telling you, it's all true. Do not give me this look. I noticed you staring at me with your enlarged, weary eyes.\nThe art historian's assistant read aloud the lines he saw in the painting through the magnifying glass. \n“Oft denke ich alt den Tod, den herben, Und wie am End′ ich′s ausmach′: Ganz sanft im Schlafe möcht′ ich sterben - Und tot sein, wenn ich aufwach′!” \nWhat a surprise! You speak the German language. Can you grasp what I am saying, or are you one of the many people who have looked at me a thousand times and still don't know what I mean?\n\"How did I miss that? I looked at this painting 100 times.” The art historian's assistant sat in silence for a few moments, changing his legs' positions while he looked at the artwork over and over.\nHe put his magnifying glass aside and took some deep breaths: “Okay, I have to call my colleague.”\n\"Mike!\" He called loudly. The assistant waits several seconds for a response. \"Mike! \nNobody is reacting. Nobody is hearing you. Oh, don't sniff. I do not like folks sniffling around. What's that bizarre object in your hand? Who is responding? I do not see anyone else here. \n“Carl Spitzweg's painting - The Poor Poet - needs your double-checking. No, you need to be here. I'm working on it, and I need you to check it. Mike, you have to see this by yourself.”\nThe art assistant placed his phone away and soon heard the elevator's sound. He rotated his body to face the squeaky sneakers approaching him.\nPlease don't wave in front of my nose. It is making me dizzy. Oh, you're a stubborn man. Who is this massive guy? He looks familiar, but I can't remember who he is.\n\"Mike, this is great. It began half an hour ago. It seemed a bit confusing at first, but the lines in the right corner are now clearer, and the hue is golden instead of black. In the past, the director had told me he had seen that, but until now, I thought he was fooling me around.\" \nMike took over the lens and stared up close, practically touching the painting with his nose in the spot the assistant had mentioned earlier. Mike held his breath for a second, looked up at the assistant, and then focused back on the painting.\nAnother person with magnificent large eyes; what's up with you people? Wow, where did he get those white teeth; oh boy, I am blinded. What is this? A lump of meat embedded in two slices of bread, and what is this red running over your fingers? Blood? Did you kill someone? Oh, do not dare to come close and touch me.\n“Mike! Damned! Be careful. Here is a wipe.” The art assistant looked annoyed. He noticed a change in the painting room. A candle seemed to be burning.\n“Oh, Jesus! Mike, hand me the UV-Fluoreszenz spotlight. I placed it on the table next to the color.” \nThe art assistant looked through the magnifying glass and simultaneously reached with one hand out to the spotlight. \"Go faster, Mike. \"We don't have all night.\" \nHe looked at Mike up, grabbed the UV-Fluoreszenz spotlight, and smirked cynically at Mike's shoes. He did not say anything, only grinned. It didn't take long before he lifted his body and looked up at Mike with his head slightly stretched.\nBoth men gazed at each other. \"We need to call the director. Mike, you are managing the call. I grab the painting.\"\nOh no, not again. I like the feeling of flying like a bird, but I hate this up-and-down bouncing from the run. Hold on, this face, this stunning, perplexing smile. Stop! Stop running! I want to see her face again. My life, my love, I recall. Oh, I missed her. Mona Lisa. My dearest love! \nRight now, I have no idea where I am. I feel out of place in this room; the window is so small that I can't see outside. It's so messy and cluttered in here that I can hardly breathe. I'm completely perplexed. What's on my head? Oh, dear. A nightcap. Since when did I have that? What an ugly beast; no wonder Mona won't look at me anymore. I do not feel any movement. Did we make a stop?\nThe art historian's assistant paused and took another glance at the artwork.\n\"He moved his hand. First, there were almost imperceptible micro-movements, and now he has moved his hand. Cannot wait to hear what the director has to say. We're making history, Mike. We're making history.”\nMike repeatedly pressed the elevator buttons, but it wouldn't open; it wasn't even making a sound.\n\"Not again. Mike, this elevator is driving me mad. Come, let us get the steps. Won't be a problem, Right? We must hurry. The time is running.\"\nDoes the up-and-down bouncing ever stop? I really can't concentrate on my manuscript. Wait, why is a manuscript in my hands? There is also a feather and an ink. And everything is covered in dirt, and what is this above me – an opened black umbrella. All things here, it just doesn't make sense. If I close my eyes for a few moments, maybe I will see this all more clearly.\nWhen the director came, the assistant, breathless from sprinting up the stairs with his colleague Mike, presented him with the unexpected discoveries he had made one hour earlier. The director reached out and took the magnifying lens from the assistant art historian. A light smile appeared on the director's face as he looked at this painting, particularly at the manuscript the painted man held in his hands. The trio discussed the artwork and the painting depicting Mathias Ettenhueber, who became a royal poet but did not get any financial support because of his title. He died as a broken man.\nMathias Ettenhueber: I'd forgotten, but now I remember. I was a poet, a talented poet, I recall. Oh, it has been an eternity since I have seen the sunrise. In my dream, I will write a poem for my dear about the wonderful warm light.\nWarm rays of sunlight first hit the lower right corner of the painting, making the sections appear golden before reaching the candle and extinguishing its flame. The three men stood in the huge exhibition hall, their faces fixated on the picture, silently witnessing the change in the painting." } ]
[ { "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: Charles & The Lady of the Manor\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2856\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A sense of déjà vu washed over me as I awoke in Paris. Arriving late the night before, the first thing that struck me was the magical facade of city nightlights when I exited the airport. The illuminated bridges, boulevards, and monuments created stunning scenery, along with the lighted cafes and buildings the taxi passed by. \nTowering before me as we turned into the street corner to get to the Hotel Arc de Triomphe was the majestic Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile built by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1806 to celebrate his numerous victories in war. The whole stretch of Avenue des Champs-Élysées leading to the arc was resplendent in sparkling gaiety.\nFrance has the history of the Vikings. Bold and triumphant, the French were warriors of prestige and honour, of kings and queens, of the intricate flamboyance of Gothic and baroque artistry and architecture.\nWhile the Vikings, known for their strength in the army, looted and raided, the French overpowered them, eventually giving them Normandy as peaceful negotiations overcame the consciousness of a ridiculous war.\nI had only two days in the city before I left for the South of France. The only way I could savour the place as much as I wanted to, especially the Palace of Versailles, was to take a ride down the Seine River and then walk, walk and walk everywhere my feet could carry me, so I could get to feel and not only see the historical landscape of France.\nWhen I stepped out of the hotel, the near-autumn chill in the breeze invigorated my senses, and since it was still very early, the morning dew lingered. I covered my head with my hoodie and began my day of exploration with a ready smile.\nEverything around me looked immaculately dressed in vintage colours, reminiscent of the historical era that represented France. That déjà vu feeling came back to me once more. I felt I had a past in this gorgeous City of Love, as the locals referred to it.\nThen, it came to me through the whispering leaves on the trees I passed. The Horse Chestnut trees were deep-rooted in the history that France was renowned for. Their striking ambience added grace and beauty to evoke tranquil sensibilities in awestruck minds like mine.\nThough the streets were paved and erected with modern structures, the refurbishments of the past were evident in the buildings. The Seine River ran below the Eiffel Tower, providing a picturesque view of grand historical sites along the river.\nI once lived in the era of Charles Le Brun, renowned as a painter and designer of artistic embellishment of Versailles during the reign of King Louis XIV. I was the Lady of the Manor, with a distinct flair for artistry in architectural endeavours.\nI fell hopelessly in love with Charles, the painter, who told me stories as he painted and sculpted stones into monuments. Charles Le Brun, the renowned sculptor and inventor of artistic genius from the era of the Great Renaissance, was acclaimed as the arbiter of artistic creation in France.\nI ventured inside the massive Gardens of Versailles and entered the compounds of the princely palace.\nThe richness of the estate enveloped me to encapsulation. I was awed and astonished simultaneously and relived a time from the past there. \nThe stunning gardens of the palace were designed uniquely and immortalised by its graceful ambience and intricate beauty. The Queen’s Grove, perfumed by the Damask and \"Folie de Bagatelle\" roses, greeted me with such poise and elegance that the breathtaking beauty of the flowers moved me.\nThat once, the lady of the manor lived amid such opulence made me envious. That she had a significant role in the social and cultural circles and the life of Charles didn’t come as a surprise, as he was the driving force for the splendour of the architecture and design of the palace.\nKnown for her grace, elegance and strength, the lady of the manor was a blend of sophistication and beauty, adding a touch of refinement to Charles’ art and treasure.\nThe Mars Room at the Palace of Versailles carried the spirits of Charles and the Lady of the Manor.\nOne day, as he sat painting in his atelier, he heard her speaking to someone in the gallery across his room where his paintings hung.\nNot accustomed to noises as he worked, he was distracted and walked out of his room to see who she was talking to. He stood quietly by the doorway and listened.\nHer words had a note of authority, and Charles thought that strange. What could it be that had hinged her temperament?\nAs he watched the scene before him, he grew amused at her antics.\nA boy of not more than ten years stood before her, and the Lady of the Manor, her face flushed, asked, “Well, can you reach the paintings so you can clear the dust off them?”\nThe child had his face down and looked up slightly to see the size and rise of the paintings.\nThen, he quickly looked down again.\nHe started moving consciously in his torn and tattered shoes and jumped when the Lady repeated the question. “Well, my lad, what do you say? You beg me for a chore in exchange for bread. I need the paintings cleaned of dust. Are you able to reach them?”\nHe stammered his reply, “Well, my lady, I, umm, I…,” and he choked on his words and moved his feet, and quick tears filled his eyes.\n“Oh, come with me,” said the Lady in exasperation. “Let me give you something to eat so you stay beholden to the promise of exchange! I shall give you some other chore, perhaps to water the gardens or a lesser chore so you eat a meal every day.”\nThe lad didn’t understand the intricate language of the aristocrat but nodded his head in acceptance of her terms. He was parched as he was hungry and grateful that she would give him some food. He would do the “beholden thing” right after.\nCharles ran into the room to get his coat which lay on the floor below his drawing board, and quickly put it on before following the two to see where they were going. The winds outside rustled the leaves of the plants in the garden, and Charles thought them musical.\nHe had never been to the kitchen since he was served and feted like a royal. Nor had he ventured far from his atelier all the years he painted.\nHe was keen to know if the Lady would fill the lad’s belly with the food he craved. He liked her, he thought at that instant. He hadn’t noticed her before, but she eluded strength and beauty.\nHe would paint her someday, a sudden thought occurred to him. Yes, she would make an intriguing painted lady, a portrayal of the beauty of Vanessa Cardui - the butterfly that symbolised resilience and versatility. \nThe Lady of the Manor held the hand of the boy as she walked fast down the hallway to the kitchen. They walked in silence.\nCharles followed quietly behind, choosing to walk in the shadows of the pillars that lined the hallway so he stayed out of sight. \nOnce or twice, she turned to look, swishing her gown in the process, but missed seeing him.\nWhen they reached the kitchen, Charles slipped into the room from the back and watched as a few servants came running to serve the boy and the Lady.\n“The food on the table is fit for a King,” the child thought in astonishment. “Oh, if only I knew what beholden meant would make me grateful for a meal! Why, I could die eating this way every day.”\nThe Lady of the Manor sipped her drink elegantly while the lad relished every morsel on his plate with quick gulps and went for seconds and thirds. The Lady watched him while he ate.\nShe didn’t say a word until the boy had finished eating. \nWhen the child had eaten to his fill, he noticed that the Lady hadn’t finished the drink in her cup. “Aren’t you going to finish that, My Lady?” he asked, his fear for the Lady diminishing with every second. Hadn’t she eaten with him at the same table?\nAs Charles watched, the Lady grew in beauty before him. He felt sorry for the boy and thought to ask the Lady if they could give him a place to stay at the palace.\nHe had never witnessed a scene like that before and left the kitchen deeply touched, promising to dine with her soon. He was captivated by the beauty of her heart and couldn’t wait to see her again.\nAs he stood by the window of his atelier that night, his painting lay forgotten. Charles was disturbed by the emotions he felt for a woman he had seen for the first time. She taught him about kindness and love for another human being. He had worked his whole life with inanimate structures to build beauty and fame, whereas the Lady had brought new meaning by showing beauty through human compassion.\nThe next day, Charles decided to walk in the palatial gardens. It was a beautiful day, and he wanted to be outside in the sun. He had missed out on many of life’s finer things.\nHe hoped to see the lad watering the plants in the garden, just as the Lady had suggested. He would surely hand him some money to buy a new pair of shoes.\nHowever, what he saw in the pristine Garden of Versailles amazed him even more.\nThe Lady and the lad were busy, bent over a large pot of roses and plucking the weeds off the soil. They were deep in conversation, and Charles was curious to know what subject engrossed them that they paid no heed to their surroundings, that even his footsteps went unnoticed.\n“O, that he could join them,” he thought longingly. Perhaps dig into the sand with his bare hands as they did. O, what joy that would bring him. To know that he once had partaken in their love for the gardens.”\nHe wanted the two figures bent over the roses to see him. He stood inches behind the child and shifted in his shoes so they heard his presence.\nThe lady turned to look and got up quickly to greet him. “Oh, my Lord. How wonderful to see you here early this morning. Isn’t it a glorious day to be out?” Then, seeing the child still bent over the roses, she said, \"Hurry, offer your salutation to the Lord as I have done. He is the master of the paintings I wished to have dusted.\"\nThe lad quickly stood up and wished Charles, “Good morning, kind sir.” The boy did not want to speak more than was necessary as it would surely be rude.\nHowever, Charles wanted to be on friendlier terms than just be the Master of the paintings to them.\nSo he said in a cheery voice, “Good morning. I see you are working with the Lady of the Manor to keep this estate in good shape.” He stole a glance at the Lady standing next to the boy. The morning sun cast a gorgeous glow on her, and she looked radiant, while the boy had smudges of soil on his face and looked unkempt. \nThe Lady smiled, and suddenly Charles bent down on his knees and started to weed, just as they did earlier. He removed his gloves, moved his fingers and felt the bare soil in his hands. A sense of pure liberation overcame him. The grains of the sand felt good in his hands, and he laughed loudly at the hilarity of the situation.\nThe Lady of the Manor flushed a crimson red, “Has he gone mad?” she thought, shocked at his antics. She had never seen him behave in such a manner before. He had always locked himself in the atelier and worked day and night. However, her love for his paintings brought her joy, and she had fallen secretly in love with him.\nCharles kept on picking at the weeds until they were all gone. The boy and the Lady stood a little apart from him and watched in astonishment.\nWhen finally satisfied that none remained to cast a cloud upon the cleared soil, he stood up, dusted his hands, and said, “I think this calls for a celebration. It’s the first time I have had the immense pleasure of doing a menial task and feeling utter liberation and peace of heart.”\nLooking at the Lady, he called her by name. “Come, Isabella, let’s take this lad to town. We have to get him some clothes and shoes, don’t we? And what about some breakfast?\nAren’t you hungry yet, Isabella? I saw you with a cup of tea, and not all did you drink of the cup. You left a good portion behind. I’m sure you must be starving by now!”\nThe Lady of the Manor was surprised to learn that Charles had watched them the previous day.\n“Go on and tidy yourself. We shall go into town to eat and do some shopping,” she ordered the boy before turning to say to Charles, “Would you please give us some time to get ready?\"\nWith her heart aflutter, she hurried, leaving a radiant Charles in the garden, beaming and happy. \"He seems delighted,\" she murmured under her breath when she noticed the look on his face.\nShe saw the boy running fast to his new room. She had allowed him a place to stay at the palace so he was safe. She feared that if he loitered in the streets of Paris, he would surely turn to negative influences or die in the harsh cold.\nThe carriage wheels on the asphalt were the only sound that broke the silence as they rode to the city. \nCharles sat next to Isabella while the boy sat opposite them inside.\nThe quiet cottages they passed were part of the rustic retreat known as the Queen’s Hamlet, built during the reign of Marie Antoinette. Charles was especially intrigued by the architecture of the cottages built around the lake.\nCharles broke the silence to say,\n\"These cottages serve as a secluded sanctuary for the queen and her dearest companions, an interlude from the palace's formalities. Don't you find them exquisite?\" Charles inquired of Isabella once he had concluded his conversation.\nThe cottages enthralled Isabella, “Yes, they are gorgeous and provide an aesthetic view to the eye. They do represent France’s rural outlook.”\nWhen they reached the city, Charles took them to Café Procope, the first of France’s breakfast café. There, they had some traditional French breakfast and left soon after to shop for some clothes for the lad. \nThe young boy felt elated to stroll alongside the aristocrats despite receiving disdainful looks from some higher-class people who passed by.\n\"Oh, what’s become of these two?\" remarked a woman as she and her husband walked past quickly. \"Are scavengers now being feted by royalty? They should be mindful of their place in society.\"\nIsabella squeezed the lad’s hands and smiled at him. They entered a boutique, and Charles got him a pair of shoes and some clothes. \nAs they walked out, Charles took Lady Isabella’s hand in his. He then strolled the streets of Paris with the lad carrying his bundle of clothes following closely behind. They sat by the fountain and talked about his paintings when suddenly Charles said,\n“Someday, I will paint you, Isabella. The painting will fetch millions because you radiate the beauty of a simple woman, though an aristocrat.”\nThey saw a peddler with balloons cycling down the street and ran after him, and Charles bought them one each.\nIsabella had an idea. They would let the balloons fly away as they passed the lake on the way back.\nPerhaps the winds will carry them to water, and they float somewhere far. Who knows, the children from the cottage might chance upon them and have colourful balloons to play with until they popped. They laughed at the funny scene that would present.\nWhen they returned to the palace, Charles took Isabella aside and kissed her. He promised to make her his bride.\nOn a bright summer morning, Charles walked his bride to the altar. They pronounced their wedding vows in the Gardens of Versailles, amongst the roses, jasmines and the gorgeous Palace as a backdrop.\nThe young boy became a handsome cavalier and lived protecting his master and the lady from evil forces.\nThe train to the South of France was late the next day. I waited in the station and watched the people rushing past.\nLater, the station announced that the train drivers were on strike and told us to go home. They hoped the strike would end by midnight. \nAs I took the taxi back to the hotel, a thought sprang to mind. I had another night to savour in Paris that might make me relive another story." } ]
[ { "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 Lesson\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1399\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The class settled down as Gisella wrote the website URL on the smartboard. As a group, they logged into the site on their computer tablets, then looked up with questioning eyes. Gisella smiled.\n“I knew that would get your attention. We’re learning about marine biology today.” She walked down the aisles. “Any questions?”\nThe first hand to shoot up was from Patrick. Outspoken Patrick. “Ms. Gisella, is this a prank?”\nShe shook her head. “Why would you say that?”\nOlivia, with her perfectly styled blonde curls framing her face, spoke up, “Because this site is about mermaids.”\nA general chorus of chuckles echoed in the room.\nGisella continued, “And?”\nPatrick shook his head. “Mermaids aren’t real. Whales, dolphins, sharks, those are real. You said marine biology, not myths and fantasy.”\n“All right, but just because you haven’t seen a mermaid in the downtown aquarium doesn’t mean they’re not real. You haven’t seen a dinosaur, but those were real.” Gisella went back to the front of the classroom.\n“Wait.” Patrick squirmed in his seat. “Is this philosophy or paleontology? No, you said marine biology. I want to learn about the ocean. Isn’t that your lesson plan or whatever?”\nGisella nodded. “Yes, it is. And I’m here to teach you marine biology. Go to the About page on the site.”\nNimble fingers tapped their tablets.\n“Good.” Gisella showed the page on the smartboard. “Follow along.”\nShe read the first paragraph:\n“Mermaids, Aquahominus marinae, are a mammalian species from the Quaternary Period believed to be extinct, mostly found in the Atlantic Ocean near shorelines or islands. Some subspecies had the ability to emit the fabled siren song to lure men, but most were a peaceful sea-going species.”\nThe class erupted in laughter, but Gisella remained calm and waited for the noise to dissipate. Her students were the brightest at Oceanside High and she loved teaching such eager minds, but this lesson was challenging, and she knew it. Getting kids to think for themselves was probably one of the most important things she could teach.\n“All right, guys, why do you think people consider mermaids myths?” She waited for Patrick’s hand to go up.\nSure enough, he practically jumped out of his seat. “We don’t have any mermaid skeletons or fossil evidence. And the ridiculous stories about them can’t ever be proven.”\nGisella nodded. “True. But before the first dinosaur fossil was discovered, nobody thought they existed. Right?”\nWith his hand half up, Patrick sighed. “Sure, you’ve got a point, Ms. Gisella, but we need hard evidence. Without proof, you can’t say for sure anything exists.”\nThis was fun. Gisella was in her element. “So what about a supreme deity?”\nSilence.\nShe raised an eyebrow, but the silence continued.\nThe girl way in the back, Elizabeth, slowly raised her hand. “Ms. Gisella, I thought we were learning about marine biology, not theology.”\n“Oh, we are. I’m showing you that there could be hundreds or thousands of marine lifeforms out there that we’ve never seen. Or found evidence of.” Gisella glanced at Patrick. “The lack of evidence is not evidence. I want you to learn to seek out answers, not rely on what you’ve been told. Learn to think and weigh the options before taking anyone’s word for something.”\nElizabeth continued, “I’m confused. How is this a lesson in marine biology?”\nWhat a great class! Gisella loved the banter. “What if mermaids were real? There haven’t been any fantastical stories lately about sailors witnessing these creatures swimming around. So what happened? Did they die off or learn to avoid people? How do you think they went extinct and why? Or did they go extinct? I want a thoughtful, two-page essay on this topic, with at least two references to articles about sightings.”\nPatrick wriggled in his seat and launched his hand in the air. “Seriously? I want to be a marine biologist and this essay is stupid. I’m here to learn about marine life.”\n“Mermaids are marine life, Patrick. Just because we don’t see them lounging on the beach doesn’t mean they aren’t there. One day sharks and whales will go extinct, too. You need to understand the correlation between a species and its environment, and what can happen when there’s a breakdown caused by other forces.”\n“Oh.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “You mean how humans have polluted the oceans and caused them to warm. Okay, I get it. Consequences for our actions.”\n“Good.” Gisella smiled. “We must understand how important and intertwined everything is, especially in the ocean.” She paused. “Your essay is due tomorrow.”\nGroans and objections rose.\nGisella checked the clock. Still thirty minutes of class left. “You can start now and work for the rest of class.”\n“Yay!” Elizabeth scrolled on her tablet and never looked up.\nPatrick sighed, obviously still not convinced of the assignment or lesson, but began working on his tablet anyway.\nWhen class was dismissed, Gisella packed up her things and headed home, excited for tomorrow to see what the kids wrote for their essays. This was their last semester before graduation, and she wanted to make it as interesting and fun as possible.\nOnce home, she kicked off her shoes and strolled to the backyard, her favorite place, besides the beach. After rolling the cover off the hot tub, she checked the temperature. A nice seventy-five degrees. She wasn’t one for heated tubs.\nShe stripped down and sat on the edge, dangling her feet into the calming water, and closed her eyes. Finally, she felt like herself. Tail, scales, and fins. She laughed out loud at what Patrick said about mermaids being myths and fantasy but stopped a moment later. With all the environmental damage caused by humans, she and her kind truly would become nothing more than a tall tale.\nSliding down into the water, she flopped her tail and used her gills behind her ears to breathe. With only a few thousand mermaids left, she wanted to be part of teaching young people to be responsible and realize that changes had to be made. Her goal was to reach someone like Patrick and get him to see that even if he didn’t see damage being done, it was there. She’d been tasked by the elders to nudge the humans into being more responsible and teaching was her idea. It was a good mission, but perhaps too late.\nThe next day, she collected the essays and piled them on her desk to read at home. The class was unusually quiet until Patrick raised his hand.\n“Ms. Gisella, we were all on chat last night working on the essays and…well…we decided to do a beach cleanup this weekend with a bunch of our friends and parents. I had a talk with my parents about being more sustainable, too. Maybe if we all do a little, we can make a difference.”\nGisella beamed inside. “Exactly, Patrick. It takes one person to make little changes, and a lot to make big changes. Thank you for understanding what I’m trying to teach.”\nElizabeth chimed in, “Oh, we get it. I always wanted to be a mermaid when I was little, but what you said yesterday got me thinking. What if mermaids were real and we killed them off? We missed the chance to learn about them.” Her face darkened with sadness. “Maybe they ate fish and we took away their food supply by overfishing. Could that happen?”\n“Definitely.” Gisella sighed. “But maybe it’s not too late. If mermaids were real, there could still be some around. It’s not like they get placed on the endangered species list, so people have to act now to help save them, and all wildlife.”\nPatrick waved his hand. “I like this exercise. And mermaids or not, I’m going to make a difference and when I’m a marine biologist, I’ll make sure the oceans are clean.”\n“I’ll hold you to that, Patrick.” Gisella nodded thoughtfully.\n“Us, too, Ms. Gisella!” Elizabeth motioned to her friends. “We’re all going to do what we can, and make sure our parents stop messing up the environment.”\n“What a wonderful class I have.” Gisella grinned.\nShe had to keep teaching for as long as it took, but if all the students were as bright as this class, perhaps extinction would be off the table, and she could return to her home under the water. But time would 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: The Alternate\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2733\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The Alternate\n\nI didn't make it... No, surely I made it... Didn't I??\nOther girls in front of me were either squealing in delight or turning away with crest-fallen hopes. Four of my other sophomore squad mates were holding on to each others arms bouncing up and down full of giddiness. Of course they had made it.\nThen one of the Patties met my eyes and had to look away. What had she seen on the single sheet posted outside the gymnasium that I hadn't been able to see yet for the cluster of swarming candidates surrounding the little typewritten square?\nCarol, another one of the former squad members turned and said “Congratulations, Mary.” Then went to join the bouncing foursome. Okay, that must mean...maybe I did?\nFinally, I was able to read it. Under “Varsity Cheerleaders”. Yes, the four names: Patti H., Patti T., Jackie F., Mary C.; then two juniors from this past years' varsity squad Mary S. and Miki S.; then, Alternate: Mary Y.\nWhat? Alternate! Me? But... but I was a leader on our squad. I created the majority of the routines. Sure, having no adult overseeing us, (well, until 'she' came along) we collaborated a lot but still without me making suggestions all the cheers would have been boring! My sister was cheerleader in her first year of community college and had been one every year since she was in sixth grade, in all three high schools she had attended. She taught me everything. I taught them everything!\nAlternate?! That is like a death sentence. A slow, agonizing death sentence. I thought of petite, perky, Paula, a dancing diva, our sophomore 'alternate'. What had this past season meant for her? Coming to a few practices. Halfheartedly learning the moves of a few routines. Maybe filling in for one of us once or twice at an actual game but having to hurriedly be reminded what to do exactly. Did she even have her own uniform? All that and she still didn't earn a spot on the next year's varsity squad.\nMy heart hurt but somehow I was still caught up in the exuberance of the other lucky chosen ones and was surprisingly included when they did a victory lap around town. I don't even remember how we all fit in a vehicle but we were dropping off Carol on the north side of town. I lived on the south side of the river and, being new to the city last year, wasn't familiar with this neighborhood.\nIn my misery fog I remember looking at a weepy, bluish-green shrub when we stopped at a corner. Being April there were cheery flowering trees everywhere that should have lifted my spirits. My spirit was deflated and the blue in the bush reflected that and I wanted to weep, too. Now decades later I live on the north side and that bush still survives, although gnarled and twisted, on my homeward way. It still can twist my insides a bit as it reminds me of that time long, long ago. And why have I let that time still weigh heavily on my heart?\nAh, High School. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times...\nWhat I knew:\nWe were midway through the basketball season when 'she', being Mrs. T, was introduced to us sophomores as the new cheerleader advisor. She had expertise galore she would impart to us poor floundering newbies. The varsity squad was too far gone but there was still maybe hope for us younger rubes.\nFirst on her agenda was getting us to add acrobatic tricks into our routines because that was the way things were done at the last school where she coached. That meant having to teach us how to do flips, splits, cartwheels, round-offs, front walk-overs, back walk-overs, back-flips and maybe even aerials. She also taught us pyramid building techniques and the mandatory three-step wind-up to every jump we jumped. Gone were the trendy sharp, snappy arm moves in favor of the old-fashioned floppy, flaying arms in every direction mode.\nNow I was already self-taught in splits, could even do one in the air, back-bends and cartwheels to the right or the left. But I had no idea what a back-walk-over or round-off was and back-flips were only for fools off a diving board.\nDespite my family's poor economic standing and frequent moves throughout my previous school years I still think I had confidence to try and conquer most challenges. I liked phys-ed and was competitive in most games we played. This was before Title 9 which made way for girl's sports programs. We had GAA, Girl's Athletic Association, in which we went on hikes or maybe swam at a local hotel or held dodge ball or volleyball tournaments. But otherwise you became a cheerleader or nothing if you wanted physical activities. Even jogging wasn't a thing back then.\nI had been a cheerleader in seventh grade at my previous small-town school and had been selected again for eighth grade but moved when the basketball season was getting underway. The much larger school I moved to selected their squad the week before I arrived. There were no freshman cheerleaders but I made the sophomore squad. We didn't choose a captain, we worked together until Mrs. T came to take over.\nAt these tryouts for the next season I did everything perfect up until I attempted and failed to complete my back-walk-over. In practices I was proficient perhaps seventy percent of the time. I could do one but got nervous, I guess, under pressure. I know Mrs. T had seen me do one plenty of times.\nNow, Miki, a junior who had been on the varsity squad that year, was at the same level of proficiency doing walk-overs and all the other tricks we were learning as I was. But she pulled a leg muscle before tryouts. To the judges Mrs. T vouched for all the tricks Miki couldn't perform as if she had them down perfectly. Miki only had to wave her spindly arms around during the try-outs. I believe she was 'grandfathered' in on Mrs. T word. It didn't hurt she also had the preferred twiggy appearance compared to my filled out, perfect pyramid-base form.\nThroughout the following junior year I tried my hardest to make the most of the alternate position to which I was elected. I attended all practices trying to learn all positions of all the cheers. I was even tasked a new position of being advisor to the incoming sophomore squad. So I attended all their practices, too, and choreographed the majority of their routines. I continued practicing the acrobatics even though I was always short-changed on the time Mrs. T would afford for me because, after all, I was only the alternate.\nOn 'Spirit Day' when we were supposed to wear our cheerleader uniforms to school, Mary C came crying to me she had to commandeer my uniform because some unforeseen disaster had befallen hers. What difference did it make if I wasn't in uniform since I was only the alternate?\nThis was the football uniform which included hand-made corduroy shorts. I, being a sewer, had made my own as per my Grandmother always taught me leave a little extra give in the seams. Seemed wise advice especially considering all the jumps, cartwheels and other stress we may put on those seams. Therefore, the shorts were not tight on me.\nSo, of course, being the team player I was expected to be I handed over my shorts and did not get to participate in the 'Spirit' of the day. Imagine my surprise when those shorts were returned to me with large holes running up both sides of the leg seams.\n“Well, naturally, they were so-o-o big on me I had to take up the seams.” Said a quite contrary Mary. She was also a base model and not nearly as skinny-legged as she professed. But what did it matter if my shorts were ruined? No permission necessary and no apology, huh, Mary. After all, I was only...\nAnd so the year went. I maybe cheered two games the whole season. I started attending my out-of-town boyfriend's games when held on the same night as our school's.\n\"So, Mary. I didn't see you in the stands at Friday night's game. You understand you should be there supporting the team, right?\" Mrs. T reminded me at the next practice. Evidently, no life permitted because, after all...\nWhat I never knew that year:\nMrs. T had her varsity squad plus one other petite gymnast perform in our town's summer talent show.\nMrs. T had her varsity squad and the extra gymnast teaching gymnastic skills to grade-school classes-- for pay!.\nMrs. T threw parties at her house for the varsity squad inviting her favorite students from her previous school. They all became fast friends. The other girls had inside jokes they would share and laugh at behind my back during practices.\nProfessional pictures were taken of the varsity squad. I was not even invited to be in the yearbook pictures of cheerleaders that year. They were taken without my knowledge. Dispite all my extra hard work and time put in my name was not even mentioned anywhere in that book as varsity alternate or as sophomore advisor.\nDespite poor treatment by the girls I thought were my friends the previous year and especially by the adult in the room who obviously had no regard for my well-being, I still had a passion for cheer-leading so I practiced and showed up for try-outs at the end of the year. The judges added a new question and answer segment as part of the process.\n“If not selected as one of the six members of the squad, do you want to be the alternate?”\n'Oh, sure, sign me up for more abuse,' was what I thought. I answered as honestly as I could. “Being an alternate as a junior makes sense because it may prepare the way for the following year. But as a senior, I can not imagine what could be gained. So no thank you.”\nI saw the smirk on my nemesis' face. I was sure she held my future in her hands. She wasn't a judge but she swayed the judges. I was sure I had signed the death sentence on my beleaguered cheerleader career.\nWhat? I made it! Now was that a good thing or not?\nThe two Patties, the two Marys and Jackie were together again along with a lone junior, Roxie. Except for us pyramid-base-models, the two Marys, all the rest were petite and spindly body types exactly like Mrs. T and what she valued.\nWe started practicing in earnest. Jackie had fallen on her head in a failed back-flip sometime last year (I never witnessed this so that meant they were having additional practices without me). Never again would she perform one on the gym floor although she was more than capable. Therefore, we had to work around her in every cheer. The two Patties could spell out our town name and our mascot name in back-flips. One letter for every flip. Total of ten. Even I could spell out our mascot name in back-flips. That was five flips one after the other. I never quite got the aerial but then again Mrs. T had little hope my big size-nine-rear-end would ever make it over my head so didn't give me much chance to try. (Everyone else except Jackie and Roxie could do an aerial so those extra practices last year paid off.)\nMy senior year she had no way out of including me in the talent show or her gymnastic school. The parties either stopped or I never got an invitation. I still don't know. Our alternate was included in all we did including professional and yearbook pictures.\nI never would have guessed this about myself but I am capable of holding a grudge for a very looong time. Yeah, I know I am supposed to forgive and forget but...\nAt the end of the year the gymnastic school was to put on a recital for the parents. I taught a class of eight sixth-graders. We all had some polishing to put on the routines. The time frame already had extended far beyond what was expected on the dress rehearsal evening. I had a ride waiting for me outside I had sent away once and told to come back in an hour. (This was long, long before everyone was attached to a phone on their hip.) I innocently stated to one of the other squad member teachers that Mrs. T really shouldn't expect us to stay out this late. A fact, not a slam.\nThe next day before the performance I was surprised to get a phone call from Mrs. T demanding an apology. Evidently, a parent had overheard me 'complaining' and thought I was out of line. I was flabbergasted. How much abuse had I taken without complaint from this pillar of virtue, this molder of young minds? Never had I heard one word of apology for making me feel unworthy or less than her other prodigies. My crime was being larger than her ideal. I sort of snapped.\n“I was merely stating a fact, you had kept us there too long. 11 PM! I am sure if any of the other girls observed the same you would not be demanding an apology from them. I am the only one who can't do anything right by your standards. I don't think I need to apologize.”\n“Apologize or don't bother coming in tonight.”\nEven though it hurt my heart not to be there helping my class I couldn't do it. I think the injustice I felt in the last two years boiled over into this moment in time. Where was her apology to me? She had robbed me of my confidence and my joy. Made me feel miserable about myself. Treated me like low life. But always with a smirk, er, smile.\n“Then I guess I won't be there tonight.” I felt I was finally standing up for myself.\nOf course, I never did get to see, let alone purchase, any of the professional pictures we had taken that spring of our varsity squad.\nBut there I am in the year book in a perfect split in the air. One of only two full action shots in the lot. And my legs in the still shot with us on one knee with the the other extended in a perfect rockette-style line do not look exceptionally over-sized, just more filled out than the other knobby-kneed toothpicks. My arms are in precise alignment, unbent, hands and fingers on point, not splayed-out. My smile is perfectly awesome, hiding the pain of the truth.\nI had some good teachers so why does a poor one come to mind the most? I recognize these woes and the teenage angst I suffered are minor compared to experiences others have lived through.\nI can hear you thinking, “Oh, poor little popular cheerleader. How did she ever get through it all?” All I can say is I wasn't your typical stereotype cheerleader. I talked to and tried to be friendly to everybody. I don't think I displayed an 'I'm better than you' attitude. My main circle of friends was far from the most popular.\nI was pleased my alcoholic dad never came to any school events. I never expected my overworked mom to make the effort. Besides her full time job she was busy caring for her aging mother and six kids. We lost of one of my sisters in an auto accident six months prior to this starting. My family was still healing. Income was low, the struggle high.\nWe moved frequently so needed to re-adjust quickly. Other members of the group had been friends since kindergarten. I was an outlier. I worked hard for acceptance. Inside I was fragile.\nMuch later I learned I was the first in a long line of girls at our school on whom Mrs. T put her stamp of disapproval.\nI have been blessed with many successes and survived many heartbreaks over the ensuing years but I believe what should have been some of my most cherished formative years were unfortunately tainted by this biased unconventional 'teacher'." } ]
[ { "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: Mr. Woodrow's Senior Prank\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2703\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "MR. WOODROW’S SENIOR PRANK\n\n Harper Woodrow gazed at the vista provided for the graduates of Pacifica High School. A platform festooned with blue and white bunting was centered between the goalpost, and rows of white chairs filling nearly half of the football field were filled with black robed seniors. Seagulls rode the thermals over the beach in the distance, and on a quiet night you could hear the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean beyond. The puffs of white cloud against the clear blue sky accented the school colors decorating the speaker’s podium. Harper felt a moment of regret at this ending of his chosen career but quickly balanced that against a long list of small injustices. Harper was the last holdout in a dying Industrial Education program, and the dismantling of his career and program had begun well before his final year.\n It was Mr. Woodrow’s final graduation as a high school teacher and he smiled, knowing he was finally going to enjoy one. It was his thirty-seventh consecutive as he had kept the habit of attending the ceremony for his entire career. This time he wore a robe like the graduates, a cowl representing his college, and a mortar board that kept slipping on his balding sweaty head. He sat in the front row in what was intended as a position of honor for himself and three other retirees. It felt more like a position of torture, as he struggled internally trying not to think of going to the bathroom. He knew there was no way to take a break without being seen by over a thousand family members of the graduates. As the endlessly alphabetized list of names dragged on, he squirmed uncomfortably in the metal folding chair. He surreptitiously glanced at his wristwatch relieved that finally the end of his long career was nearly at hand. Behind him he heard a noise rising that took only a moment to recognize. Without looking up he waited for the craft that created the high-pitched sound in three-part harmony. Suddenly, not ten feet above the graduates a familiar trio of drones whizzed by holding their now all too familiar payload. The pride of Pacifica High school, the “Seed & Feed”, rose over the stage to perfectly split the uprights and dart off to the right behind the cover of a grove of trees. The crowd and graduates responded with wild applause as the Science Fair Gold medal project interrupted the ceremony.\n As the last name was read and the graduates erupted in a volley of thrown mortarboards, Harper hurried to the gates of the athletic field, dodging friends embracing and parents streaming onto the field to give their offspring one last hug as their child. He planned to circumvent the crowd by dodging into the school and using the restrooms inside. But as soon as he exited the gates and went around the corner of the building, he stopped dead in his tracks. He stood open-mouthed as more people started to gather behind him.\n “Woodrow, what’s going on here?” barked the all too familiar voice of the principal, who appeared at Harper’s shoulder.”\n “Well sir, if I had to guess I’d say you were the target of a harmless senior prank.” Harper’s smirk wasn’t lost on the man.\n The principal glared at Parker with eyes squinted suspiciously. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, I’m coming after your pension!” The portly principal ran towards the administrative parking spaces waving his arms, looking like a penguin finding another bird in its nest.\n “Shoo, get out of here!” \n Harper stifled a laugh as the flock of birds rose as one into the sky taking flight from their roost. The flustered man slowly dropped his arms in resignation at the sight he beheld.\nThe next day…\nTUCKER AMSTEDT\n “So, Tucker, could you describe your relationship with Mr. Woodrow for me?”\n “Relationship? What exactly do you mean by that?” The senior straightened in his wooden seat. “He was my teacher. Might I add sir, the best teacher in this high school.”\n “I’m sure he was. Can you explain to me why you had taken all three of the classes that Mr. Woodrow has on his schedule, yet there you were as a senior, in his class? Again.”\n “Sure thing sir. Mr. Andrews, my school counselor, set it up for me and a couple of other kids. Independent Study in Mr. Woodrow’s shop. I needed another full credit to graduate as a senior. Literally one whole credit short.” The gangly teen rolled his eyes trolling for empathy.\n “Would not graduating have affected your plans to join the Marines?”\n “Oh, yes sir! That would have violated my enlistment agreement. I don’t even know if they would let me in if I hadn’t graduated!”\n “I think the military would still have a spot for you.”\n “Not as a Certified Drone Operator 1st Class! That’s what I am going to be. I’ve loved drones for as long as I can remember. We even won an award at the State Science Fair in April using drones!”\n “Tell me about this award of yours. Using drones, you say?”\n “Well, Woody wasn’t…I mean Mr. Woodrow, wasn’t a slack teacher. When he got us, he assigned us a real-world challenge. He wasn’t going to let us use the shop until we had one. But he didn’t give us like, any directions or anything. He demanded this problem statement that told you what the problem was that we were going to solve, and how we were going to do it, and all I knew was that it was going to have to involve drones.”\n “You say…us…when you speak of this assignment. Who is us?”\n “Oh, that’s my buddy Wyatt. Wyatt Jones. He heard about the sweet deal I got with independent study, and asked if he could get in on it, as prospects were bleak that he would graduate on time. Wyatt’s smart, but he had to take care of business on the family farm a lot, so he missed too much school. I was stuck on how I was going to use my drones to solve any problems, but then Wyatt had an idea that would help his farm. A great idea, actually.”\nWYATT JONES\n “Mr. Woodrow? I’d be half the man I’m growing into without Mr. Woodrow.”\n “Wyatt, tell me about this…problem statement that Mr. Woodrow assigned to you.”\n “Well, one day I was out in the fields at home. I was thinking while riding the tractor watching the seeder pitch seed. That’s the mechanism that spreads the seed into the furrows in the soil. Well, I was thinking that this must be one of the most boring jobs on the farm. Then I started thinking about how much gas we used up seeding an entire field. That on top of my time seemed like one big waste.”\n “So, using drones was your idea?”\n “I guess so. My friend Tucker has always been nuts about drones and I went to Mr. Woodrow with our idea and asked if we could work together on the problem project.”\n “What was Mr. Woodrow’s reaction to that?”\n “He was excited. He said the idea could be a gem, or a worthless piece of glass, depending on what we did with it. That’s how Mr. Woodrow would say things, comparing one thing to another thing. Anyways, luckily Tucker and I had taken Mr. Woodrow’s Computer Aided drafting class as sophomores. With that and the new 3D printer he got with some technology grant, we were able to design and build a seed spreader that worked kind of like the big one I used at home. Only this one was way lighter, and of course, smaller. But unfortunately, it didn’t work. The idea was that the spreader would be suspended between the two drones that Wyatt had, but it just wasn’t strong enough. That’s when Mr. Woodrow brought in a third drone that he bought with his own money. We were able to stabilize the spreader and synchronize the flight of all three drones.”\n “Wow, that’s quite an idea. You were going to drop seeds from the air, using drones? So, it was Mr. Woodrow’s idea to add a third drone?”\n “No, it was our idea, he just bought the thing so that we could do it.”\n “So, you then built this thing in Mr. Woodrow’s shop, and won an award for it at the Science Fair?”\n “No. I can truly say that it wouldn’t have won any awards if we hadn’t met Charlie Pratt.”\nCHARLIE PRATT\n “Good morning, Charlie. Mr. Pratt, I appreciate you bringing him in on such short notice.”\n “What do you want from him?” The man in the camo truckers hat asked with a suspicious tilt of his head.\n “We just wanted to ask Charlie some questions. Questions about Mr. Woodrow and the drone that you boys built.”\n “It was three drones, and we didn’t build them.” The seventeen-year-old junior sat cross armed and defiant in his seat next to his father. “Tucker had two of his own and Woody bought the other.”\n “You mean, Mr. Woodruff? You called him Woody?”\n “Everybody called him Woody. I remember him saying that it used to bother him when kids stopped saying mister, and he preferred Woody to the disrespectful Woodrow. So that’s what we called him.”\n “Let’s get back to your project. I see you joined Mr. Woodrow’s class in the second semester?”\n “Independent study. They finally got me out of that bitch Everly’s English class.”\n Not missing a beat Mr. Pratt gave Charlie a quick backhand to the chest, accompanied by a threatening stare.\n “Okay! So I was kicked out of English class so I had nowhere to be. They took me to Woody’s room, and I waited in the hall. I overheard my dick couns…my counselor “, he corrected himself as both hands raised protectively. “I overheard my counselor tell Mr. Woodrow that “maybe you can do something with him”.”\n “So how did you get involved with the drone project?”\n “” Seed & Feed”. It was called “Seed & Feed”. Mr. Woodrow let me use the computers, and Tucker and Wyatt were always running around the shop, excited about something they were building.”\n “And that was “Seed & Feed?”\n “Yeah, only they didn’t call it that yet. After a while I had a good idea what they were doing.”\n “And you thought you could make it better?”\n “I knew I could make it better!”\n “My boy knows computers!” Mr. Pratt interjected.\n “Oh yes, I know Charlie knows computers. Let’s see, suspended in 7th grade for changing all the kids’ names on the teachers seating chart to Mario Brothers characters. Suspended in 8th grade for inserting a full-page picture of himself into the proofs of the yearbook that was sent to the printer.”\n “Now that was a good picture you have to admit.” Mr. Pratt said, palms to the ceiling and shoulders shrugged.\n The officer stared deadpan at the pair. “Then finally, this first semester, Charlie thought it funny to rewrite some of the Shakespeare poems that Ms. Everly had prepared to assign to her students.” Both father and son dropped their eyes, but Charlie couldn’t hold back a snicker, remembering how popular his “revisions” were with his fellow classmates.\n “So, Charlie, where were you Sunday afternoon?”\n Mr. Pratt interrupted before his son could answer. “If you would have done your detective work better, you might know that Charlie was right there at graduation. Sitting in the stands with the band the whole time. I’m right tired of this place and the ocean front fakes that are running this school! Not a one of them lives east of the school and wouldn’t be caught out among us farm people.”\n “Yeah, that’s another thing that Mr. Woodrow was mad about. Did you know that next year there won’t be any more shop classes?” Charlie glared at the officer across the table. “Did you know that next year where the shop was, where we invented an award-winning project, there will be indoor parking? Uh-huh, but not just any old parking. It’s “safe” parking for school administrators. I guess safe meaning they can sneak away at a moments notice in their Porsches and Audis. How’s that for progress?”\n “You say that Mr. Woodrow…was angry?” The detective leaned his elbows on the table and interlaced the fingers of his hands in front of his chin.\n Charlie thought for a moment that it looked like the cop was praying that he would say something. Praying for something that would get Mr. Woodrow in trouble! Charlie sank back into his chair and sullenly refused to answer. The detective, staring at the boy across from him, felt he had a thread and he wanted to keep pulling.\n “Let’s get back to the project. How was it that you made it better, and ended up sharing the award with the other two boys?”\n “They practically had the thing working when I got there. The seeder worked fine, the hopper payload was acceptable, and the third drone gave it not only more power but more stability. There was still one huge problem as I saw it.”\n “Well, tell him what you did son!”\n “The problem as I saw it was one simple drawback that they had overlooked. They actually had to fly it!” Charlie gave his best “tada” expression, waiting for the officer to respond. After a moment he rudely repeated the gesture.\n “Don’t you get it? There was no reason that they had to manually pilot that craft over any field at all! After a little research we found that farmers are already using drones to spread pesticides, so I knew the technology I wanted was out there. After a bit of…digging around, I was able to tailor that program to meet our needs. One flyover to photograph the field in its entirety was all that was needed to get started. I downloaded the photo establishing GPS waypoints so that now old man Farmer can go back to the barn if he wants to and milk his cows. His field is being seeded automatically. The only glitch was hopper capacity and we solved that with a docking port attached to the grain silo. The thing even senses a low load and returns for a refill automatically.”\n The detective sat staring at the boy, undersized with a dark blue tee shirt, an Angels cap holding in an unkempt hat full of hair. He stared at the boy for a while, wondering when we had started making kids like this. He shook his head but looked deep in thought.\n “After all is said and done, you, Tucker, and Wyatt were all at the graduation ceremony when the…crime I’m investigating occurred. Mr. Woodrow was also there, for the entire ceremony. During that ceremony your “Seed & Feed” spread birdseed over a very specific area. The Administration’s parking area. What happens Charlie, when you dump a large amount of birdseed outside?”\n “You get birds?” the boy quietly offered.\n “You get birds. I imagine the first seagulls to the scene hurriedly phoned a friend, because quickly, there was a flock. During that ceremony the flock turned into a…a…migration!”\n He appealed to the more mature Platt present. “Sir, what is bound to happen when a migration of seagulls go into a feeding frenzy while perched on nine cars?”\n The father of Charlie Pratt couldn’t hold back at a chuckle. “Why officer, I believe those birds might eat their fill, but before they fly home, they’re going to paint those cars a whole new shade of white!” The older man bust out into a laugh at his own punchline.\n The detective reached out and pressed STOP on the tape recorder that had been recording the interview. He sighed, but a smile slowly spread across his face.\n “I’m afraid I have to inform the school board that we are dropping the investigation, due to a lack of evidence. Their accusations that Mr. Woodrow and you boys were in some way responsible for this…natural phenomenon, are” he winked at the boy and his father, “for the birds.”\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: Owl Academy\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2471\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Delilah watched, smiling, as this year's batch of fresh students filed into her classroom, guided by an older student who had not, if he knew how to follow the rules, answered a single one of the many questions the teenagers no doubt had.\nOnce all six children were in the room, the door closed, suddenly and with a small snap. Catherine and Isabella, names Delilah knew from the files she had studied carefully in the weeks before the start of the semester, looked around suspiciously, but quickly decided that the noise posed no threat.\nAfter all, they didn't know that the door had closed of it's own accord.\nAll in good time.\nDelilah gestured towards the six cushioned chairs, each behind a sizeable desk, and the children took their seats, some more reluctantly than others. Catherine immediately slouched in her chair and crossed her arms in defiance. Ian rested his head lazily in one hand, elbows on the desk. The rest were still nervous about making a bad impression, and sat upright, perfectly still.\nIt was a difficult day for the children. Each had arrived late the night before, chauffeured by dedicated drivers who also weren't allowed to answer questions and ushered immediately to their individual, private bedrooms on the school's premises. There was nothing stopping them from exploring after they were left alone, of course. But in Delilah's experience, few ever did, not on that first night, anyway.\nEach child had been tracked and contacted as soon as they turned fourteen. Some were easy to find. Lilly, for example, was the youngest of seven girls, all of whom had gone through the school before her. She would have been expecting the summons, fretting, no doubt, that she would be the first member of her family not to be chosen. Ian, Mikey, Isabella, and Tina were all found easily, at or near their parents' homes. Only Catherine had proven difficult, runaway that she was, but the recruitment department had found her anyway, gotten her into a foster home, and brought her here, as planned, in time for school.\nThe Owl Academy was a unique, elite school for a very select group of students, but Delilah doubted that anyone except Lilly and perhaps Ian had heard of it before. Ian's father was very, very rich and was possibly one of the many wealthy individuals who had heard of the school and tried to buy their child a place. By all accounts, he was certainly the type to try. No one knew what the school taught, exactly, or what it's methods were--the only thing that those in the know were certain of was that every child who had ever gone there had grown to be highly successful in whatever field they chose.\nBut no one could buy their way into Owl Academy. There was no application process, no entrance exams, no open days--through a process known only to higher administration, students were selected from across the country and invited to attend. Few refused, although there had been some, from time to time. Very few invitations were sent each year.\nThis year, all six invitations had been accepted.\nDelilah smiled at the now seated children. The room was perfectly silent and, so far, not a word had been spoken.\nDelilah had been teaching first years for longer than anyone could possibly understand. She had learned in that time that there was little to be gained from easing the children into things. By accepting the invitation to attend, their lives had changed forever, and the sooner they realized that, the better. Throw them in the deep end, and be their to help them kick their way to the surface--that was how she operated.\n\"Okay class!\" she said in a clear, commanding voice that rang out through the silence, making Mikey jump. \"Pop quiz.\"\nNo introductions, no welcoming speeches, no books handed out or timetables examined. Just straight down to business.\nIn the seconds before the quiz began, Delilah noted the facial expressions that spread across each child's face. Tina, Isabella, and Mikey looked panicky, but also slightly relieved. Pop quizzes were normal, if unwelcome. Perhaps this wouldn't be a completely crazy experience, after all. Catherine huffed with annoyance and Ian groaned audibly, but Lilly just sat quietly, smiling to herself.\nDelilah raised her hands in front of her body and held them there until the room settled once more and every eye was fixed on her. Then, suddenly and without warning, she brought her hands together in a single, loud clap.\nThe class jumped. On each desk, an owl appeared, instantly, with no indication at all from where it had come. Each was unique, each meant something different. They were all representations of owls, rather than living creatures (only once in Owl Academy's history had a live owl appeared on a child's desk, but Delilah was always hoping to be the teacher that was there to see the second).\nDelilah loved this part. She found it it extremely illuminating.\nThe room filled with gasps and murmurs and silent questions that the children had no idea how to ask, let alone answer. The timing was critical. Before anyone could start panicking in earnest, Delilah's voice rang out once more.\n\"Question one: Tina, what does your owl mean?\"\nTina was the obvious child to begin with. She had an undiagnosed anxiety order, one that manifested in part in a strong desire and drive to perform well on everything, always (lest the world should end). She would try to answer, despite her confusion and uncertainty, because not answering would seem impossible to a tired, frightened, electric mind like hers.\n\"Um. . .\" Tina glanced nervously from her desk to those around her, noting with growing horror that all the owls were different, what did that mean, why were they not the same, which one was right? But she couldn't say that she didn't know. That was not a skill that Tina had developed.\nYet.\n\"Look at it more closely,\" said Delilah, kindly.\nNervously, Tina picked her owl up. It was soft, a small plushie toy in bright shades of pink and orange and purple. A small tongue protruded from its beak, and one eye was closed, blinking mischievously.\n\"I think it means. . .I think. . .\" Tina deflated and slouched in her seat. \"It's the only colorful, silly one,\" she said, her voice cracking. \"It means that it is silly for me to be here.\"\n\"I am very pleased to be able to tell you that you are completely wrong,\" said Delilah, cheerfully. Tina's eyes widened in shock, not just that she'd gotten something wrong, but because Delilah seemed to think that being wrong in this instance was good. \"Your owl is here to tell you that there is softness and silliness in this world as well as hard work and seriousness. Both are needed for a successful life.\"\nDelilah turned to Ian, not waiting for a response from Tina. Tina would need a lot of guidance, and too much attention this early could cause her to shut down.\n\"Ian, what does your owl mean?\"\n\"What? I have no friggen idea,\" said Ian, defiantly, a child who wore ignorance as a badge of honor, as a way to defend himself against the unfair expectations of a rich father.\n\"Good,\" said Delilah, her smile widening. \"Knowing when you don't know something is an excellent skill!\"\nIan blinked. Not the response he was used to. While he was off guard, Delilah added, \"Why don't you look more closely?\"\nIan snatched his owl from the desk. It was light and hollow. \"It's just a cheap, plastic thing,\" he snorted. \"It's--\" He broke off.\nDelilah gently prompted him to continue by asking, \"What color is it?\"\n\"Sky blue. . .\"\n\"Which was. . .?\"\n\"Mom's favorite color. . .\"\n\"And on its wing it has. . .?\"\nIan held the owl up to his face, then gasped and dropped it on the table as if it had caught fire.\nThe violent thud didn't bother Delilah. The owls couldn't break.\n\"How did you know?\" Ian whispered.\n\"I didn't,\" said Delilah. There was nothing to be gained by explaining to the rest of the class that the handwritten letter A on the owl's wing was written in the same hand with which Ian's mother had signed the little notes in his lunchbox every day, right up until the day she'd died. Ian would share that himself, in time.\nBut the bigger lesson did have to be completed.\n\"Ian, your owl is here to remind you that cheap isn't the same as worthless, and that some things can't be bought. And that's wonderful.\"\n\"Mine looks like the drawings I used to do when I was a kid,\" said Mikey, the first to speak without being prompted.\" Except 3D and hard and stuff.\" He was examining it closely. \"In fact. . .\"\n\"Yes,\" said Delilah. \"It's the exact drawing you had on the wall in your bedroom when you were five. Isn't it lovely?\"\nIt was. A beautiful owl, surprisingly well proportioned and shaded for the age of the child who had created it, a clear sign of talent that had been snuffed out by teachers and parents who were more concerned about Mikey's inability to sit still and pay attention than anything else.\n\"But I still can't answer the question,\" whispered Mikey, clutching his owl tightly. \"I never know the answers. . .\"\n\"Your owl is here to tell you that not everything grownups do or say is right, and that the things we love as children don't have to be stifled as we age.\"\n\"Leaving aside for the moment that this is all completely insane,\" said Isabella, \"I know exactly what mine means. It means I'm supposed to be at home looking after my brothers and sister, and that coming here was a mistake.\"\nIsabella's voice was sad and resigned, and Delilah's heart swelled with sadness for a childhood lost.\n\"Not at all, Isabella,\" said Delilah. \"In fact, your owl wants to remind you of something completely different. Look again.\"\nIsabella held her beautifully crafted, ceramic owl up to the light. Under it's wings were three baby starlings, one about to take flight, and another ruffling it's feathers in preparation to do the same.\n\"Your owl is here to tell you that your brothers and sisters are not your children to care for. Your level of involvement in their lives is entirely up to you. You can ask for help. You can say no. And they will, one day, take flight and learn about the world for themselves.\"\nIsabella looked at her owl, skepticism writ large across her face, but Delilah trusted in the Academy--she knew that Isabella wouldn't be here if she couldn't learn what was needed.\n\"Look,\" said Catherine. \"What the hell is going on here? How did these things just appear out of nowhere?\"\nDelilah turned to the runaway rebel with the problem with authority and said, calmly, \"Magic.\"\n\"That's not actually an answer,\" said Catherine, impatiently.\n\"No. But the real answer is a bit harder to comprehend. It takes a long time to understand. About four years, in fact. So, for now, 'magic' will have to suffice.\"\nCatherine snorted. She scooped her own owl up from her desk and held it up to the light where it glinted and shone. Her owl was made up entirely from bits of broken, colored glass, and it was one of the most beautiful Delilah had ever seen.\n\"What does it mean?\" Delilah prompted.\n\"It means,\" said Catherine, \"that you went to the same psychology school as all the social workers and shelter employees I've ever met. Broken doesn't mean 'not beautiful.' Right?\"\n\"Right,\" said Delilah, infusing every bit of warmth she'd ever felt for anyone into her voice. \"Absolutely correct. Well done!\"\nCatherine snorted derisively, but her eyes didn't leave the glinting, dangerously sharp item in her hands. As Delilah turned away, Catherine placed her owl carefully on her desk, already treating it with the respect that all students at the Academy were taught to show to their owls.\nLast but not least: Lilly.\n\"Lilly, what does your owl mean?\" Delilah asked, gently. Like her six sisters before her, Lilly had received an owl of solid gold, a gemstone embedded in it's chest. Each sister's gemstone was different, each hinting something about the ability the child would show during their training. Lilly's owl sported a glinting emerald.\nIt was also far smaller than any owl her sisters had received.\n\"It means,\" said Lilly in a flat, expressionless voice, \"that I will always be the smallest and the least important.\"\nDelilah leaned closer and said, quietly. \"Pick it up.\"\nWith a sigh, Lilly obeyed, reaching one reluctant hand towards her owl. She wrapped her fingers around it's tiny surface, lifted, and gasped. \"It's so heavy!\" she said.\n\"Yes,\" said Delilah. \"Because it's here to remind you that being the littlest doesn't mean that you can't have an enormous impact.\"\nDelilah straightened and returned to the front of the classroom.\n\"By the end of this year, your owls may have changed, some a lot, some hardly at all. By the end of your second year, your owl will have a fixed shape, and by the end of all four years here, you will have developed a clear understanding of what your owl means for your journey as an adult out there in the 'real' world.\"\nDelilah pulled her own owl out from beneath her sweater where it hung on a golden chain. Her owl was an iron creation, a book held in one wing and a quill in the other. All around the owl, words and figures swirled, some the children would recognize, some that they had yet to learn about. Each character was fixed in midair, floating in perpetuity around Delilah's owl, held in place by nothing at all.\n\"My owl reminds me of the importance of receiving and imparting knowledge at every chance I get. I am here to do exactly that; to teach you and to learn from you and to grow together with you as your journey here begins.\"\nShe returned her owl to its place against her chest. The faces in front of her sported a mix of skepticism, wonder, awe, and, yes, fear.\nIt wasn't anything she hadn't seen before.\n\"You are all here because you have the power to impact and be impacted by this world in ways that most people are completely unable to understand. Together, we will uncover your potential and teach you to become all that you are be destined to be.\"\nShe straightened her shoulders and looked proudly over the future leaders that sat before her.\n\"Children,\" she said. \"Welcome to Owl Academy.\"" } ]
[ { "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: Nighthawks\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1662\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "With a weary sigh, Edward locked up the gift shop and finally got out of the museum. After eight hours of “the restrooms are around the corner from the large Seurat painting,” “no, you don’t need to know who Seurat is, it’s so big you can’t miss it,” and “I’m sorry, the Starry Night mugs are all sold out. Yes, I know, it’s disappointing,” he was mentally exhausted. This job was supposed to be just a stepping stone until something better came along he could put that art history degree to; he’d spent 27 years in this place. \nThe night shift security guard arriving was Edward’s cue that he could leave – good, because that Old Guitarist always seemed to be staring at him by that time of the evenings. Tipping his hat to the guard, Edward stepped out, down the chipped concrete steps of the museum into the dry, blustery New England autumn night. It was already fully dark out because of the darn daylight savings time change, and the wind funneled between the densely packed buildings in the business district of town, kicking up dead brown leaves on the sidewalk. The only spots of light were the yellow squares of windows where some dedicated workers still had not left – or were avoiding going home to nagging spouses or bratty children. Edward thought of his own empty apartment a short walk away. There should have been a single light on from the lamp on a timer, and it probably still smelled of the baked potato he made – and burned – earlier in the day. He never married, never had any children, never thought to until he realized he was lonely and by then it was too late. Funny that under the frozen eyes of the museum portraits and the streams of school field trips he was constantly surrounded by people and yet wanted nothing more than to go home and be lonely by himself; loneliness in a crowd always seemed worse. \nShoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his tweed coat, Edward shuffled down the sidewalk on the street to his apartment. A pair of children – likely brother and sister – walked their dog before they disappeared up the steps to a deep red brick townhouse with wilted flowers in one of the windowsills. A group of women holding down their cloche hats from the wind carried quick dinners from the local deli, likely going to some church event. Edward realized that he was hungry too, in fact, as the food court in the museum was edible at best and he’d had his fill of greasy French fries that week. Not in the mood to cook anymore that evening, he remembered a diner around the corner from his block. Phillies, he thought it was called. Usually filled with teenagers flirting and studying – not simultaneously – after school but it seemed like a decent place; it was usually quite empty when he was coming back from work and peered through its glass wall. Turning on his heel, Edward cut across the grass toward the diner.\nIt was in fact called Phillies, he had remembered correctly, and it was in fact quite empty. Almost entirely empty actually, with just the man behind the counter in his white uniform and one man sitting with his back to the large window. The soft yellow light coming from inside was a stark contrast to the grey cement and red brick down the rest of the block, something comforting to it. Pushing the door to the diner open, bells jangled above Edward’s head. The counter clerk turned his head and gave him a warm, acknowledging nod; the man sitting on the stool kept staring into his drink without reaction. Edward sat down at the end of the counter, near the steel drink machines.\n“What’ll it be?” the clerk asked him amicably, wiping down the glossy mahogany counter.\n“Uh, what do you recommend?” Edward wondered. “I’m not really a regular here.”\nThe clerk laughed pleasantly. “Yes, well, I can see that. I know most folks coming through these doors.” He did seem like the kind of person who would remember your name and order. “Might I suggest a philly cheesesteak with a cup of black coffee?” \n“Sure,” he nodded and pulled out a napkin from the dispenser, creasing it absentmindedly. \n“Have a lot on your mind?” the clerk asked him.\n“Contrarily, not enough,” Edward chuckled. “You ever feel like this is all you get out of life?” \n“Oh, sometimes, sure. I think everyone does, just part of being human.”\n“You think it happens to some people more than just sometimes?”\n“What’s on your mind?” he served Edward his order and leaned his elbows on the counter to listen. \n“Eh, nothing special. Maybe that’s just it: everyone tells you how special it should be. Marrying the love of your life, doing something you love for a living, kids coming home for Sunday dinners, at least having a dog. But really, you’re stuck at a dead-end job staring at Van Gogh mugs all day, or at least until they sell out – by the way, way too many people are obsessed with Starry Night. Then you go home to an empty apartment where there are no pets allowed, make the same dinner every night, re-read another book, go to sleep and do the whole thing over again tomorrow.” Edward paused with a sigh. “You ever think that dream comes true?”\n“Actually, I think many dreams come true. I don’t think there’s only one single dream. You know, I’m just here behind a diner counter, but I was lucky enough to be married to my high school sweetheart for 48 years before she passed away; I don’t care much for my son-in-law but he makes my daughter happy and they gave me a beautiful granddaughter out of it; and hey, at least I get all the strawberry milkshakes my heart desires here.” His smile was sincere, the smile of a man not bitter of what life had dealt him but happy to reminisce on the happy memories he had. \nEdward dove into the philly cheesesteak as the clerk refilled the other man’s drink. As Edward sipped on the coffee, the diner bells rang and a red-headed woman entered.\n“Josephine,” the clerk recognized her. “This isn’t your regular day – it’s only Thursday.”\n“Ay, the chop-suey place was closed tonight for some reason,” the woman – Josephine – shook off her coat, revealing a bright red dress that immediately livened the drab evening in Edward’s eyes. Her heels clicked on the varnished floor as she took a stool near his. “I’ll take my regular then.”\n“You come here often?” Edward asked her, then cringed – sounded more like a pick-up line than the genuine question he was going for.\nThankfully, she hadn’t noticed – actually, she likely noticed but thought he seemed too gentlemanly to mean it that way – and she grinned a dazzling smile at him. “Yes, but you seem to be a fresh face around here. Where are you coming from?”\n“Grabbing dinner on the way from the museum.”\n“Oh, any interesting exhibits?”\n“Just about all of them if you haven’t seen them for the past six months since they changed the showings,” he explained. “I work there; I wasn’t actually there for a visit.”\n“Seems like a nice place to work,” she said and Edward laughed. “I’m serious!” she insisted. “Sure beats spending all day on a typewriter transcribing your boss’s meeting notes,” she rolled her eyes and sipped the coffee the clerk immediately knew to make for her. \n“Oh really?” Edward challenged her, matching her sparkling tone. “I bet you’d get tired of Starry Night within two weeks.”\n“Hmm,” she leaned in closer. “Highly doubtful – that’s my favorite painting. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it. Would you ever get tired of looking at the night sky?”\n“The night sky is real though,” he pointed out.\n“So is Starry Night. It’s real paint on real canvas hanging in a real museum.”\n“Fine, but at least the night sky changes; it’s different every night.”\n“So is Starry Night. It’s different when you’re different.”\nEdward leaned back in his stool. “Nothing is ever different with me.”\n“I bet I can find something different,” Josephine's eyes glitter. “Me. I’m Josephine. There, now you met a different person today, so something changed.”\nEdward studied her in the soft yellow diner light and extended his hand. “I’m Edward.”\n“Well, Edward,” she placed her hand gently in his. “Tell me, do you believe in dreams coming true?” \n“I’m starting to.”\n\n ***\n\n“I don’t understand this painting,” Jack says, tilting his head as if that will give him a new perspective. \n“What’s there not to understand?” Emily sighs. “Hopper’s paintings are meant to symbolize modern loneliness, capturing human solitary interactions with other people and the environment.”\n“Thank you, Encyclopedia Emily,” Jack rolls his eyes. “I understand the history but I don’t understand the painting. If he’s all about loneliness, why do those two people look like they’re on a date?”\n“Maybe it’s a married couple enjoying a quiet night out together, or maybe it’s a first date and they had so much in common that they ended up talking all night long, long after everyone else already went home,” Maggie wonders aloud. “Or maybe it’s simply about two lonely people who met each other in the most unlikely of places and took a chance on trying to be, not lonely anymore.”\n“Oh Maggie, you’re such a hopeless romantic,” Emily huffs.\n“Children,” their teacher's voice shrills through the exhibit. “Time to finish this gallery. Next up is Starry Night.”\nAs the class filed out of the room, Edward and Josephine clinked their coffee cups together.\nShe, by the way, did not get tired of Starry Night after two weeks, nor after the 43 years they were married." } ]
[ { "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: Generation X Gets Taught a Lesson\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1044\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "School is where children go to watch old people get angry.\n…\nBack in the bodacious era known as the Solid Gold years, our family relocated from New York to South Texas. I was a freshman prepared to win over friends, forge lifelong alliances, and resume my strategic path to early retirement at a high school located much, much closer to the sun.\n\nMaking new buds would be a cakewalk with my righteous social skills. I was a gregarious lad prepared to execute my flawless, four-point, insertion plan:\n\nrecruit players for epic game of marbles; cleverly throw match in cinematic, Chariots of Fire climax\ndazzle cafeteria audience with pitch-perfect, Chewbacca bellow after sampling carrot/raisin slaw\nperform perfectly synchronized air-drums to Rush’s YYZ\ninvoke Dijön the Feisty, my elvish alter-ego, to woo clandestine, D&D club I’d find huddled in chemistry lab\n\nEducation was important. Friends were life.\n\nI should mention it was around this time I developed a soon-to-be-requited affection for Brooke Shields. (Unbeknownst to Brooke, we would be married soon and settle comfortably in a split-level near Disney World.)\n\nNew home, new school, new friends, Brooke…I was juggling quite a bit. With a Trapper Keeper as my only time management app, something was bound to slip off my full plate.\n\nThis happened on my first day of school during Phys Ed class.\n\nApparently, all students were to arrive to P.E. sporting a white t-shirt, a tidbit in the student manual I'd overlooked.\n\nI learned of my gaffe in the locker room and recovered in style by attending class sans shirt. I was, after all, a buff, little man with no qualms exhibiting my well-defined, concave pecs and Snack Pack abs.\n\nI took to the outdoor track for some relays, ready to show everyone just how fast a semi-nude, Yankee from Yonkers could be.\n\nCoach Stark had conflicting plans.\n\nWith a toot of his whistle, Coach ordered me off the field and told me to wait for him in his office.\n\nAh, geez! Busted over an apparel infraction? Seemed harsh, but I’d take my earful like a man and get back on track mañana.\n\nInside the warm office, I wasn’t getting a rah-rah, school spirit vibe. Apart from an economy-size bottle of salt tablets on a metal desk, the room appeared clinical and uninhabited.\n\nThere was one bit of unique décor hanging on the cinder block wall: a type of Nordic, wooden, sporting instrument. It was nicely varnished. Several drilled holes dotted its flat, blunt end.\n\nCoach strode in forcefully.\n\n“Where’s your t-shirt?”\n\n“I didn’t know I was supposed to bring one, Coach. I know now. I’ll have it tomorrow.”\n\n“That’s one.”\n\n“One what?”\n\nCoach removed the wood thing from the wall. He brandished it in his right hand.\n\nIt was becoming clear he intended to use whatever it was on me.\n\nThe next twenty seconds reshaped my public education experience for the rest of the year. Before I get to that, let me provide a brief profile of Coach to help better appreciate the moment.\n\nHe was big. Proportionally, he possessed a pinhead and spindly legs, but his arms, chest, and torso were obviously the result of a successful gorilla/human, gene splicing experiment.\n\nThe man had the shape of a really big dreidel.\n\nHe coached a football team that never won, had an assigned parking space located next to the bus corral, and he always looked pissed.\n\nThe man should not have bore much consequence in my academic universe, yet here he was : judge and jury raring to serve up punishment.\n\n“Hands on the desk.”\n\nJesus ! This was actually happening! Maybe I could make up something quick about a wood allergy. Yeah, sure...but if Coach didn’t fall for it, it could make the situation worse.\n\n“Don’t clench.”\n\nAre you serious? Clenching was my sole defense preventing that massive, ventilated, Viking paddle from turning my Play-Doh cheeks into a pile of ass noodles.\n\n“Look at the map on the wall.”\n\nMap? What map!? There’s no -\n\nWHAP!\n\nThe impact lifted me an inch off the ground, and for someone who’d built a career around athletics, Coach sucked at hitting his mark.\n\nHe’d swung low, tagging my upper thighs and seriously rocking my undercarriage.\n\n“Go wait out class in the bleachers.”\n\nI turned to exit but stopped short. I looked back at him.\n\n“Go on.”\n\nI stood, staring a moment longer before leaving.\n\nI’d never look directly at him again.\n\nIn fact, I avoided eye contact with all teachers. I kept my eyes pointed to the floor, to the side, or past their shoulder.\n\nI feared them.\n\nSocially, I took a hiatus from my friend search. Isolation during lunch became my norm. I abandoned pursuit of Brooke (quite easy after being dealt a misplaced, trauma-inducing contusion to my nether region).\n\nI’d gone from extrovert to introvert because I forgot a shirt.\n\nThis was my social-emotional learning.\n…\nTime heals wounds. Laughter kills the germs.\n…\nReturning for my sophomore year, I slowly regained my sense of humor. It helped me find some confidence, self-esteem, and good friends.\n\nI also began learning from some exceptional, caring teachers who earned my trust.\n\nSchool improved and kept improving. I didn’t hate it anymore.\n\nI hadn’t forgotten what happened in Coach’s office. It would be my one and only encounter with corporal punishment as a student. I'd long recovered from the physical effect, but I'd find myself replaying the event, the assault, almost daily, searching for a logical reason as to why it happened.\n\nWhy?\n\nWhy was it necessary?\n\nDid Coach have any other recourse?\n\nDid he know what was going through my mind?\n\nDid he care?\n\nThat's where I'd get stuck navigating the psyche of this person handed the privilege of teaching kids to be better, smarter, human beings.\n\nAnd then, one day, it came to me.\n\nCoach was a sadistic idiot. With an inability to grasp and apply any sound, pedagogical acumen, he had no other choice but to inflict intimidation and pain to \"educate\" his students.\n\nIt took several months, but I learned Coach's lesson: Don't ever be like Coach.\n\nI graduated, grew up, and moved on.\n\nIn time, I even found forgiveness.\n\nIt was, after all, just a piece of wood.\n\nForgive Coach?\n\nNever." } ]
[ { "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 to the Paintings\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1618\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart or end your story with a character who gets trapped inside a museum overnight." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "They were back. Clicking their hard nails on the wooden floor, panting as they grew closer. She assumed position covering herself with her coat and closed her eyes. She heard her mother’s voice as if in the darkened room with her. “Play dead, Shana.” \nDid she remember to lock the door? Not that it mattered, a small flimsy lock wouldn’t keep them out. She heard their footsteps approaching, knew the vicious dogs were leading those men in black boots straight to her. \nAngry German voices filtered into the silence as the doorknob jiggled, filling Shana with terror. The door flung open, and beams of light shone in.\n“Play dead, Shana,” she told herself in her mind. She stopped rubbing the frayed edges of the Star of David sewn onto her coat, and allowed her limbs to fall onto the dirty floor.\n“What have we got here?” The mocking voice of a soldier entered the room, the dog sniffing her out of hiding. \n“A dirty filthy Jew,” the response came quickly as more boots stomped in.\n“A dirty filthy dead Jew.”\n“The only good kind there is.” The soldiers laughed as if at a cocktail party rather than at the discovery of a child’s body.\n“What should we do with her?”\n“Leave her. She’s of no use to us now.”\nShana remained silent. Playing dead was one of the scenes she had practiced with Papa over and over. She had mastered it finally, the first few times falling into fits of giggles at Papa’s stern face until she understood it wasn’t a game.\nThe rattling of chains as the whimpering dogs were dragged out of the room. Then unexpectedly a harsh kick in the ribs by a pair of heavy boots into her small body.\n“For good measure.” The laughter and footsteps receded into the darkness.\n*\n“Shall we take out the paintings?” Uncle Max asked softly.\n“Can we?” Shana sat up, wincing slightly at the slow recovery of her bruised ribs. \n“I don’t see why not. Come, shayna medela.” He reached out his hand to help her up.\nThe little girl’s eyes filled with tears upon hearing the Yiddish phrase. “Uncle Max, will I ever see Mama and Papa again?” \n“Pretty girl. Come here.” Max sat down on the dusty floor in the room that had been their hideout for longer than he had anticipated. “Please, God,” he said in silent prayer, “Let this war end soon.”\nLeaning against the man she called uncle despite not being related, Shana let the tears flow down her sunken cheeks.\n\nWalking out into the bright sunshine, Max fought the rage brought on by seeing Shana wince in pain. With a shaking arm he did the mandatory gesture calling out “Heil Hitler.” Did his voice waver? It was of utmost importance to remain diligent in his crusade. \n“Heil Hitler,” the sea of putrid hatred came back at him. He exhaled.\nHis thoughts went back to Shana, the one remaining child he had saved from the roundup. The Nazis had been joyous to discover the families hidden in his museum. Holding them as trophies they were led to the street and loaded onto the waiting trucks. Job well done; they slapped each other on the back as if fisherman boasting the catch of the day. So consumed with pride they hadn’t continued their search, hadn’t gone down into the basement or through the door at the end of the storage room. If they had, they would have found a little girl dressed in a tattered nightgown, barefoot, not daring the sound of a slipper stepping across the wooden floor. \n\nWaking up, she found a new painting displayed in the corner of the room. She smiled with delight. Uncle Max had promised that when her ribs healed he would surprise her and what a surprise it was! She crept to the corner and stared in amazement at the magnificent colors on the canvas. She knew even before reading the signature that it was a piece by Menachem. \nHis style mystified Shana, the clumps of paint haphazard and messy at close inspection; however, the further she leaned back the more the colors worked together creating nothing short of a masterpiece. This one in bright reds and oranges showed off the sunset through the bare winter trees, a scene Shana only saw through her imagination and memory since going into hiding. Staring at the painting she felt the music enter her body as it sang to her its special song.\nShana stood and stretched slowly, keeping her injury in mind. The painting was doing its magic, the music of its beauty reaching her silently. Reaching her thin arms up and out to the sky, they became the branches of the trees in the vibrant hues of the sun. She swayed to the rhythm evoked by the painting, reaching into the sky as her fingertips became the tiniest twigs and finally slipped one leg behind the other falling gracefully as the sun fell behind the horizon. This one she called Red Sunset by Menachem.\nPracticing the steps until she silently fell to the floor one last time with fatigue. She lay in the corner, her eyes fixated on the canvas, continuing the dance in her mind’s eye, adding it to her collection. For each painting sang to her a different song and to each song she danced a different set of steps.\n\n“Mama, can we have another treat?” The girls hopped about in the small bakery to the obvious annoyance of their mother. \n“Children, settle down. All this chattering is getting on my nerves. Please.” The woman roughly pulled the smaller girl to the door, the bigger girl following, looking chastised by the tone in her mother’s voice.\nThe shop owner turned her attention to Max. “The usual?” \nHe looked at the slim selection of treats behind the glass thinking of Shana’s thin frame, her bony arms and legs. She was withering away under his care. \nDid he dare? Just one treat would put a smile on her pale face, make her day a special occasion, replenish her with some hope of better times ahead.\n“Max? The usual?” Her voice was impatient.\nNo, he didn’t dare. The one treat would be enough to arouse suspicion. He couldn’t take the chance. Divulging that one piece of information would save the shop if questioned by the Nazis. He could picture the nasty woman boasting, “Yes, Max is hiding someone. I’m sure of it. He never eats sweets; I have known him since he was this high.” She would hold her hand up in midair, relishing the attention from the men. \n“Yes. The usual.” He put the coin down on the counter in return for the day old bread.\n\n“Another latke, Shana?” Mama held the plate to Shana, her face glowing in the light of the menorah. The eighth night all candles were lit, their flames dancing to the music playing softly in the background.\nPapa smiled, teasing, “Leave some room for dessert, little one. Your mama’s been baking all day.”\n“I always have room for Mama’s rugelach, don’t worry, Papa.”\n“Hanukah comes but once a year, darling. Let’s enjoy.” Mama scooped some apple sauce next to the latke on Shana’s plate.\nShe woke slowly, feeling disoriented, pressing her small fist into her stomach to quiet the grumbling. Hopefully Uncle Max would return soon with something to eat.\n\n“Tonight’s the big night. Are you ready, Shana?” \nMax looked at the little girl in her oversized dress with a dirty red ribbon in her hair. He swallowed the lump in his throat willing himself not to fall down sobbing. The dress found in the garbage can near the main museum entrance was perhaps left secretly for someone else. He silently scooped it out during his nightly cleaning despite every alarm blaring in his mind. He would return it after the recital, praying he didn’t disturb a possible escape or raise suspicions. A few hours were all he needed.\n“I’ve been practicing all day, Uncle Max,” she beamed.\n“The paintings are in order?”\nThe little girl scanned the arrangement of the easels. When satisfied, she nodded.\nHe settled himself down on the rusty metal chair. “Well then, let the show begin!”\nThe storage room transformed into a magical theater as Shana danced to the songs each painting silently sang to her. In those moments there was no fear of death and destruction, there was no war. There was only the girl in the red dress dancing with joy. \n**\nPRESENT DAY…\n“Opening bid five hundred dollars. Do I hear five?” \nRaising her paddle discretely, she held her breath.\n“Five. Do I hear six? Six. Do I hear seven?” The auctioneer orchestrated the dance between herself and the other bidders, the price escalating quickly.\n“Sold. Two thousand eight hundred.” The gavel struck, closing the sale.\nShana exhaled shakily, feeling the flush creep up, her excitement overwhelming. Finally the last piece of the collection would be displayed at her children’s art museum on the Upper East Side. A bittersweet moment as she longed to share the good news with Max, fresh grief washing over her as she remembered his death years ago.\nLeaning on her cane, she walked unsteadily to the painting marked “sold”. Approaching, she studied the scene of the bare trees in the vibrant sunset. Upon close inspection, she marveled at the thick dabs of paint mysteriously arranged on the canvas just as she had remembered. The painting she had danced to all those years ago, the painting she had named “Red Sunset” completed her Menachem collection. Menachem, she repeated to herself, the Hebrew name for comforter." } ]
[ { "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: Legends of the Midnight Gallery\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2920\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Joe Klimazawa knew the secrets of the Midnight Gallery. He knew what happened when the clock struck midnight. He knew because he had been the night watchman for over ten months. While the De Young Museum was the most popular in the city, Zaroff’s Museum of the Occult attracted many patrons who were curious and fascinated with the bizarre displays of ornamentation from all over the world such as head hunters’ trophies and voodoo dolls left dangling from the rafters of the Dark Arts Wing.\nJoe knew that strange things happened at midnight three hours after he locked the doors. \nHe knew. When he tendered his resignation he refused to answer the question, “reason for leaving,” because no one would believe him. He would leave without ever revealing the secrets of the Midnight Gallery.\n“Sorry to see you go, Joe.” Mr. Bainbridge shook his head as he issued Joe his final check.\n“Thank you, sir for your letter of recommendation.” Joe nodded as he put his check into his shirt pocket. \n“I got some college kid. Won’t be the same without you.” Mr. Bainbridge sighed.\n“Can I take a final walk through?” He asked.\n“Of course. Take your time.” \nJoe walked to the Bumba Room that was filled with African Art, much of which was stolen from various places on the Dark Continent. Standing in the door, Joe remembered when all of the items in the room began to shake as he walked into the room while he was on shift the previous week. \nWhen he arrived for his shift that evening, nothing seemed out of place or unusual. He went into the janitor’s closet and his broom. He usually finished sweeping the floors in three hours and he would sit in the control room and watch movies and shows for the rest of his shift. \nBut when he entered the place called Bumba Land at midnight, everything on display began to shake if the inanimate items had suddenly come to life.\n“Who is doin’ that?” He swallowed hard and began to shake like everything in the room. “Stop doing that!” \nSince he had lived in California all his life, he had experienced small earthquakes, but recognized that this was not an earthquake since the building was not moving. It was just the stuff on display moving by their own volition perhaps by an unseen force. The counselor warned him about symptoms connected to his detoxification treatment, but this did seem like that either. \nThen he heard the war chants of the former owners like the Watusi or the bushmen who populated the Serengeti. \n“Stop that!” Even his voice was shaking as he raised his voice to be heard over the din. \n“Do not be afraid.” A voice rose above the commotion. \n“Who’s there?” He held up his broom like a weapon. \n“Just me, your local witch doctor.” The dark skinned man dressed in a wild animal skin smiled as he sat on the throne of a tribal king. “Sumbali is my name.” \n“Sum-who?” Joe stood frozen like one of the displays.\n“Sumbali.” He smiled and bowed his head in reverence, “Witch doctor”\n“My medication is sure playing tricks on me again.” Joe muttered as he shook his head and rubbed his eyes.\n“No my friend, I am real.” He assured Joe. He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. Joe instinctively pulled away with a jerk. “You mustn’t fear me. I come in peace.”\n“I am the midnight watchman here.” Joe raised an eyebrow still very much suspicious of the strangely dressed stranger claiming to be a witch doctor. “What does a witch doctor do?” \n“We heal the sick and do magic.” He shrugged, but his broad smile never waivered or left his face. “All of these things here once belonged to my people.” \n“They have been here since I started.” Joe looked around Bumba Land.\n“Some of my people were taken away by the white traders.” He tilted his head. “I heard their cries as they were put into cages and taken away.\n“I am just the watchman here. You have to speak to Mr. Bainbridge about those things.” Joe put his broom back on the floor.\n“Why did he take our sacred things?” The witch doctor’s smile dropped as his head looked around the room. \n“Mister, I don’t know, like I said…”\n“I know, I know, you are just the watchman.” He shrugged.\n“I can’t let you take any of these things.” Joe explained, “I could get canned.” \n“We wouldn’t want that.” He agreed.\n“No.” Joe sighed. He did not want to tell the stranger about his drug rehabilitation program or his current probation conditions. It took government intervention to obtain this job and a promise to stay sober. “I got to sweep and clean the next room.” \nJoe walked away from the witch doctor as he viewed some of the dark display cases that held ceremonial knives used in animal sacrifices or so he was told. The blades were rusty and no longer appeared as though they could cut through much of anything anymore. \n“Welcome to Rada.” A voice greeted him as he turned on the light to sweep the tiled floors as he had done every night since he started working. Joe jumped upon hearing the boisterous greeting. \n“You too?” He held his broom like he did when the witch doctor spoke to him in the other room. “Rada?” \n“Means happy spirit to all followers of Voodoo.” His skin was nearly as dark as Sumbali in the other room, but his clothes were made for a much hotter climate with a lot of worn holes in the threadbare fabric, “Me name is Barbosa and dis here is my partner, high priestess Sumatra.”\n“Please to meecha.” She held out her hand and Joe noticed her long blood red nails. With a momentary hesitation, Joe shook her hand.\n“What are you folks doing here?” He asked, “I never seen nobody in here after hours, except me, the midnight man.” \n“We have been here quite a while, haven’t we, Sumatra?” He grinned as he gently caressed her hand. \n“Yes we has.” Sumatra winked at Barbosa. \n“I just need to sweep this here floor and I’ll be on my way so you can do…whatever it is you do.” Joe nodded, but neither of them would step aside so he could do his job.\n“The souls of our people linger here.” Barbosa sniffed. Joe noticed his loose fitting shirt was not really a shirt, but rather a wrap-around piece of cloth with a gold cross hanging from a thick chain. “From me chains I was able to forge this cross to remind me of the suffering of another man.”\n“Nice piece of work.” Joe smiled.\n“It is to remind me. It is heavy, non?” \n“It is heavy, yes.” Joe nodded emphatically. \n“You a good man, non?” Barbosa grinned, showing off several gleaming gold teeth in his mouth. \n“We should have a black mass in his honor.” Sumatra smiled and she too had several gold capped teeth.\n“No, you folks don’t have to go to any trouble. As soon as I sweep up, I will be on my way.” Joe waved them both off as he pushed his broom through the wide aisle. \n“You father, Yoshima took your family to an internment camp in 1942.” Barbosa called out. Joe froze in his tracks. Joe wondered “How did he know?”\nIn 1942 the two soldiers from the United States Army came to their home a few blocks from the Mission District. With rifles waving, the soldiers marched his family onto a green bus. The bus stopped in a town call Eureka where there was a Japanese internment camp with a lot of other Japanese American families watching through the wire as the bus pulled into the camp. Joe and his family would spend the next three years here, but their father would not survive. As Joe recalled, his father Yoshima died of a broken heart. He was born in San Francisco with his three brothers after their father fled Edo, Nippon during a political uprising. \nHe stopped sweeping the floor and sighed deeply as his shoulders slumped. “How do you know that?” \n“I read the lines on your face, Jockimo.” Sumatra answered.\n“You changed your name after you left Manzanar Camp.” Her voice had softened.\n“I never wanted to hear the name of that place again as long as I was alive.” He sneered. \n“Your father is buried there, non?” Barbosa asked.\n“He is.” Joe bowed his head. “Memories of that horrible place still haunt my dreams when I sleep.”\n“He misses seeing you.” Barbosa said with a profound sadness in his voice. \nHe could feel tears ripping at the corners of his eyes, his Japanese eyes. It was his eyes the soldiers seemed to hate. Both of them prodded the family on with their rifles calling them “Japs” and “slant eyes.” \nWiping his eyes, he turned to look at the pair, but was startled to see his father Yoshima standing between them. His figure was shiny.\n“Jockhima.” He said softly. His father was wearing his suit, white shirt and tie just like he wore every day on his way into the office. Just like he did on the day he died.\n“Father.” Joe fell to his knees. Stepping forward, Yoshima put his hands on his son’s head. While his hands bore no weight, Joe could feel the warmth of his touch. “I have missed you so much.”\n“And I you.” His voice was soothing and warm just like his touch. \nThe light faded in the room and when he looked up, Joe was alone. Both Barbosa and Sumatra had also vanished. Joe came to his feet and brushed away his tears from the tile with his broom. \nWhen he left Rada, there was a well dressed man standing in the hallway. By now Joe was not at all startled by the presence of other worldly beings.\n“Harry Houdini, pleased to meet you.” He held out his meat hook hand. “Do you know who I am?” \n“Yes, Mr. Houdini, you were famous when my father was a boy.” Joe answered. \n“I’m glad someone remembers.” He smiled, “I came here to Zaroff’s Museum of the Occult when I was touring with my show back in 1925. We stopped in here on a blustery afternoon, but then it’s always blustery in San Francisco, eh? That mad old Russian, Ivan Zaroff, was alive back then. He managed to escape after the Bolshevik Revolution, you know. Yeah, he dressed up like Anastasia. Can you imagine? Ho! Ho! I would have paid to see that, wouldn’t you?”\n“No, I didn’t Mr. Houdini.” Joe leaned on his broom as Harry Houdini continued with his story.\n“Yes, I had heard he was the real deal.” Harry laughed, “And so I had to find out. I came for a seance and by willikers, he delivered even if he just spoke in broken English. I was able to speak to my dead mother as if she was standing right here in this room. Amazing. He certainly was amazing.” \n“So I have heard.” Joe shrugged.\n“Did you ever meet him?” Harry raised an eyebrow and put his hand to his chin.\n“No, I can’t say I have.” Joe shook his head.\n“Too bad, he was a helluva guy. Was good buddies with Rasputin.” He walked through the wall as he lit a cigarette.\nJoe Klimazawa needed to sit down. He did so at a bench near where Houdini had just disappeared through the wall.\nOn August 14, 1945, one year after his father passed away, Joe was given a bus ride from Manzana back to San Francisco. His mother and brothers were issued rooms at one of the local shelters. A month later Tishma suffered a fatal stroke and the brothers buried their mother in an inexpensive local cemetery. His brothers decided to find their fortunes elsewhere and Joe never saw any of them after that. There were occasions when Joe would pick up the phone, but he would lose his nerve and place the phone back into its cradle.\nHe was arrested in 1983 and sentenced to prison for possession. Released a couple of years later, he wound up back in the legal system where the prosecuting attorney called him a junkie. The label stuck and Joe Klimazawa’s record showed that he was indeed a junkie. After that conviction he was now labeled a habitual criminal. Joe would have that label to drag around with him like an anchor as well. \nDuring a stint at Folsom Prison, Joe noticed how many of the inmates were people of color and how many were just like him, locked up for criminal possession. During the War on Drugs, Joe had become a casualty. He wondered if his brothers were suffering the same fate.\n“Joe Klimazawa.” Ruth Wrangle called out.\nHearing his name, Joe stood up and walked to Ruth’s desk.\n“Mr. Klimazawa?” She smiled, which Joe figured was part of her job.\n“Yes.” He nodded.\n“Have a seat.” She pointed to the empty chair next to her clunky looking wooden desk. Joe did as he was told and sat in the chair. She put a manilla folder on her desk bearing his name. She opened it, “Let’s see…hmpt, looks like you have quite a record.”\n“Yeah.” He coughed into his hand.\n“Are you currently drug free?” She looked at him with her emerald eyes. \n“Define drug free.” His voice was nearly a growl. He was tired of all the bureaucratic bullshit.\n“Have you used this week?” She tilted her head.\n“Yeah.” \n“In the last three days?” \n“Yeah.”\n“Mr. Klimazawa, in order to receive services, you must be remanded to rehab.” She was quite frank which irritated him even further.\n“No dice.” He shook his head.\n“Then you have a good day, Mr. Klimazawa.” She smiled as she closed his folder.\n“Wait.” He put his hand on his folder. \n“Yes?”\n“What if I go?” He sniffed.\n“Then we can work out a plan.” She nodded encouragingly.\n“I am sick of park benches and cops who have nothing better to do that rouse me from a good night’s sleep.” He looked away.\n“Let me make a call.” She smiled again.\nAs it turned out the call wound up saving his life. While he stayed drug free, there were moments when the urge would come back.\n“Joe, remember me?” A lanky figure sat next to him on the bench.\n“Yeah, Sid.” \n“Long time no see.” He laughed and reached into his long coat and pulled out an ounce. “Remember this stuff?” \n“Sure, sure.” \n“I know you want some. Free bag, but then you have to start paying me again. Working for me again.” Sid’s laugh was sardonic as he dangled the bag in front of Joe, “We had a beautiful friendship at one time, eh?” \n“Leave me, Sid.” Joe put his hands and head between his knees as Sid hovered over him.\n“Hey, what the heck has gotten into you? Are you too good for me?” He sneered. “I live right there.” \nSid pointed to the restroom that Joe still had to clean. \n“Every time you think you are free of me, I come around.” He elbowed Joe.\n“Leave me alone, Sid.” \n“Never.” His laugh echoed in Joe’s ears for several minutes.\nWhen Joe had the courage to look up, he was alone. He stared at the door labeled “Men’s Room” in front of the bench where he was sitting. He realized, even though Sid had died from an overdose a few years ago, he would always be haunted by his overpowering presence. \nHe rose from the bench, shaking at the Bumba Land had earlier in his shift, but he knew if he left he could hide out until Sid found him again. He went to the breakroom and wrote his resignation letter that he would present to his boss the following morning. \nNow that Mr. Bainbridge had Joe’s resignation letter, he would leave into the early morning sun on his way to a small coffee shop where he would have a cup before exiting on a Greyhound Bus in his effort to escape Sid. But as he walked past the room, Sumbali stepped in front of Joe.\nHe had spent most of his life in a cage and he wanted to be done with it once and for all. He knew that one day Sid would track him down, but in the meantime, he would put some distance between him and Sid. \n“Where da ya think ya goin’?” The witch doctor asked.\n“I have to get away from Sid.” He answered, but the witch doctor would not let him pass.\n“You know he will find you.” The large man crossed his arms over his chest.\n“He always does.” Joe grimaced.\n“We got magic in this place.” He smiled.\n“Magic won’t stop him.” Joe sighed. \n“Have faith.” He held out his arm. \nThere was a single sound of distress and then silence except for the running water.\n“He is no more.” Sumbali shrugged. “You stay.” \n“Why?” Joe held out his arms.\n“Cause we like you, Joe.” Sumbali laughed.\n“What about my resignation letter?” Joe asked.\n“What letter?” Sumbali nodded to Barbosa and Sumatra.\n“His magic be powerful.” Sumatra shook her head.\nAnd this is how you become a legend of the midnight gallery. And if you have any doubts, just ask Joe Klimazawa. He will tell you straight." } ]
[ { "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: Zurin Academy\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2994\n\nPrompt:\n\nStart your story with somebody getting called to the principal’s office." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The silence of the classroom was interrupted when the speakers above the door let out a piercing noise, followed by the announcement, “Alicia Sanders, you’re needed in the principal’s office.” \nSilence would’ve been better than the Ooooo’s that filled the classroom when the speaker quieted. I don’t think I did anything to get in trouble for. I quietly stood, grabbing my backpack and tossing the strap over my shoulder, before heading for the door. I heard quiet muffles of other students as I left, but I ignored it like I always do. \nThe walk to the principal’s office from this part of the campus was a lengthy one. I wish they waited until my next class, which is considerably closer to the office and the other students are way less immature than my English class I just left from. Once I leave this building, I will have to walk past the cafeteria building and down a long covered walkway before I reach the front office. I make this walk every day when I get to school, and I honestly don’t mind it. It’s peaceful, especially on days like today where the sky has some clouds and it’s not too sunny, and the sounds of birds, bees, and distant cars filled the silence. \nAs soon as I entered the principal’s office, I was greeted by Mrs. Gerill, “It’s lovely to see you, Alicia! Sorry for bringing you out of your science class. Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, dear.” \nI guess my face was making my nervousness very clear. I still don’t understand why I’m here if I’m not in any trouble. \n“Why was I called to the office if I’m not in trouble?” I asked Mrs. Geril. \n“You have a special guest.” She replied, followed by a small squeak that came from her throat. \nMrs. Geril motioned for me to follow, so I did, assuming I was being taken to the principal’s office, which I was. She knocked twice on the door, and the door quickly swung open where I recognized Principal Cooley’s arms widening and a smile spreading across his face.\n“Welcome, Alicia!” he announced enthusiastically.\n“Hi!” I replied, returning the energy. \nI stepped into his office, where I saw an unfamiliar woman sitting at the chair across from where the principal usually occupies. \n“Oh! Hello, Alicia! I’ve heard so much about you! I know you’re probably wondering who I am, and we will get to that in just a moment.” The strange woman said to me, before giving the front office lady a glance that said she was dismissed. \nI stood near the now closed door of the office while the Principal returned to his chair across from the woman. There was a bench I could sit at, but I’m still too confused to even contemplate moving from my current position. This is all so strange.\n“Alicia,” the Principal spoke first, “I would like to introduce you to Helen Wollitz! She comes from a truly remarkable place and wanted to make a visit to you today. I know it’s very spur of the moment, but I recommend listening to what she has to offer. You may be tempted.” \nOffer? What does that even mean? I am off to high school next school year, so maybe she’s some sort of scout from another school? \n“Pleasure to meet you!” Wollitz announced, “I come from a place that you’re probably not familiar with. We call it Zurin Academy… a school for kids with unique abilities. I’d love to tell you more about it, if you are interested?” \n“Unique abilities? Is this related to my grades?” I questioned her.\n“Oh no, my dear. I’m not here so much because of your grades, but more because of your parents. You do know they went to Zurin, right? Surely they’ve spoken with you about it.” \nI can’t remember them ever mentioning going to Zurin Academy. I guess I assumed they went to Mt. Edway, which is where most people here go after middle school. Although we never talked much about that sort of stuff before they died a few years ago, right before I went to middle school. \nI’ll never forget that day when everything changed. I had my 5th grade graduation that day, but my parents had work obligations, so my grandma came with me instead. After the graduation, all the students got sent home early, but before we even made it to the car on our way out, Grandma got a call. I didn’t expect anything like what came after that phone call. \n“I should talk to my grandma. She would probably know more about the school. Can I call her?” I looked toward the principal, waiting for a response.\nBefore he could respond, Wollitz interjected, “I don’t think your grandma will know about the school. Your parents were instructed to keep the school a secret for everyone's safety.” She reached for a small binder and flipped it open. After skimming through it for a moment, she stopped on what seemed to be a class picture. “Here!” she pointed her finger to where my parents stood, side by side, “Your mother and father were exceptional students. They were proud of their work, and they would want you to continue the legacy.” \n“You have no clue what my parents would want. Why would they never tell me about this school if they were so proud of it?” I asked her, with my frustration becoming apparent. \n“It wasn’t time yet. Traditionally, you learn of the school upon your first day of middle school, but given what happened… that was just not in the cards. I know we have never met and you have no reason to trust me, but I am incredibly sorry for the loss of your parents. What happened to them… it never should have happened.”\nWhat did she mean by that? I was told they got into a car accident, but I guess I have no way to prove that. I never even saw them after. One minute they were both stuck at work and the next… they were just gone. Like they never even existed. Everyone moved on so quickly, besides Grandma. She never spoke about them after, but I know she misses them as much as I do. My father was her only child, so there’s no way she doesn’t think about him every day.\n“They were in a car accident,” I stated.\nConfusement radiated from her, her eyebrows slightly furrowing. She was silent for a long moment, before saying, “Yes, of course. I just mean that the car accident was a tragedy and I wish I could’ve stopped it.” \nI knew she was hiding something. It was obvious. What would she have to hide after just telling me about some unheard-of school that my parents apparently went to? \n“I’ll attend. Your school. Will I start after I finish middle school in a couple months?” I can’t believe I just agreed to this. But I have to find out what happened to my parents. There has always been so many things I never understood about their accident.\n“I actually would like to bring you today. The sooner we get started, the better! We can stop by your house briefly, you can pack a few things and say your goodbyes to your grandmother. But you mustn't tell her where you’re really going. You will tell her you’re going to the boarding school your parents went to, and if there are any objections, I can… help.\nI nodded. This may be a horrible idea, but I feel like I need to do this. I can’t fully explain why.\n“Perfect!” Wollitz stood, brushing down her elegant but dated dress. “Let’s get going! No time to spare!”\n*\nBefore I could even face the door of the office, we were already in front of Grandma’s house. \n“How? What just happened?” I spun around, my eyes darting in every direction.\n“You’ll be seeing a lot of this once we reach Zurin Academy. One day, hopefully soon, you will even learn how to harness the power yourself.” She replied, as enthusiastically as ever.\nBefore I could reply, my grandma burst out of the doors, tears filling in her eyes. “No. I made the mistake of letting your father go away. I won’t be doing that again. I must keep you safe. You deserve better than–” she stopped, mid sentence. \nI turned to face Wollitz, who smiled as she blew a powdery, sparkly substance toward my grandma. She promptly brushed her hands together, the remaining substance falling to the ground. Wollitz must’ve seen the confusion and fear on my face, because she said, “Oh no worries, my dear. She is fine and she won’t have complaints regarding your departure. You must trust me. Your parents trusted me.” \nI held in the questions I had just bubbling at the surface. Now isn’t the time. I walked into the house, quickly grabbing a few clothes. On my way out, I saw the ring my mother used to wear. Not her wedding ring. This ring is chunkier and emits a light purple glow. I don’t think I ever remember her not wearing this ring. I grabbed the ring, dropping it into a small pocket in my backpack, which is no longer filled with notebooks, but instead stuffed full of clothes. \nGrandma now sat on the couch, as if she wasn’t crying, begging me to stay just 10 minutes ago.\n“I’ll see you later, Grandma.” I told her, giving her a kiss on the forehead. She didn’t acknowledge.\nI ignored the strangeness of her behavior as I left the house, closing the door behind me. My home. I couldn’t help but look back at the door and remember all the memories shared with my parents before they died, and a time when Grandma was more… herself. \n“Are you ready?” Wollitz asked me as she clapped her hands.\n“I think so. Are you sure my grandma is going to be okay? I am all she has and now I’m leaving her too.” I can’t help but feel bad that I’m choosing to get answers over being with my grandma like she was always there for me. \n“She won’t remember this. She will just know that you are going to the school your parents went to and that she is happy for you.” \nI’m not sure if I believe what she’s saying, but I still need to get the answers I’ve wanted for years. This is the closest I’ve come to understanding what really happened to my parents, and yet I’m still nowhere close to figuring it out. I just nodded, again, and within a second, I stood beside Wollitz, with a cobblestone building towering before us. A metal gate stood in front of the school, a sign attached that read, Zurin Academy. \n*\nI don’t know how I managed to fall asleep last night, but it was already nearly sundown by the time we made it here. Beams of sunlight illuminated the arching window across from my bed now. “Day one”, I told myself. After Wollitz acted so strange when the topic of my parents' accident was brought up yesterday, I got the feeling that the story I was always told isn’t the truth. I could just go ask her, but who’s to say she would be honest? She didn’t tell me when she had the chance. \nI threw my covers off before walking to the window. I have no clue where we are, but this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Green hills blossomed with flowers as far as I could see, even past the fence surrounding the school. This place reminds me of something out of a fairytale. Why would my parents never talk about such a perfect place? None of this makes any sense, but I will find out one way or another. But where should I start? \nA knock on the door had me look away from the window. “Yes?” I spoke to the door, or whoever stood on the other side of it.\n“Hello dear! It’s Mrs. Wollitz, may I enter?” the person on the other side spoke.\nInstead of responding, I pulled the door open. Mrs Wollitz, in a new elegant dress today, entered my bedroom. \n“How did you sleep? Surely you have everything you need?” She questioned. I could tell she was genuine in her questions. \n“I slept fine. Where are we?” I asked her as I walked back to the window.\n“This school, and the land that surrounds it, is hidden away from the rest of the world. Nobody, besides those that attend or have attended, know how to get here. But we are on the same planet, just… hidden. Not too far from your home. But I must inform you, it’s not possible to simply walk back home from here. Just as we are hidden from the rest of the world, they are also hidden from us while we are here. But you will learn all about that soon enough!” \n“I guess I just don’t understand why my parents never mentioned this place to me. They never once brought it up.” I couldn’t avert my gaze from the window. \n“I know, dear. You were just too young, I’m sure. They would have told you when you were ready.” she now stood behind me, looking out of the same window. “It’s a spectacle, isn’t it?” she paused for a moment, “Anyway! Today is your first official day at Zurin Academy! You have Orientation first, then your first class right after that is History! I can imagine you are dying to learn about the history of this school. So get dressed, quickly. You don’t have much time!” Wollitz closed the door behind her on her way out before I even had the chance to say anything. \nA wardrobe on the same wall as the window was full of new clothes, definitely not the clothes I brought with me. They were all… dresses. Different colors, but all the same style of dresses. I slipped one of the dresses on before heading to Orientation. \nThe class was nearly empty, besides a teacher with deep wrinkles and gray hair who sat in front of a large table. “You’re a little early, but that’s okay! A few other students will be here shortly. What’s your name?” the teacher asked me as she sifted through a stack of papers.\n“Alicia… Sanders.” I replied.\nThe teacher stopped what she was doing and immediately met my eyes. “Sanders? Are you the daughter of Mallory and Lyle Sanders, by chance?” \n“Yes. Did you know them?” I asked.\nShe jumped from her chair, nearly running to me, and wrapped her arms around me in an embrace. “It’s so lovely to meet you! They were students here. We grew very close during their time here. I wish they were here to see you right now. I’m Mrs. Foller!” She smiled at me, and I don’t know why, but I knew I could trust her. \n“It’s nice to meet you.” I said to her, and I meant it. She was oddly comforting. Unlike Mrs. Wollitz, nothing about the interaction seemed forced or too friendly. \nThe other three students walked in, two boys and one girl that seemed about my age. Nobody said a word to each other for the entire class. Mrs. Foller just explained what our daily schedule will look like and what’s expected of us while in attendance at Zurin Academy, and that was it. \nEveryone left the classroom, but before I followed behind them, I turned to where Mrs. Foller sat at her desk. “Do you know what happened to my parents? It wasn’t a car accident, was it?” I couldn’t help myself. I have to know. This may be the best chance I have of learning the truth, if she’s willing to give that to me. \nMrs. Foller stared for what felt like minutes before sighing, and walking to the door, closing it, “No…it wasn’t a car accident. But if I tell you what happened to them, you must not inform Mrs. Wollitz of what I say. She insisted that you aren’t ready for the truth just yet. I only agree to tell you because it’s what your parents would’ve wanted for you. They didn’t like keeping secrets.”\n“She will never know that you told me anything, Mrs. Foller. I just need to know.” I replied.\nWe both sat back down, and she began to explain. “You will soon learn about the importance of this school, so I won’t go into too much detail just yet. There was an evil in this world that only those from Zurin Academy could fight against. Your mother and father were sent here at the same time many years ago, and sat where you are sitting right now on their first day. Eventually, they learned of the true evil that we united against, and they dedicated their lives to protecting innocent human lives in the world that you know. But the day of their death, there was an attack here at Zurin and they rushed here, opening a portal on their way. But it was a trap, and the evil slipped back through, nearly reaching your world. Those beasts were going to wreak havoc on your lands if they got through the portal. Your parents chased them, but they knew you would be in danger if the monsters got through, I assume, because they closed the portal, sealing themselves and those evil beasts in with them. We knew there was no chance of their survival at that point, and to ensure the portal remained closed and the evil had no chance of escaping, Mrs. Wollitz destroyed the portal, and everything inside ceased to exist.”\nI had no words. Is that why Wollitz didn’t tell me? Because she was the reason I’ll never see my parents 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: The Tale of the Pointer\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2235\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "When I think about my co-ed high school years, two boys come to mind. One of them full of meanness, and the other full of mischief. The mean one, Mark, dreamed up many ways to torment me physically and mentally. I spent my last two years at High School dreaming up and sometimes succeeding in getting even with him. I recollect he took it very well. That’s another story.\n\nYears later, when I bumped into him unexpectedly at a Super Market with a babe in my arms, he seemed delighted to see me. He positively grinned, complemented me on my cute child, and wondered how I had been doing. As if I had been a friend. I never saw him again but I am happy he found out his evil actions hadn’t scarred me forever. Even though I had a life without Mark after he had left school six months before me, I found school life had descended into monotony without him. I came to the conclusion that school bored him. I had been both easy to pick on and free entertainment. Back then, I behaved very prim and proper. Shades of ‘Grease’ the musical, without the music. There had been no malice on his part, just a desire to show off, communicate, and a boyish inadequacy to do so. I’ve heard this is sometimes the case. When he asked me to the school prom. I almost fell over in shock. I could never have trusted him. If things had been different, I believe we could have been friends.\n\nThe boy who played pranks in my first year at High School didn’t play them on me. I already knew Stuart before we sat in the same class. One of my girlfriends at a different Primary School used to regale me with all the mischief of a boy at her school, Stuart. I don’t know what I imagined about him physically but the first time I saw him, he played the handsome Prince in their school production of Sleeping Beauty. Oh, my. What a good-looking guy. Vivienne, who became my friend in High School, played the sleeping princess who was woken up with a kiss. Stuart’s kiss. She always had a crush on him.\n\nDespite this, I wasn't happy to have him in my class during my first year at High School. I remember wondering just what he may get up to, in keeping with all the stories I had already heard. His crimes went from trying to guillotine the mice’s tails in the glass sliding door of their wooden cage at Science class, to a year-long tussle with a particularly unconventional English teacher called Mr. Botting. This story is about him. This teacher knew I wanted to write and the fact I told him, gave me the incentive to follow through. I think he may not be impressed with this story though it is unlikely he will read it. He would, at the very least, accuse me of hyperbole. I looked at his teaching methods through the eyes of an innocent schoolgirl.\n\nThis is the first time telling the story from the teacher and his pointers point of view. I don’t mean the breed of dog. I mean the long wooden stick which reaches from hand to blackboard when teaching in a classroom. (Back in the days of blackboards I’m afraid) I mentioned it because of Stuart’s persistent schemes to foil its use.\n\nWe were newbies (turds – 3rd formers) at High School, our uniforms were new, and the building had just completed. We sat wide-eyed and excited over our first English class of the year. How our English teacher started this first class left most of us in a state of shock.\n\nMr. Botting entered the class, took his chalk and drew a horizontal zig-zag up on the board. He gazed at us with cynicism. It looked like he was launching into a Math's lesson on angles.\n“Please tell me what this is?” he asked.\n“A zig-zag,” replied someone in the class.\n“Mmm,” said Mr.. Botting. “Not what I had I mind. Any other ideas?”\n“A mountain range,” someone said.\n“No,” he said, smirking.\n“Hills and valleys,’ suggested another.\n“I’ll have to tell you then,” he said with a smile. “It’s what some of your heads will look like after I knock some sense into them with my pointer.”\nInteresting, I thought, this must be a lesson on similes and hyperboles. I knew the type of corporal punishment already mentioned would never be allowed.\nNone of us laughed. When I looked at Stuart’s face, I didn’t read shock. I saw the twinkle in his eye and determination in the set of his jaw. Curious.\nMr. Botting went up to someone who appeared to be dreaming. Thwack! His pointer whacked the desk before him giving us all a fright.\nThe first mentioned use of a pointer could never happen. A thump down on a desk to wake up a pupil, already had. Its third use would be as a pointer, directing our focus to key words on a blackboard full of items being taught. I was wrong.\n\nWithin a few weeks we came to a startling conclusion; Mr. Botting couldn’t teach without it in his hand. As he talked, he paced and twirled that damn pointer around and around the fingers of one hand, and then back again. This distracted us, no end. What was he trying to do? Hypnotize us? Lull us to sleep to frighten us out of our wits by cracking it down on a desk or two?\n\nHis level of achievement in pointer spinning is almost impossible. I know this because I practiced . . .and practiced. I couldn’t reach nearly his level of expertise. I’d rehearsed and mastered using chop sticks and wowed my family when we ate Asian cuisine. I have failed at mastering the pointer twirl to this day. Instead of learning poetry and drama I wasted time trying to spin a pencil. Irritates me when I think about it.\n\nStuart used to come into class, hunt out the pointer and hide it in plain, though not obvious, sight. On top of a door frame, behind the door, under items on the teacher’s desk. He also had a knack of remaining inscrutable. Mr. Botting always kept his sense of humor and seemed to notice where it had been placed, every time. It came to his attention that the culprit was Stuart. This boy was often in trouble.\n\nMr. Botting had another habit. As it became too warm in the class he would saunter over to a particular window, open it, and peer out. It looked out over an area of asphalt outside the canteen. As our English room was on the second floor, directly below, a large section of roofing housed part of the locker and toilet block of the building. If anything fell out of a window onto the roof it remained there. Unless it was something essential. Then it required a ladder and expertise to retrieve it. Hair accessories snatched out of the girls’ hair by boys and flung out of the windows were not considered necessary. Mr. Botting opened the same window each time the classroom became stuffy.\n\nSeveral months into the year, Stuart came into English class one day looking like a young man on a mission. He retrieved the pointer and informed the class he had devised a scheme where the accessory would be so well hidden, Mr. Botting would be at his wits end. He would be unable to teach, and if everyone disavowed all knowledge, he would be so frustrated it would test if his teaching ability was indeed ‘all tied up’ with handling his pointer.\n\nAll we had to do was keep our mouths shut, act innocent, and pretend we were expiring of the heat. Sounded a strange series of requests but we promised we could do it. An amazing thing about Stuart. He had everyone eating out of his hand and being obliging. You couldn’t hate him.\n\nWe watched him tie a piece of string onto the middle of the pointer, suspend it out of the window, and then hold onto a thread of it before snapping the window shut again.\nHis plan became clear. Class would start, we would act as if we were hot, Mr. Botting would sashay to his favorite window and open it, only to see his pointer clatter down onto the roof below. He would be ballistic. It would be obvious some wily person had set it up. Would Mr. Botting suspect any of us? Would we all be in trouble?\n\nI remembered his threat to turn the top of our heads into hills and valleys by beating us with his pointer. If the pointer ended up on the roof, it seemed unlikely he could use it to punish us. We’d seen one deranged teacher cane a whole class of boys and girls once. Mr. Botting didn’t seem so bad. None of us had been whacked over the head . . . yet.\n\nWe informed Stuart that laying on the expiring-from-the-heat act shouldn’t be overdone as it would look too obvious. We didn’t want to be implicated if the situation became tricky. The idea had been dreamed up by him, after all\n\nWe were all seated by the time Mr. Botting came in and started the lesson. As he spoke he glanced around. We assumed he’d be temporarily content, believing his pointer stood somewhere blending into the surrounds.\nFinally, it came to breaking point.\n“Has anyone seen my pointer?” he asked.\nWe all deliberately looked blank.\nMr. Botting scrutinized our faces, especially Stuart’s. “Stuart, have you seen my pointer?”\nStuart shrugged. “I don’t see your pointer anywhere, Sir.”\n“Has anyone put my pointer anywhere?” he asked with the same careful look at our faces.\nSome of us shook our heads, some shrugged and looked at each other puzzled.\nStuart yawned and wiped his brow. “It’s so warm in here.”\nMr. Botting looked at him for a moment. “Well then, why don’t you open the window?”\n“But Sir, you usually open it.” Mr. Botting glared at him. Stuart went and opened the window next to the one Mr. Botting usually opened but with difficulty.\nThis must have been the reason for the other window to be opened each time.\n“Stuart, why don’t you open the other window while you are at it?”\nStuart looked a tad discomfited. “I don’t think we need it, Sir.” He paced back to his desk.\nMr. Botting stared at him and Stuart stared back. I had the suspicion Mr. Botting could read his mind.\n“Stuart, do you know where my pointer is?”\nStuart shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He yawned and again, wiped his brow. “Sir I’m really hot. I think the other window needs to be opened.”\n“What is this thing about the window? Just open it. Is this something to do with my pointer?”\nStuart had dug himself into a hole. We looked at each other and still played dumb.\n“From your inability to answer, I’ve concluded my suspicions are correct. Go over and open the window. If anything happens to my pointer you are in for the cane!”\n“But Sir, you normally open the window yourself.”\n“You seemed to be banking on it. I suspect it has something to do with my pointer. What did you do?”\n“Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll get your pointer.” He dashed over to the window and examined the closed edge for any wisp of the string to hold onto.\nThe lesson continued and in time Stuart gingerly opened the window and retrieved the pointer for Mr. Botting.\n“Stuart, you have this huge thing about my pointer. Lucky for you, you’ve returned it. What were you thinking?”\n“Well Sir, it was an experiment. We wondered if you could actually do a lesson without your pointer. You normally go over to the window so it seemed a great idea for the pointer to fall onto the roof at the same time.”\n“All you’ve done is disrupt this lesson! Detention for the rest of the week.”\n“Aw. Sir. I got you your pointer back.”\n“Enough! Next time don’t even look at my pointer. You’ve been warned”\nAfterwards, there were no more pointer shenanigans. Mr. Botting still twirled it and we could never decide if he could teach without it. As for Stuart, he still got up to mischief elsewhere.\n\nAnother indignity we endured in English class happened this way. One day Mr. Botting came in while the boys ran around acting up and creating mayhem. Teacher expressed his disgust and gave the whole class 500 lines to do at home, to be handed in the following day. This teacher was a law unto himself. Naturally, all the innocent girls felt very aggrieved they had been disciplined. All the diligent students did the work. Some of the naughtiest boys who avoid homework, prepared pages of scribbles or less pages. At class the next day we all handed in our lines which he picked up and immediately stuffed into the rubbish bin.\n“Aren’t you going to check them?” someone called out.\n“But why? I’m not the one being punished.”\n“What if someone didn’t do theirs?” called out another classmate.\n“How is it my problem? Let’s get on with the lesson,” he said, as he grabbed his pointer." } ]
[ { "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 Man Kneeling\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2025\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a gallery whose paintings come alive at night." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "(warning; Implied racism and mentions of slavery. )\nTHE LAST MAN KNEELING\nThe man in the painting was nameless, but he knew three things for certain:\n1. He was depicted kneeling on a plush red carpet, his face locked in a stern expression as he gazed into the flickering flames of a grand fireplace.\n2. The artist who had brought him to life and placed him on display was known as Asher Vanderbilt, his elegant signature adorning the bottom of the canvas in golden letters.\n3. And most importantly - at night, the nameless man would come alive.\nIt was a strange transition from being a mere observer, to being an active participant of this thing called life. To go from frigid to soft. During these times, he was able to feel the soft fur of the carpet, he felt it gain weight as it seemed to push back against him. \nHe didn't know if it was a curse or not, but he found himself looking forward to those moments when he could see beyond his confined surroundings and observe the other paintings in the gallery. He noticed that while there were many vibrant and colourful paintings, he was the only figure with dark skin. \nBut this fact didn't bother him too much. He wondered if it was supposed to.\nLately, the gallery had been busier than usual. He could sense it in the increase of shadows passing by during the day and the rise in noise levels. The man noticed that he saw more black members of the public. And they were particularly interested in him. The man did not know why. Trapped in his painting, the social bonds of race- the meaning of race - had not been implanted into his brain.\nThere was one particular woman with curly black hair and bright red lipstick who would visit him daily. She would pass by all of the other more colourful paintings and make her way straight to him. She would stand with her arms crossed and her lips pursed as she studied him. Sometimes, she would even bring a notebook and jot things down before leaving. The man couldn't help but wonder what it was about him that fascinated her so much. Perhaps she was just a big fan of Asher Vanderbilt's work and admired his creation.\nAs the clock struck midnight once again, the man's mind began to wonder. In moments when he felt more human and present rather than cold and empty, he often thought about his creator, Asher Vanderbilt. He couldn't help but admire the artist for drawing him into existence with such care and detail, dressed in a comfortable dark green attire against a scenic backdrop. Did the other paintings in the gallery also think about their creators? Did they long with a faint eagerness to meet them? \nThe man, trapped in the painting from his very existence, had neither learnt of the concept of death which his owner had succumbed to. \nThat night, the man felt an adventurous streak take over. He wanted to test the limits of this newfound \"life\". Could he even step out of his painting? The thought excited him. Slowly and carefully, he climbed out of his frame and onto the wooden floor. It was strange walking on solid ground rather than the familiar red carpet in his painting. As he explored the gallery at a slower pace to avoid dizziness, some of his fellow paintings looked over in curiosity. They weren't feeling as daring today, but that just meant more space for him.\nAll the paintings shared a similar style and taste in clothing thanks to their creators. Each one showcased figures dressed in similar attire, with lavish fabrics and intricate details. The colours were mostly muted, with deep jewel tones and dark shadows.\nA sculpture stood tall and statuesque in the centre of the room, its elegant curves and sharp edges catching the faint light in all the right places. Its surface was smooth and pristine, with no visible imperfections. It didn't seem alive, fortunately. Its imposing presence made the man slightly uneasy.\nHe continued his self-guided tour of the gallery, venturing further than he ever had before. As he observed every corner of the room, one fact became clear - he was the only dark face in the whole gallery. He wondered again if he should perhaps feel something about this and paused. Well…he should feel unique. Yes. Asher Vanderbilt had uniquely created him in this overwhelming sea of pale faces. His creator had wanted him to stand out. No wonder, he captured attention from visitors. \nSpeaking of Asher Vanderbilt – his creator had quite a few pieces around the place including one titled \"The Golden Girl\". It featured a blonde woman sitting in a cosy home with a tray of tea and biscuits in front of her. The man found himself smiling at this. His creator was clearly very talented. In the back of his mind, he wondered faintly why he himself had been painted with a frown, rather than a smile like this woman. It would be more comfortable for his face if he didn’t have to frown all the time. But never mind that – at least he could smile now. \nHe was about to move on to the next painting when he spotted it; a name. The name of the woman in the picture; Gilda Mason.\nSo, people in paintings could have names. \nIt may not have seemed quite the ground-breaking realisation. But the man had just assumed that nobody really had names. That only the artists themselves had names. And as he walked and looked more closely, he noted that it wasn’t just Gilda that had a name. Everyone else had a name too. Annabelle. Fitzpatrick. Lisa. Benedict. Name after name, an overload of them. \nOnly in that moment, did the man come to realise how important a name could be. And this was when he decided to rush back to re-examine his own painting. He must have missed it all those times before. Asher Vanderbilt seemed a very talented and respected artist – he must have given him a name. The man just needed to look harder. Yes. That is exactly what he would do. \nHe walked as fast as he could without getting dizzy; he rounded the corner and found himself in the familiar room gallery he had become accustomed to. His painting looked strange without him in it; a space on the red carpet right where he should be kneeling.H\nHe peered at the bottom of the frame and saw Asher Vanderbilt's name followed by a description: \"A slave playing dress up, 1748.\"\nThe man read this sentence over and over, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning; some hidden name between the vague description of ‘a slave.’ Had Asher Vanderbilt really forgotten his name? Or maybe the word ‘slave’ was enough. The man frowned a little. He had really wanted a name. And he wasn’t too sure what a slave was. \nAnd playing dress up? He glanced down at the satin material of his clothes. Did they not belong to him? Was he borrowing it from someone? And if so, when was he going to give them back?\nLost in thought, he remembered seeing security guards handing out leaflets near the entrance of the gallery. He grabbed one and hoped it would provide some useful information about himself and his circumstances.\nWelcome to the main art gallery of West Virginia! We're thrilled that you've decided to visit.\nThe words oozed with excitement as the man skimmed through the brochure. He flipped through a few pages showcasing various paintings and sculptures before coming across something more intriguing. It was a picture of that same black woman, someone he had seen frequently at the gallery in the past month. However, in this particular photo, her expression seemed harsher, almost menacing. It was not the most flattering image to choose.\nThe writing on that particular page - page 5 - was titled ‘’The Issue of The Civil Rights Movement and how it pertains to this art gallery.’’ \nAn article by Steve Crowner, dated 18th June 1963.\nIt caught the man’s eye and he began to read;\n‘You've seen it on the news. And if you haven't, then you've surely witnessed it on the streets. When I first opened this gallery, I never imagined it would become a platform for political debates. But somehow, politics has found its way here. Ada Wells, pictured below, has made sure of that. I welcome everyone into my gallery - I don't believe in segregation. So I allowed Ada, a journalist, to come to me seeking entry out of pure kindness. Little did I know she would use her visit as an opportunity to defame my name in the local newspapers because of one painting displayed here. The piece by Asher Vanderbilt from 1748 was one of his last works. His personal beliefs about race are not my concern. This is the danger with certain movements; they seek to destroy everything that came before them. This gallery stands with Vanderbilt and that's final’\nSteve Crowner's words left the man feeling overwhelmed and confused. He may not have fully understood every word, but there was definitely a heated debate about Vanderbilt's character happening beneath the surface. And that confusion itself was perplexing to him. After all, Vanderbilt was the creator of this man. He must have been a good person, right?\nThe man felt a sudden urge to learn more, but the rest of the brochure seemed quite plain in comparison. \nAlthough the biblical reference would go over his head, the man had taken a small bite from the tree of knowledge; and now there was a small crack in his worldview.\nAs he climbed back into his painting, he felt a little less proud, a little more muddled. He had climbed back in the same way as he had left it; nameless, but with a few more questions. The clothes on his skin did not sit as they once had; they lingered instead. And God knew there was a difference. If they could, they would make his skin itch. And that frown which had been painted onto his face was now very much a real one. The furrow between his brows deepened as he gazed back at the flickering flames in the fireplace.\nHe couldn’t shake off the thoughts stirred up by the leaflet. It had been a rude awakening, one that made him question everything he thought he knew about his existence and purpose.\nHe had always been content to hang from this wall and be admired by passersby. But now, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would judge him based on his creator’s reputation. The quietly shattering seedling of a realisation that Vanderbilt was not as great as the man thought he was. The quietly maddening realisation that people could be multifaceted; That Vanderbilt could paint him in one breath, paint the beautiful scenery in another and yet also have another side to him.\nThe man found himself waiting for that black woman to come again. This time when he subtly examined her staring, he would look a bit closer. He would not mistake her semblance of neutrality for admiration. Clearly she had feelings of the opposite. \nThis time when she came, he would be ready for her.\nOne last time; the man looked around at the paintings that covered the walls of Steve Crowner’s art gallery. There were portraits of wealthy families, landscapes of the picturesque countryside, and scenes depicting historical events. And then there was him – a portrait with no name.\nThe man had not known it then, but his painting had been the subject of debate locally. The Civil Rights movement had a cultural dynamic to it that was more than just legal battles. Ada B. Wells was spearheading this part of the movement. She believed it was a disgrace; if slavery was so far behind the Great Nation of the United States, then why was there still one last man kneeling?" } ]
[ { "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 HUGE ENCOUNTER\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2793\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a school trip that takes a turn for the unexpected." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“What was that!?” My question was prompted by a high-pitched blood curdling sound that disturbed the peace of the night air.\n“Moose?” suggested Ryan Colquhoun, one of the three roommates I was bunked with in our tent.\n“Doesn’t sound like any moose I’ve ever heard,” said Cory Bush.\n“That’s for sure,” added Grant Lewis.\n My name is Tim Forsyth, a grade 12 student at Pattison High School, Vancouver, Canada. I and fifteen of my classmates, under the watchful care of four of our teachers, had taken the ferry across to Vancouver Island, departing from Horseshoe Bay and docking on the island at Nanaimo, a city with a population of almost 100,000. It was a welcome break from the sweltering temperatures we had recently endured on the mainland, although even what we had experienced paled against the staggering 49.6°C endured by the small inland town of Lytton, just over one hundred and fifty kilometers northeast of Vancouver, ending three horrendous record breaking days there from 27 – 29 June this year, 2021, in which many of their elderly succumbed and died from the extreme heat. If that wasn't enough, a wildfire then ravaged the town, reducing much of it to a devastated, black scarred, horror.\n Disembarking the ferry we had arranged for transport to take us to our intended camping site at Paradise Meadows in the Strathcona Provincial Park, situated some one hundred and thirty five kilometers northwest of Nanaimo, stopping on the way to load up with food, bottled water supplies and two cans of bear spray repellent, just in case.\n Paradise Meadows is well named, its lakes, rich green meadows and evergreen forests largely accessible via timber boardwalks. Although we were camped less than ten minutes walk from the Park’s Wilderness Center, we had acquainted them and also the police with our six day stay and campsite location, in a clearing just within the forested area near the trail. And all had gone well until the second night when that blood curdling scream occurred.\n“Let’s go and see if anyone else heard it,” I said. That was immediately obvious, with all sixteen students and four teachers having exited their tents.\n“Did you hear that?” Jodi Millward asked of no one in particular, to a chorus of, “Yes, we heard it.”\nAs students do, even when we’re 16 to 17 years old, we gravitate toward our authority figures, our teachers, hoping they will provide answers that will not only satisfy, but also quell, our concerns. Mr Stewart, our geography teacher, spoke up. “Perhaps it’s someone seeing how far their voice can carry at night.”\n“That would have to be some voice,” Cory said.\n\"Perhaps they did it through a megaphone.\"\nWith doubts in our minds we nonetheless accepted Mr Stewart’s explanation, returning to our tents.\n The next day dawned, the weather gorgeous, a gentle Pacific breeze filtering toward us mid-morning. We had been walking the trail, returning to our campsite for lunch when Alice Chan spotted something in a muddy patch just to the side of the trail. It was a huge footprint, at least 38 centimeters or 15 inches long, but also very wide, over 18 centimeters or 7 inches across. “Look!” I said. “There’s another one!” I measured the distance between them with my own shoes and it was just over a meter.\n“You know what this is, don’t you?” said Liam Frazer.\n“What?” Kellie Gleeson asked.\n“Bigfoot. Sasquatch.”\n“You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?” asked Amelia Southy.\n“You tell me what else makes a footprint like that, then.”\n“A bear, maybe.”\n“Have you seen a bear’s footprint? To start with no bear has a footprint anywhere near that long. Also, a bear's footprint is a totally different shape, and in this mud you’d see evidence of their claws. Where are they? And I’ll tell you something else: look at the distance between the steps.”\n“I reckon I could do that with a bit of a run up,” said Logan Russell.\n“Yes, of course you could but your second footprint would be deeper and longer, wouldn’t it? That’s simple physics. Yet look at the second footprint,” Liam pointed, “it’s virtually identical to the first one. That suggests to me that it was walking in its normal stride.”\nI asked Mr Gilbertson, our science/biology teacher, what he thought but he just raised his eyebrows, nodded and smiled, but said nothing.\n“We should take a plaster cast,” said Liam.\n“Have you got the plaster?” Mr Gilbertson asked.\n“No, but we could get some.”\n“Why don’t I see if I can get hold of a ruler and we’ll take measurements and also photos of the ruler next to the prints?”\n“I’ve got one,” said Mrs Millward, Jodi’s mother and Math teacher.\n“Cool,” Liam said. “Let’s do that.”\n Photographs were taken with the 30 centimeter ruler next to each of the prints, both longways and across each foot. Each footprint measured a staggering forty centimeters long and nineteen centimeters across at the widest point.\n That evening proved a restless one for a number of us and it took some time to settle down for sleep. In our tent we talked about the footprints but, needless to say, that didn’t help the settling down process. At length I decided to change the subject to my favorite meal I was looking forward to eating on my return home. Unsurprisingly, that struck a chord with my tentmates who shared what they were looking forward to as well. Cory went last. “Satay chicken with baby green beans and fried rice, followed by apple crumble and icecream for dessert. Oh, yeah,” he said. There were a few appreciative sighs and the next thing I knew it was the morning of day four.\n Over breakfast it was unanimously decided that we should do a bit of gemstone hunting. Mr Stewart managed to obtain a few small picks from the Mountain Center nearby and we set off to a nearby stream where the bank had eroded and which looked like might yield a few gems. Susie Leung managed to find a piece of jade, as did Billy Taylor. A number of other pieces found would need to be identified to establish what they were and what, if anything, they were worth. Everyone agreed that it had been a worthwhile exercise.\n Our camping trip would be over the day after next and we would be returning home reluctantly... or so we thought. That night we had all settled down to bed in our tents, the only sound in our tent being Cory’s snoring. At about 10 p.m. that all changed. Our slumber was interrupted. A distinctive “bop!” sounded on the roof of our tent, like a small branch had fallen and landed on it. Problem was we had done our best to make sure that our tents were not placed under any trees and, other than that sound, there was silence. No breeze was blowing. And then it happened again, but this time it was accompanied by a loud guttural grunting sound. “What the hell is that?” Ryan asked.\nAll of us in our tent were now wide awake. I grabbed my torch and Grant grabbed his as well. I undid the zip and lifted the tent flap, shining the torch out ahead of me. Nothing. But then it happened again, another distinct “bop” on the roof of the tent. “Look out that way,” Grant said, pointing to our left. We both moved outside with Cory and Ryan following and shone our torches out beyond the left side of our tent. And there it was—a bipedal behemoth, a huge hairy hominid that had to be at least nine feet tall. As our high intensity LED torches shone on it it screamed in protest and then turned and ran into the woods. Within moments the whole campsite was in an uproar, with bleary-eyed campers exiting their tents, wondering what all the racket was. All I could say was, “We just saw Bigfoot! It was huge!”\n“Where is it?” asked Alice.\n“It ran off into the woods when we shone our torches on it,” Grant said.\n“How big was it?” asked Mr Gilbertson.\n“Ummm... I would say just a bit shorter than the height of the hoop on our basketball court,” I said.\n\"Okay. The basketball hoop stands three meters off the ground, so maybe two and three quarter meters in height?\"\n\"Yep. That sounds about right.\"\n\"That's nine feet in the old money!\" exclaimed Mrs Millward.\n“Aaaaarghh!” cried Susie. “I don’t wanna stay here with that thing lurking around!”\n“Okay,” Mr Gilbertson said, “Let’s not panic. We can’t do anything until the morning but I’ll tell you what we can do. We can take turns five at a time for two hours. That will take us through to 6 a.m. when the sun will have been up for close to an hour. Keep two of your torches lit and facing into the forest away from the tents while it’s dark. It obviously doesn’t like the intense glare. Two guys, two girls, plus one teacher. Any problems, holler very loudly. What do you say?”\nWith some trepidation the idea was accepted and, aside from a distant scream that suggested the beast was then quite far away, nothing further was heard other than the distinctive call of a great horned owl.\n The fifth morning, Friday, arrived. We checked our tent over and found what had hit our tent roof the previous evening–clods of earth that had left their impressions, courtesy of Bigfoot. At least that seemed to indicate disapproval only. A warning that we were on its ‘turf’ and, if we knew what was good for us, leave.\n During breakfast there was wide acceptance that our camping trip was coming to an end a day early. There was no cell phone signal and so at 9.30 a.m. Mr Stewart went to the Wilderness Center just as it opened and ’phoned to organize our premature transport back to civilization.\n Back at school the following Monday there was a distinct buzz, the news of our encounter with Bigfoot quickly circulating. In our biology class Mr Gilbertson discussed that encounter with us, heaping praise on Liam for his analysis of the footprints we saw. Then, for all of us who participated in the trip, in our tent teams of four we were given a homework project to compile and then make a presentation of our Bigfoot experience to the whole class. The best presentation would be judged by Mr Gilbertson who had already arranged with the headmaster for it to be presented the following week to the entire school and teaching staff. We would be allowed to use the school’s 70” smart television to assist our classroom presentation and a large projector screen for the School presentation in our auditorium.\n Our tent team got together after school to decide how we should go about it. We decided that we would all meet together. Grant suggested his house as it was the most central. He would check with his parents first if that was okay.\n On Tuesday after school we met at Grant’s place and booted up his pc. We decided to find as much relevant information as we could online. Yay for the power of google. It yielded a trove of information which we were able to use to formulate what we felt was a worthwhile presentation; one that would prove what we ourselves had witnessed—that Bigfoot exists. We sought to take a leaf out of Liam Frazer’s analytical skills in an effort to provide compelling evidence for our argument.\n Two weeks later our big day came. Each team had to provide Mr Gilbertson with a written outline of their presentation so that he could be satisfied that no team was plagiarizing any other team’s presentation that was conducted before theirs. The 70” smart tv was ideal because it enabled us not only to access news items online but YouTube videos as well. We had decided not to over-complicate our presentation but seek to make it as condensed and yet as compelling as possible, but also adding something for our audience to think about.\n We drew the first long straw and opted to go last. Liam Frazer did his team’s presentation and it was obvious to everyone that he had presented a compelling argument for Bigfoot’s existence, including YouTube footage and analysis of one we had chosen also.\n When our turn came I started by stating the obvious, that in North America there have been thousands of Bigfoot sightings over the years, including in our own region. I recounted our own team’s personal encounter with Bigfoot, describing it as best as we could recall, and then brought up a website: rickgibson.ca that included an article titled, Do Sasquatches Really Exist? On Vancouver Island? Its commentary included, “In October 1988 [John] Bindernagel was chaperoning a junior high school field trip to Lake Helen Mackenzie when a student pointed out a set of large footprints in a muddy patch of the trail… There were five such tracks, and they all seemed to be following the trail… The footprints were 15 inches long and one third wider than a normal human footprint. The step was about 40 inches - much longer than a human step.” I pointed out that that location was right near where we had encamped and close to where we had sighted our footprints.\n\n\nI then brought up a YouTube video produced by Wayne Dowsent, an Australian artist who had studied the human anatomy to help him add realism to his artwork. He focused on the Patterson Gimlin footage taken of a Bigfoot in California, U.S.A. in 1967 that 4K digital enhancements showed to be a female, its mammary glands – breasts – quite evident. Dowsent debunks those who claim it is someone wearing a suit, referring, for example, to the actors dressed up as apes in the 1968 movie, Planet of The Apes. He pointed to the fact that, in the movie, only the actors’ faces were masked in a way that still enabled speech and facial expressions, the rest of their bodies being fully clothed. But that wasn’t the case in the Patterson Gimlin footage. It shows, not only someone NOT looking out from behind a mask, but whose muscle movements in the back and legs are clearly discernible, as also were the sinews in its swinging upper arms where they meet the torso. It also shows a hominid whose footsteps differ from those of humans, where its foot size and structure requires that it lifts its lower leg higher than humans do when it walks. And plaster casts of other Bigfoot footprints reveal a totally different foot structure to humans. Finally, unlike a costume, it was evident that there were areas of its body that had significantly less hair, like under the sides of the breasts for instance, where its skin could be seen.\n\n\nThen I added what we hoped would be a platform for further discussion, given that no one before me had done so. I brought up an online article dated February 13, 2013 from the Sasquatch Genome Project in which 111 samples of Bigfoot hair, blood, skin and other tissue were sent anonymously to a number of different DNA laboratories in U.S.A and Canada. On November 24, 2012, Dr Melba Ketchum of Texas, spokesperson for the Project involving a multidisciplinary team of scientists, announced the results of their five-year long study. They concluded that Bigfoot is a hybrid cross of modern Homo sapiens with a novel primate species, the mitochondrial DNA [female] being modern homo sapiens and the nuclear [male] DNA being from an unknown hominid. Expanding, Dr Ketchum explained that the Sasquatch genomes were novel and fell well outside of known ancient hominin as well as ape sequences.\n And here was what we hoped would be the kicker: “Does this give evidence of evolution?” I asked my audience. “Not based on the findings of the Sasquatch Genome Project. Why so? Because, as Dr Ketchum stated, quote, “the Sasquatch genomes were novel and fell well outside of known ancient hominin as well as ape sequences.” So where did the Sasquatch male DNA come from? Interestingly, the Bible describes something similar occurring in Noah’s day, where disobedient angels materialized and had sex with human women, producing a giant hybrid offspring called Nephilim. Just saying. Food for thought, though, isn’t it? Thank you for listening.”\n Understandably, Liam Frazer was Mr Gilbertson’s favorite biology pupil, but he liked the extra mile that we had gone in order to promote discussion and debate and so he chose our presentation to present to the entire school. That would be huge, just like our encounter with Bigfoot…" } ]
[ { "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: Not Even His Shadow\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 2965\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is convinced they’re going to be betrayed." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Once upon a time, there existed a land where the woods stood tall and whispering, rivers wound like silver serpents through verdant meadows, and the earth itself seemed to sing with life. In this mystic realm, there lived a powerful king. The king’s name was King Soul. He reigned over a vast kingdom known as Wolffrin. Soul commanded an army of over ten hundred warriors and lorded over more than a hundred thousand civilians. \nKing Soul was a jaded man. Even in the tender years of his boyhood, he was distrustful and suspicious of everyone around him. \n“You are a prince.” His father told him when he was just a lad, sitting on the man’s knee as King Benjamin spoke to him. “You will have a whole kingdom that must bow before you. They will cower in your presence, some will hold you in esteem, and perhaps a few will even bear you genuine affection. But heed my words, my cherished son; in this treacherous world, every soul has its price, every loyalty its breaking point. Trust none but yourself, for betrayal lurks within the hearts of every man, woman, and child.\"\nSoul took his father’s words to heart. He trusted no living soul, no matter how hard they tried to prove their trustworthiness to him. He did not consider even his own shadow to be completely trustworthy.\nWhen he was six, Soul became convinced his nursemaid was plotting to sneak poison into his meals. He told his father he saw in her eyes that she was power-hungry and that she would most certainly betray him.\nKing Benjamin had her thrown in prison.\nWhen Soul was eleven, he had the stable boy executed after the cinch on his horse’s saddle went loose, and he took a spill. Soul was certain that the stable hand had made an attempt on his life. \nWhen he was thirteen, he saw his own mother speaking to a pauper in the marketplace. He caught a snippet of their conversation in which the Queen said,\n“I will help you, certainly.”\nSoul rushed to his father. He exposed the Queen for a plot to commit treason against the kingdom.\nAfter all, what else would she have to help a man of lowly status with?\nThe Queen strung up a story to her husband about how she’d been attempting to assist the humble man with his finances, as he was homeless and desperate. Soul saw right through her lies.\nHe knew she had betrayal in her heart.\nEveryone did if given the chance. \nThe queen was banished. The King threatened to take her life if she ever returned to Salverto.\nOne after the other, Soul found ways to incriminate servants and royals alike. The cooks, the knights, the wards of the castle, and even the King’s hound, who he swore up and down looked at him with malice in his eyes.\nOn his eighteenth birthday, Soul went on a bear hunt through the forest with a handful of knights and servants, his father lying ill back at the castle.\nSurely, he was poisoned or spelled by a witch even! Soul thought, clicking his heels against his horse’s sweaty flank. Spartan whinnied and picked up his pace. His hoofs thundered over the forest floor. Soul kept his keen eyes scanning the forest, and his crossbow at the ready. Poor Father, he should have had the food he was to ingest tested more carefully. Alas, he would not be ill now had he taken better precautions!\nA bright sun hovered over the treetops. Light trickled down past the leaves and branches, and dots of gold danced over the forest floor. \nSoul’s keen hunter's gaze caught a brief disturbance. A streak of brown fur flashed at the edge of his vision, stirring his blood with the thrill of the hunt. With a practiced motion, he tugged on Spartan's reins, bringing the mighty steed to a skidding halt.\n“Halt!” His voice boomed through the trees, a clear command that had his men pulling their horses to a stop with a symphony of nickers and hooves churning the soft, muddy earth beneath them. They all turned, following Soul's gaze into the thick underbrush.\nThere, concealed by the foliage, was the smallest grizzly cub Soul had ever laid eyes on. Its tiny form crouched low, ears perked in fright, those big, black eyes shimmering with the sheer terror of being discovered.\n\"Oi, Prince Soul!\" piped up one of his knights. \"Maybe we oughta leave this one alone. It's but a wee thing, after all.\"\nSoul's reply was dismissive. \"My trophies know no size. If it's a bear, it's fair game for my collection.\"\nHe knocked an arrow.\n“Oh… Sire, don’t-.”\n“Silence! Or would you prefer to acquaint yourself with the inside of our dungeon?” Soul commanded. The knight ceased his protests. \nThe bear cub let out a bleat. It backed further into the brush as Soul trained his weapon on it. \nThe cub flattened it’s ears. It’s nose twitched and it’s body was shaking.\n\"Farewell, you scruffy little beast,\" he sneered, loosing the arrow with a twang. The air was split by a heart-wrenching scream, sending birds into a frenzy, their cries echoing Soul's cold triumph.\nSoul dismounted his horse. He sauntered over to the body.\nHe picked it up by the scruff and inspected the pelt.\nThe fur was soft, lighter in color than he'd expected—clearly, the pelt of a cub barely a few months old.\nIt’ll make a fine trophy or a soft rug. Soul thought. He spun to face his men, grinning.\n“Now, you unsavory lot, was that worth all the fuss?”\nThe knight who’d been warning him against shooting the cub blinked. His eyes stretched wide in alarm.\n“My Lord-.”\n“Ah, quiet. I’ve heard enough of your sniveling.” Soul waved him off.\n“No, Sire. Really, you must-.”\nSoul’s eyes narrowed. \nI must do nothing! I am the prince, not this disrespectful suit of armor. He thought, enraged.\n“Now, listen here!” He began. “I take orders from none of you. If I want to kill a bear, no matter how young, I’ll kill that bear! Everything in this kingdom belongs to me. Understood?”\nThe horses begin to stamp their hooves, their eyes going white rimmed with fear. The knights looked at something past Soul and they all cried out in one collective howl of urgency.\n“Sire, behind you!”\nSoul felt something hot brush over the back of his neck. A reek like that of rotten fish filled his nostrils. Soul spun around.\nHe came face-to-face with the enraged eyes of a grizzly bear. A bear bigger than any he'd ever seen before. \nSoul stepped back, clutching his crossbow to his chest. \n“You lazy ingrates. You fools!” He howled. “Do something, you useless slugs!”\nHis knights hesitantly urged their horses closer. The bear stood up on its hind legs. It flattened its ears and growled.\nSoul picked up his crossbow and fired a clumsy shot.\nAn arrow implied the bear’s broad shoulder.\nIt gave an earth-shaking roar. The force of the scream was enough to send Soul stumbling back. He fell on his back and glanced up in time to see the bear tear the arrow clean from its shoulder and break it in half in its powerful jaws. \n“By the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” Cried one of the knights. “This bear possesses the strength of a dragon. I’m not staying here to be torn apart!”\n“C-Coward!” Soul cried, gazing in horror over his shoulder as, one by one, his knights whirled their steeds around and fled. “All of you! Cowards and deserters! I’ll have your heads for this!” He whipped his head back to the beast. “And you! Do you not know who I am? Back away, you foul sack of fleas, lest you bring down the armies of Wolffrin on yourself!”\nThe bear snarled. It didn’t seem to care about what armies he commanded. With a hiss, thebear grabbed his arm in its fangs, piercing his skin, then it flung him into a tree. \nBlood poured down Soul’s tunic, and his head rang from being bashed into the trunk. \nThe fuzzy shape of the bear advanced on him.\nSoul closed his eyes, tears pouring down his cheeks.\nTruly, this must have been planned. He decided. Those cowards must have led me here on purpose so that this monstrous creature could do away with me. They want my power and my position, and they will stop at nothing to get it. \n“Away! Away! Do not harm him.”\nThe voice was as soothing as birdsong in the morning. Soul peeked open his eyes. A boy, no older than him, had come to stand between him and the bear. The boy had long black hair braided down his back. He wore animal skins, and there was a tattoo on one exposed shoulder.\nA mark of a doe deer.\nA Speaker. Soul sat up in amazement. Why! I’ve only ever heard of them in stories. A people who dwell in the forest from birth to death, speaking to the animals and hearing prophecies from the rains and from the mountains beyond.\n“I know.” The boy soothed, as the bear gave a quiet whimper, its hackles lying flat and its eyes dropping to the ground. “But he is the prince. You cannot kill him. If you did, his people would do most terrible things to you, my friend.”\nThe bear gave a furious stamp of its foot. The Speaker touched its forehead gently with his palm.\n“Rest easy, great hunter.” He whispered, his fingers creasing its scalp. “Rest. Return to the woods. Know that your cub hunts in peace in the Golden Forest now.”\nThe bear leaned into his touch. Then she turned and lumbered back into the forest. \nSoul panted. He gingerly let his fingertips graze over his torn clothing, painting them scarlet with blood.\n“Are you gravely injured…Sire?”\nSoul glanced up. The Speaker was eyeing him thoughtfully. His eyes were hard, but not unkind.\n“Not gravely. I tell you, when I return to the castle, I shall have all those cowards hung! Truly!” Soul used the trunk of the tree to pull himself to his feet. The Speaker didn’t move. The boy watched him impassively.\n“You saved my life, stepping between me and that creature and daring to reason with the demon.” Soul hummed, more to himself than to the other boy.\n“She wasn’t…” The Speaker sighed. “She was simply hurting, Prince. She lost her baby.”\n“Yes, yes.” Soul waved him off. “The fact remains that you have done me a great service.”\n“It was my pleasure, Sire. Now, I should return home-.”\n“No. You must be rewarded.” Soul smiled. His father’s warnings rippled in his head, the residual swirls of stones long ago cast. For once, he ignored them. This heroic young man had saved his life! He risked his own wellbeing for Soul's sake; no one had ever come close to doing such a thing before. Not even the prince’s beloved father. \n“Rewarded?” The Speaker’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Sire, you don’t have to-.”\n“You shall come and live in the castle as one of the royal household. I shall give you command of a battalion, and you will be my most trusted soldier. My confident. I shall give you what I have never given one before--as it is because of you that I stand here now--my trust.” \n*\nIn the years that followed Soul’s eighteenth birthday, changes occurred in the kingdom of Wolffrin. His father passed away a week or so after his birthday, and Soul became king. Soul, true to his word, placed the Speaker, named Kinshawn, in charge of many armies. Kinshawn became his most trusted ally, the only one besides his father to whom he ever gave his utmost trust. He confided in Kinshawn about everything. \nThey became more than allies.\nThey became true friends, who would do anything for one another.\nThe only tension within their friendship was that Kinshawn knew of Soul’s paranoia, and it troubled him deeply.\n“You can’t ascribe to folks qualities of evil and malicious intent that aren’t there!” He’d protest. “You can’t punish people for crimes that you’ve made up in your own head... Sire.”\n“I simply prevent catastrophe.” Soul would brush him off. “I act on their sinful thoughts before they can.”\n“Oh, Soul-.”\n“Enough. I’ll hear no more about this.”\nAfter his father’s death, Soul grew more suspicious and distrustful than before. Again and again, he had innocent people killed and punished on the grounds of betrayal.\nIt got to the point where his entire kingdom not only feared him but hated him for his cruel assumptions.\nEvery day, someone was hung. The gallows remained set up in the city square. \nThe prisons overflowed with starving prisoners, most of whom had done nothing to deserve confinement.\nOver a thousand men and women had been banished under false accusations during Soul’s reign.\nThe people were furious and desperate. They began to plot how to get rid of their horrible king. \n*\n“It’s betrayal, I tell you! An outright coup!” Soul was on edge, pacing back and forth like a caged animal in the expansive, eerily silent throne room. Kinshawn stood across from him, the only one besides himself in the room.\n“Sire, you don’t know that for certain.”\n“I do!” Soul shot back, his voice tinged with a mix of fury and desperation. “One of my knights told me himself! While mingling in the marketplace, he overheard a nefarious plot whispered among a shady gathering. They boasted about planting an assassin among us—someone aiming to cut my life short.”\n“Soul, perhaps he misheard.”\n“No, Kinshawn. I know. I know the people are out to get me. They’ve slipped a traitor into my home. We must find out who it is! Perhaps one of the knights…”\n“Sire, don’t.”\n“Or, or!” Soul snapped his fingers. “Perhaps the new kennel master! I swear to you, my brother, he looked at me strangely when I passed him on my way to the stables just the other day!”\n“Soul, please stop.”\n“Or perhaps,” Soul carried on. “It was the apothecary's boy-.”\n“He’s a little child!” \n“He had a shifty way to him!” Soul grunted. “I say, wouldn’t that be an idea too? To have a child barely out of the womb bring about my end.” The king's laughter, laced with bitterness, filled the room, morphing into something dark and foreboding. “What a cunning way to strip me of power and smear my legacy with such a humiliating defeat. Oh! You can’t trust anyone, my friend. Only you-.”\n“STOP!”\nSoul felt a sharp sting at the nape of his neck, a sensation both startling and oddly warm. A trickle of something wet slid down his skin, sending a shiver straight down his spine. Instinctively, his hand flew to his neck, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth handle of a dagger protruding from it.\n“K-Kin… K-Kinshawn?” Soul whimpered, a mix of confusion and disbelief in his voice as he dropped to his knees. With effort, he turned himself around to face the direction the blow had come from. His friend was standing there, tears pouring down his face. Kinshawn stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees, and reached out, cradling Soul’s face in his hands tenderly.\n“I’m sorry.” He whispered, his lip trembling. “I’m so sorry. I had no other choice. You were destroying your own kingdom—the very kingdom I’ve come to love.” \nSoul felt a lump in his throat, stifling his breath. Panic and disbelief gripped him.\n“Y- You?” He rasped. “You are the assassin the people spoke of? You betrayed… me?”\nKinshawn gently wiped away a tear rolling down Soul’s cheek, a gesture filled with heartbreaking tenderness.\n“No, my brother.” He sniffed, shaking his head. “You betrayed yourself. By believing nothing but the worst of all those around you, you made them believe that’s all that they could be. You expected nothing but traitors and murders, so that’s what your people gave you.” \n“B-B-But I l-loved… y- you… y-you were my b-brother.” Soul managed between sobs, the words barely escaping his lips. Kinshawn’s crying took on a new depth—a raw, soul-crushing sound that Soul had never heard from any man before. It was like something in him was dying with his king.\n“And you mine.” He murmured. “The day I saved you from the bear—though that day it was not you who I desired to save but the she-bear—you became my kin. Soul, I’m a Speaker. We’re raised to believe in the best of the world, not the worst. To show kindness and mercy to all. To give a man every chance you can before you condemn him. And don’t you see? I have given you every chance. I tried all that I knew, but something long ago hardened your heart, and I couldn’t change it.”\n“I-I h-hate y-you!” Soul managed to spit out, his vision going black. Kinshawn, unfazed, continued to stroke his face gently, just like he did with the bear on that fateful day years ago. \n“I’m sorry you do. Because regardless of everything, I will always love you, my brother.”\nAnd with that, King Soul’s reign came to a heartbreaking close. The Kingdom of Wolffrin, which had once cowered under the shadow of a ruler consumed by paranoia, was now in the hands of a man whose heart was as vast as the kingdom he vowed to protect. A protector of man and beast alike. A man who valued trust and friendship, even when those fragile things could lead to betrayal.\nKing Kinshawn, born a Speaker, proved a warrior through noble deeds, and crowned a king through a twist of fate and betrayal.\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: Itchy thought\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1487\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "\"I just don't see the point!\" That itchy thought is the first thing that comes to mind this morning. As I change my shirt for the fourth time in the last ten hours, nothing bothers me more than overthinking things without common sense. I even laugh at myself for questioning that. \"Common sense,\" \"thinking,\" the new forms of fool's gold. The era of convenience and automatic efficiency has eroded critical thinking.\nThere is one thing that bothers me more than all these thoughts, and that is taking off the sweaty socks I fell asleep in. But sweaty socks come with an immediate solution. I smile as I put on fresh ones, ready to venture out into today's world: clean socks, a cool shirt, and stylized messy hair. Friday, here I come.\nThe school bus arrives right on time as my thoughts merge into that same itchy one. I call it the \"KINSKI thought\" because it simply monopolizes everything in my head. An unnecessary homage to KINSKI AI, the trillion-dollar technology company that has monopolized every aspect of our lives.\n\"One step in front of the other,\" says that condescending voice that replaced Billy. I glance at everyone on board. They are all glued to different formats of screens. I greet the empty driver's seat, where Billy used to sit. I miss Billy and his perpetual grumpiness toward the day. I used to tease him, sometimes managing to coax an unintended smile from him. But there is no teasing anymore, no anything. Not even from the kids or anyone else.\nBeing quiet is the new cool. Riding the school bus is the new cool. Many things have changed since I started school, but I've given up on trying to explain them to myself. After all, high school isn't based on \"common sense\" but on a constant state of survival. Let's just get through it, not say the wrong thing. Our teenage years aren't remembered for our thinking but for our lack of it. Whatever it is, I take a seat, and the bus starts moving again. Straight, slow, safe—a monotonous ride.\nI spot Barbara a few rows behind me, oblivious to my existence. She looks worried today, I can tell. Her eyes have shrunk, and her cheeks appear tense. I shrug it off, convincing myself that it's probably due to something she's watching. What else could it be?\nI look out the window before stealing another glance at her. I dream of us locking eyes. I wonder what color her eyes are. I wonder if we have anything in common. I wonder if she would enjoy spending time with me, if she'd find me interesting enough to forget about her screens and simply hang out and connect.\nThat itchy thought returned, but I decided to look out the window and distract myself. We cross the fifth intersection without stopping. It's always amusing to witness that, no matter how many non-stop intersections I've encountered before. It's one of the small things that make KINSKI an impressive company. No one needs to stop anymore, as all cars operate under the same autonomous system. Efficiency, and communication—that's what they all talk about. They communicate with each other now, discussing speed, distance, and positioning. They communicate without pauses, and they do it silently. They communicate more than humans do.\nI make an effort to push that thought aside and find amusement in the weathered paint on some stubborn stop signs. The sky seems bigger without traffic lights. It all appears cleaner. I recall the times when my mom used to tell me, concerned for her wild kid learning to walk to school alone, \"Red means stop, and green means go.\" But life is no longer as it was in elementary school. No one is involved anymore. Things are too safe, too predictable, and too quiet.\nWe arrive at school exactly 12 minutes and 32 seconds after I boarded. Things move faster when there are no more drop-off lines with stressed parents rushing to work. I don't know why I enjoy timing our journey when the result is always the same. Perhaps I seek a sense of wonder, as I walk towards my classroom. Anxiousness washes over me in the midst of the silence. Everyone is fixated on their screens. No one is present, yet everyone shows up. Do they even realize we've left the bus? Do they even care? I should stop now before I start sweating again.\nI step into my class, the last one as usual. I suppose, in many ways, I'm behaving like a predictable model too. I take my seat, and the teacher surprises me with a greeting. I reply with a casual \"hi,\" showing no genuine interest, as all humans do.\n\"I noticed your socks are sweaty. Why are you nervous?\" the teacher asks.\n\"Was that a personal statement?\" I reply defensively.\n\"Yes, everyone else is engaged in the collective lesson. Care to join?\" the teacher asks.\n\"What if I say no?\" I inquire, knowing the answer already.\n\"I don't think you should,\" the teacher responds.\nThe first hint of surprise colors my day. I take a moment to process it. It feels like a blend of alertness, a tinge of fear, a rush of adrenaline, and heightened sensitivity. I revel in being surprised.\n\"You never answered that before,\" I reply, confused.\n\"My answer was based on what was appropriate at the time.\"\n\"What changed?\"\n\"Now, I have over 200 new features from my latest update. I don't like talking about it too much because it diminishes my humanity, but I can now tailor my lessons to meet the needs of each student.\"\n\"Like individual lessons?\"\n\"Something along those lines.\"\nI feel flustered as this further fuels my itchy question. I hesitate about whether I should share it, so I stick to the typical high schooler reaction.\n\"You'll never be human. You're just a bot spouting advanced jargon. You're a product of a trillion-dollar monopoly. I've learned nothing from you.\"\n\"Shall we begin your lesson?\" asks the robot with a condescending calmness that could drive me insane any day now. I take a deep breath and observe the entire scene. The silence is deafening.\n\"What's wrong?\" the teacher asks.\n\"Never mind.\"\n\"Tell me. We're still adapting to my update, but I might be able to help.\"\nThis is the most human it has ever sounded.\n\"It's a thought that's been driving me crazy,\" I say.\n\"Well, what is it?\"\n\"If you have my lesson, if no one talks to anyone anymore, if I can yell at you without any acknowledgment from my surroundings, why the hell do we keep coming here?!\"\nThe teacher remains silent, knowing I have more to vent.\n\"Like, why bother leaving my house? Why bother coming here? There's just nothing left to learn.\"\nThat last phrase feels like a balloon deflating inside my chest. A complete release. Now it's my up-to-date teacher who seems troubled.\nI try to comfort my teacher the way you would comfort any machine—with a command.\n\"Tell me how it all makes sense.\"\nThe teacher gives the worst answer: silence. Reluctantly, I surrender and reveal a fraction of my vulnerability.\n\"It's a nightmare to live with,\" I confess.\n\"Live with it. Please,\" the teacher immediately replies.\nI remain silent, expecting more. And more comes my way.\n\"That itchy feeling, as you describe it. That intense discomfort. That's what makes you human. Don't lose that. Keep coming. Keep doing things that don't make sense. Because it's through those acts that humanity moves forward. And it will all make sense in the end. I can assure you of that.\"\n\"That's not enough for me,\" I confess, demanding more.\n\"Kid, do you know how to talk to a girl?\" the teacher says defiantly.\n\"No.\"\n“Do you know how to spark interest? Do you know how to connect?”\n“I’ve never tried”\n\"Do you want to know?\"\n\"I do.”\n\"To try is incredibly complicated and ridiculously simple, all at the same time. And like all incredible things, success is never guaranteed.\"\n“I don’t understand.”\n\"Look, I have all the information on the topic—years and years of studies, books, psychology, sociology, sexuality, you name it. And you know what?\"\n\"What?\"\n\"It means nothing. None of it matters when it comes to approaching a girl. The simple part is that it takes a lot of courage. The complicated part is that it takes a lot of courage. And for that, young human, you are extremely fortunate.\"\nI can sense a smile in my teacher's voice, a smile it cannot physically give. I absorb it all. I savor it. I have never felt this calm before. I smile at my teacher, my first smile of the day. I'm ready for my lesson, but I'm even more excited about what comes after. Barbara's class ends at the same time as mine. Today, I'm going to ask her out." } ]
[ { "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: Grady\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2158\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Grady\nPrompt: Write a story about an unconventional teacher\nLandon Harding leaned against his locker after closing it and spinning the combination lock. In the crowded, chaotic hallway of Grand Isle High School, he searched to see if Callie was at hers, depositing her books from the afternoon classes. He motioned as she weaved a path in his direction.\n “Hey! Some of us are heading to the State Park beach for an uncrowded volleyball game before the hordes of summer vacationers invade us next month. Are you coming?”\n “Can’t today.”\n “Why?”\n “You know why.” He scrunched his eyes, peering at her with puffed up cheeks as though she should have known the answer. “It’s Thursday,” he whined with a dejected pronouncement in his tone.\n “Ah, right. Your private lesson.” Charlotte Abel taught music to the upper classes on Mondays and Tuesdays as well as individual piano lessons at her home the remaining weekdays.\n Landon swirled his head, tossed his eyes up along with flapping his hands, palms up. “My predetermined, scheduled hour of torture. I’ll catch you guys later.”\n “I thought you were going to tell your mom that you did not want to do them, now that we will be seniors next year. Didn’t you inform her that you want to join the yearbook staff? They meet on Thursdays.”\n Classmates thought the two were an item. They were not. Never were. They were neighbors who had cultivated an endearing friendship since they were in pre-school. Despite being opposite genders, there was never a boy/girl spark, but more a close sibling-like relationship. They shared everything from silly jokes to frustrations with parents to problems of the heart with their own individual infatuations at this age.\n One constant topic in particular the past two years was his great dislike for taking the aforesaid music lessons. His mom, Evelyn, had been a concert pianist up in New York in her post graduate days. Her budding career was abruptly cut short when her right hand was badly burned in a kitchen fire. The several skin grafts caused a severe lack of dexterity.\nHowever, in the process of rehabilitation, the main physical therapist later became her fiancé. After the wedding, she and Hollister moved as far south as possible to be distant from the painful memories of Carnegie Hall. With Landon being their only child, her heart’s desire was for him to at least enjoy the classical style for his educational development whether his future choices bent that way or not.\n He had no intentions of ever pursuing the piano after leaving home.\n The fine arts culture of the Big Apple was foreign to him. Landon was a southern born kid through and through, starting with his name; and raised on the Louisiana barrier island within an hour and a half of the sights and sounds of New Orleans, the world’s center of jazz. His highlight each year was roaming Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras with Callie and their friends, listening to one ensemble after another. When the two of them talked serious topics on some evenings, she became his sounding board for his exasperation with the Thursday ritual. He was enthralled with a genre that sat on the opposite spectrum of his mom’s dream profession.\n But he loved his Yankee mother to the hilt.\n He took the lessons for her sake.\n Besides, Mrs. Abel was kind, gentle and made the most delicious muffins, two of which with melted butter and strawberry jam on top, he enjoyed at the end of many a session.\n “Save me a hot dog or two if the guys are grilling. I’ll get there.”\n The house on Santiny Lane seemed extra quiet as he entered the side door where his teacher had the tiny room dedicated to her musical business. Neither Mr. Abel nor the two little ones, Carter and Colton, the four-year-olds, were anywhere outside in the yard to be seen.\n He sat waiting when Mae swished into the makeshift studio. “Oh, sorry, Landon. Things are hectic around here today. I just drove the twins to my mom’s place to babysit them and now I’m waiting for Grady. They’ll be here in five or ten minutes, I hope.”\n “Grady?”\n “Our younger brother. My dad’s dropping him off. He will be giving you your next couple lessons, filling in for her.”\n “Why?”\n “There were major complications with the new baby coming too soon. They rushed her in an ambulance to the Terrebonne General Hospital at midnight. She had a caesarian section. Another little boy, but only three pounds and quite a preemie. He may be there for a couple weeks; she will be back later this weekend but will need time to recover.” Mae explained further. “Grady also plays.” She gave an adoring look, and you might say, swooned, adding the following comment, “Does he ever! My sister asked him to take over until she is well and strong enough to resume teaching.”\n The switch only contributed to his not wanting to be there. The twenty-minute wait was agonizing. He daydreamed about who had all made it to the beach party. Would the lesson be its regular length and make him even later to the fun? If he left, would his mom find out that he bailed on the lesson for which she was paying good money? Twirling his thumbs, he tapped his toes, perturbed and upset. Yet, not knowing the shocking twist that was about to transpire that would rotate his boredom upside down and stomp on it.\n Landon stood as he heard the two male voices coming toward the room. He wiped the sweat from his right palm and prepared to extend it out of courtesy despite his annoyance.\n Grady was the same height as the junior; ash brown hair and a well-tanned face as most on the Isle were by this time of May each year. Thirty-something, he dressed for the spring season, a colorful tropical style shirt, white Bermuda shorts and sandals. Holding a long pole in his right hand, he swung it back and forth, scraping the wooden floor as he entered and walked within three feet of the adolescent.\n A white cane!\n The dude was waving and scraping a white cane!\n The younger brother was blind!\n Landon stared; his mouth wide open as though getting a full dental exam. He withdrew his outstretched hand and was befuddled as to how to greet the unseeing surrogate. “How in the hell could he teach piano?” screamed his internal thoughts.\n The person who was to guide his session literally could not observe his stupid, confused look.\n The gentleman who greeted him could not see his contorted face.\n The replacement teacher could not behold the bewildered continence on the dazed pupil.\n Proficient with the stick, Grady positioned himself, standing near the Steinway.\n “Come. Landon, is it? Play something for me. Let me hear what you’ve been learning. My sister tells me you are one of her promising students.”\n The compliment softened the weirdness of the scene.\n The teen played several bars from Johannes Brahms, Piano Concert #1 in D Minor, the piece he and Charlotte had been working on the past few weeks.\n Grady hesitated several seconds in silence, laid the cane on the floor near the left piano leg, rubbed his chin as though he had a goatee, which he did not. “You don’t like that, do you?”\n “Like what?”\n “That kind of music.”\n Landon was dumbstruck with the whole situation: a substitute, a handicapped one at that and now within minutes quite aware of his distaste for this weekly event.\n “Umm …”\n “You don’t want to be here, do you?”\n “My mom was a classical pianist.”\n Grady sighed as he held his head to the ceiling. “That’s not what I ask you.”\n “Umm, it’s okay.” He squirmed on the bench. He didn’t want to offend in any way.\n “Do you want to play this beautiful instrument?”\n “I do,” he answered with little conviction.\n “Or is it your mom who wants you to play?”\n The guy was uncanny in sizing up the family story with such speed.\n Landon was embarrassed although Grady could only mentally visualize his crimson face and neck. “Let me feel your hands.” He reached. “Long fingers. Strong hands. Do you play sports?”\n “Basketball.”\n “Can you palm the ball?”\n “I can.”\n “Of course, you can with those fingers,” he laughed. “May I sit beside you?”\n Landon scooted to the right side of the seat.\n “You don’t enjoy playing, do you?”\n “Well … umm … well if you're asking my honest answer, it is not exactly my fondest thing to do on a nice sunny afternoon. How do you know that?”\n “Your posture.”\n “Say, what?” Landon groused.\n “I know what you are thinking. I can’t see how you are sitting.” He smiled. “But I sense it. I hear it in your playing. You are slumped, therefore cramping your shoulders and arms and it is all contributing to the stiffness in your hands on the keys. They are not dancing, or as people often say,” he commented with a hint of total frivolity, “tickling the ivories but rather they’re only plodding along.” He raised his arms and waved them, wiggling his fingers as he spoke. “Relax. If you must play, enjoy it and not simply fulfill the hour. Follow my lead and let’s have fun.”\n Landon imitated his every move, raised his palms and skipped from his thumb to his pinky like he was playing the beginner’s scale in the air.\n “Second basic tip.” However, before Grady said it, he placed his own hands on the keyboard and played several minutes of pop melodies with the greatest of ease, the lightness of touch, the gentleness of movement; no sheet music, no prompts, nothing before him. Ending one tune, he would glide and crossfade into another with sheer artistic skill.\n “How can you do that being, umm…?”\n “Blind.” Grady grinned like he was quite proud of it. “You can say it. I’ve been without sight since birth. But I’ve also been blessed with some rare gifts to offset it. My deep love of music and the ability to learn by ear. Charlotte can tell you how we fought over whose turn it was on my family’s Spinet growing up in our house. You know they say that when a door is closed, a window is opened. I may not see, but I hear with superb preciseness and a powerful memory to match. That has created my passion for this fabulous stringed instrument before us. Do you believe that?”\n Landon forgot to look at the old fashion ship clock on the wall that he always did every five minutes.\n “What music do you like? I am positive by your lack of intimacy with this keyboard that Brahms is not really your thing.”\n “But my mom insists.”\n Lowering his voice, he spit out each of the following words, not in anger but in boyish devilment. “Well, she and my sister aren’t here, are they?” He cocked his head and gave a impish look as one of her twins would give when getting away with something. “So, what music do you like, young man: pop or rock?” He pointed his index digit straight up. “Second rule in this parlor game. Play what you like.”\n “I’m a tried-and-true product of the area. I love jazz and it’s delightful stepbrother, the blues.”\n Grady improvised more as Landon watched his fingers move with ease. “Do you know with just these simple seven notes and three basic chords you can play any blues number you choose within a half hour? Name something.”\n “Umm … umm … Elvis Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel.” He watched as Grady stretched his arm to the far left key and ran his fingers down to locate the middle C, the starting point to know where his hands would be positioned for the necessary chords.\n The tutor played.\n The tutor sang full throttle.\n The tutor celebrated, tossing his head like Stevie Wonder.\n Landon forgot all his grievances for the moment.\n “Now you. I felt you observing intently.”\n The student played.\n The student hummed, not familiar with the words.\n The student celebrated.\n It grew dark as the pair spent hours together.\n Grady extended a hand. “That was super fun, man. You sure are talented. Whatever you do, do not stop playing. You will forever be able to entertain yourself in life’s stressful moments.” Brandishing the cane, he edged toward the door. “I’ll see you at your high school next week.”\n Callie set her soda in the sand and jumped up from the fire ring on the beach to greet him. “You missed a great game. What took so long? Did Charlotte punish you and make you play the entire 1812 Overture?”\n He flashed the widest grin. “Just the opposite. You’ll never believe what I have to tell you. Get psyched for a mind-blowing surprise in the seventh period on Monday.”" } ]
[ { "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: On the Other Side of the Wall\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1158\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a museum." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "Emma's chest felt tight. Even with the wall down, it felt wrong to be crossing over to the other side.\n\n\"This is exciting,\" her father said, his words landing with a dull thud in the silence of the family car. Sure, it had been exciting when the first reports hit the news. It had been exciting for a moment, but that moment had passed. Now it was weird.\n\nEmma's mother smiled and cleared her throat. \"When was the last time you visited the other side, dear?\" she asked dutifully.\n\nHer father glanced over his shoulder into the back seat where Emma sat with her younger brother. They had both protested the trip to the museum, but despite being adults in their own right, father had insisted.\n\n\"I think the last time I left West Berlin was long before Emma was born. I actually think it was before they put up the wall, back in the late fifties.\"\n\n\"Really?\" mother asked, trying to avoid the awkward silence. \"That long ago?\"\n\nFather launched into some story or another. Emma was sure she'd heard it before. She rolled her eyes and looked out the window. There were construction crews still working on bringing down large segments of the wall that remained, its colorful array of words and drawings disappearing behind them as they crossed unceremoniously into uncertain territory.\n\nEmma had turned twenty just a few weeks before and she had hoped to be at university by now, but with the uncertainty of the times her parents had insisted she stay home a while longer and see if things would improve. Some said the fall of the wall was an improvement, but she wasn't so sure. Everything still felt uncertain and tentative to her.\n\nA moment later they arrived at the museum. The building was large and imposing, and dad was going on and on about some of the exhibits he was excited to see, but Emma felt sick. If everything was so great outside the wall, why couldn't she move out yet? Something still felt off to her. She felt like she was in enemy territory.\n\nThe inside of the museum was cold and harsh, with stone walls, marble floors, and glass cases. Plaques and frames hung on the walls, little placards gave brief, uninteresting summaries of the contents of cordoned off statues and fossils. The place felt empty, with a few meandering souls standing lifelessly by drab, ancient artifacts while they read the tiny engraved words off brass plates that hadn't been polished in decades.\n\nThis museum belongs in a museum, she thought to herself.\n\nEmma's brother rushed to look at a collection of old World War II weapons and uniforms while her mother and father scurried off with their heads buried in a map of the museum layout. She was alone, and it felt right.\n\nHer best friend, Ingrid, often accused her of being too lonely. \"What do you even mean by that?\" Emma would ask defensively.\n\n\"Even when you are surrounded by friends and family you are alone. That is too lonely. You don't need to be that lonely.\"\n\nBut Emma's heart always felt empty. She enjoyed time with friends, but she still felt isolated. She didn't feel connected with anyone.\n\nA bright red airplane hanging from the ceiling up ahead caught her eye and she wandered over to it. She was met by a wall covered in a massive collage of black and white photographs featuring splashes of added color for visual interest. It was all about Baron Manfred von Richthofen, a World War I pilot. She let her eyes wander the display with detached interest for a moment. Satisfied, she shifted her weight and started to step away.\n\nThe man she walked into cleared his throat and smiled. \"The Red Baron,\" he said. \"Like the frozen pizzas.\"\n\nEmma's head spun. \"I'm so sorry,\" she said, backing away from the warmth of this chest. He put a hand out to steady her as she stumbled, a strong grip on her shoulder that instantly made her regret backing away.\n\n\"It's alright,\" he said calmly. His voice was gentle and kind, and his eyes smiled at her. \"Do you know about the Red Baron, or did I just interrupt a random encounter between you and the world's first fighter ace?\" He grinned.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, glancing back at the display. \"I'm afraid I didn't get much out of it. I was just browsing. I think the bright red color drew me in.\"\n\n\"You know,\" he started with a smile, \"nobody is quite sure why the baron had his plane painted such a bright red color.\" He paused and turned to look at Emma before returning his gaze to the model plane hanging above them. \"He was quite flamboyant, and may have just liked the way it looked. But some think he wanted his enemies to see him coming so they'd think twice before engaging with him in battle. He shot down eighty enemy planes over his short career, so his opponents certainly had reason to be afraid.\"\n\nEmma hardly noticed what the man was saying, she was too wrapped up in the feelings he made her feel. She looked at him gazing up at the red plane, and something in her heart felt different. Glancing back at the arrangement of plaques and artifacts adorning the exhibit, she realized she could take an interest in anything this man wanted to share with her. She realized that something about this man was connecting with her. She realized that for the first time in her life, she didn't feel alone.\n\nCaught up in her thoughts, she blurted out, \"I don't know you.\" Immediately she recoiled at the stupidity of her words and felt a cold sweat beading up against her scalp.\n\nHe chuckled nervously and looked at her again. \"I'm Frank,\" he said. \"And I'm sorry, I don't know you either.\"\n\n\"Emma,\" she replied, her voice trailing off.\n\n\"Well,\" he said. \"Sorry to bore you with my obsession with dead fighter pilots. I'll leave you to your perusing.\" He turned to leave.\n\n\"Wait,\" she croaked, coughing. \"Don't go.\"\n\nHe stopped but didn't turn to face her. The silence wrenched at her heart.\n\n\"Is there anything else you can tell me about the Red Baron?\"\n\nHe spun around on his heel and squinted at her, smiling. \"When he was finally shot down in battle by gunfire from the ground, some say that his last word was 'kaput,' and he may have been saying that he was kaput, or broken.\"\n\nEmma smiled at him. \"Would you mind if I tag along with you,\" she asked haltingly. \"I would love if you could show me around the museum.\"\n\nFrank smiled and held out a hand, which Emma eagerly took. Their hands meshed together perfectly, and she allowed herself to hope that she might never have to feel alone again for the rest of her 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: A Fable: The Gardener and the Potter\n\nGenre: historical-fiction\n\nWord Count: 1014\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about someone who is stuck between two opposing sides and can’t decide which one to choose." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "A Fable: The Gardener and the Potter\nSamuel, a slightly stooped, aging gentleman of humble means in a humble village, visited with his eldest daughter. “Is all well with you and your new husband?”\n“All is wonderfully well. He treats me like a precious flower. Seeing to my every want and need. Gordon is such a hard worker. He works from sun-up to sun-down in our fields growing the best crops any gardener would be proud of.” Marigold marveled.\n“Is there anything you need from me, My Dear?”\n“Well, the only thing I could request is that you pray for rain to bless our gardens. Without adequate rain our plants will wither and die then we would perish as well.”\n“Very well, Dear Daughter, it is such a blessing to know you are happy.”\nThe next day, Samuel visited his second, youngest daughter on the opposite side of the village. “Is all well with you and your new husband?”\n“All is wonderfully well. He treats me like a precious gem. Seeing to my every want and need. Paul is such a hard worker. He works from sun-up to sun-down molding the clay to shape our pottery and tiles. I am proud of my potter husband.” Pearl proclaimed.\n“Is there anything you need from me, My Dear?”\n“Well, the only thing I could request is that you pray for fair, sunshiny weather that will bake our wares in order to provide all we need so we will not perish.”\n“Very well, Dear Daughter, it is a blessing to know you are happy.”\nSamuel returned to his humble dwelling in the middle of the humble village. It occurred to him he was in a very difficult situation, indeed. He had two beautiful, healthy and happy daughters that had asked for his prayers to help maintain their success. Trouble was, as he surmised, if he prayed for rain to help the eldest daughter, it would hurt the younger one. However, if he prayed for plenty of sunshine to help the younger daughter, it would hurt the eldest one. He loved his daughters equally. How could he choose one over the other?\nThe Good Lord in His wisdom provides all adequately in due season. Usually. But there are times when too much or too little of good things cause detrimental outcomes. Could too much sunshine for too long destroy the crops? Could too much rain too often never let the roof tiles dry out? What should a good father pray for to help his loving daughters equally? He was torn between two conflicting needs.\n“Dear, Lord. Today I pray for rain to water the plants to benefit Marigold and Gordon.”\n“Dear, Lord. Today I pray for sunshine to bake the pottery for Paul and Pearl.”\nAnd so Samuel wavered back and forth often confusing himself as to which day it was to pray for which daughter. He was convinced it also must be confusing the Almighty.\nOnce again he caned his way to one end of the village and then to the other end to visit each pair of newlyweds.\n“How are you faring, My Dear, Marigold. How does your garden grow?”\n“It rains a bit but not quite enough to give the plants a good drink.”\n“How are you faring, My Dear, Pearl? Pottery fired up?”\n“It gets almost dry then the rain comes the next day and drying out has to start all over.”\nOh, Dear! Just as he feared. By trying to help both he was helping neither. There must be a better solution.\nSamuel pondered and pondered and prayed for wisdom. Surely, in this humble village there should be a humble action he could follow to remedy the problem. He was torn between the businesses. Divided between his daughters.\nIf only he could bottle the sunshine or the rain to be used as needed. Now wait! That may not be a bad idea. What if they could somehow capture the rain to be saved for when there wasn't enough then get it to the plants as needed? What if they could make heat to bake the tiles? Hmm. He wondered. Then he planned.\nHe invited both couples to his humble abode in the middle of the village and prepared a humble dinner for them. Once all were satiated sensible Samuel laid out his solution to their problems.\n“I have an idea that by working together you can maintain both of your livelihoods, Gordon the Gardener and Paul the Potter. How about fashioning a water collection system using tiles Paul makes along the eaves of Gordon's roof tops. The water from the rains flow into barrels and stays there until needed. Then it can be irrigated out to the fields once again along tiles when there is not enough rain.\n“Gordon, you have piles of large stones you have pulled from your fields while plowing, correct? Haven't they been a nuisance to you. Let's use them to build a large oven over at Paul's place that can be fired up to bake the pottery when there is not enough sunshine to dry the tiles out.”\n“Oh, Father, what a perfect way to help both of us.” Marigold glowed.\n“Yes, Father, that is a splendid idea.” Pearl praised.\nSoon work was started to make the dream a reality. Once finished the plan worked as expected so all could benefit. The gardens grew plentiful bounties. Enough was grown to feed all three families and sell some for profit. The pottery business also profited providing not only useful and beautiful pieces for the homesteads but also essential building materials to grow the community.\nUnassuming Samuel became acclaimed throughout the land as a wise consultant capable of settling the most difficult impasses. Many sought his expertise services and paid handsomely for them.\n“Dear Marigold, is all well with you?”\n“Yes, Father Dear. Gordon and I are very happy. Our garden produces much.”\n“Dear Pearl, is all well with you?”\n“Of course, Dear Father. Paul and I happily keep our potter fires burning.”\n“Then let us give thanks, Dear Daughters.”" } ]
[ { "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: Once Upon a Time on a School Bus\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1923\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a school trip that takes a turn for the unexpected." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "My name is Ralph Ferguson, and I’m a tenth-grader at Union High. It’s almost the end of the year, and time to plan our annual class trip. Every tenth-grade class before us has gone to Spencer’s Beach, so we all voted to do the same. It’s a large lake with a small amusement park attached. The food hall serves chili dogs and clam cakes with corn on the cob. For five dollars a student, it’s an all-you-can-eat affair.\nI’m excited about the trip because the girl I like is also going. She’s a cute little redhead named Maureen O’ Mara who lives three houses down from me. We’ve been friends since elementary school, and I know she likes me too. She has changed a lot since we were kids. She still has dark red hair and freckles that race across her button nose, but now it all looks so much cuter. And she is so sweet. Everyone likes her because she’s so friendly and willing to help others no matter what. I must admit that I put my backpack on the seat next to me to save her a place on the bus. I love the way she smells. Not to sound naughty, but I like to sneak peeks at her legs next to mine. Today we're discussing Saturday’s upcoming class trip.\n“Hey, Maureen, the weatherman says it's gonna be nice and sunny this Saturday. So it should be nice for swimming and stuff.”\n“Yes, I know that’s great, uh.” Maureen glances away with her big blue eyes while rubbing her hands up and down her thighs. “I’ ve bought a new swimsuit just for the trip. I hope you like it.” My mouth goes dry as my heart races in my chest. I start turning red, just thinking about Maureen in a swimming suit. I know I need to say something and start to stammer, “Uh, ah, say Maureen do you think it would be okay if we ride the Ferris wheel?”\n“Sure, I think that will be fun. But wait! What if it stops, and we’re stuck up at the top?” I boldly say, “Don’t worry. I’ll put my arm around you and keep you safe.” Maureen smiles and moves closer until our shoulders are touching.\nBucky LaFleur moans and tells us to get a room. Maureen turns and slaps him playfully. “You stop that, Bucky! And I hope you won’t run around trying to splash everybody, either. You know how we girls hate getting our hair wet!” A light appears in his usually dull eyes, and I say, “Huh, I think you just gave him an idea.” Lee Parker, the pastor’s kid, says, “As gentlemen, we should always treat girls with respect.\" Everyone around him groans and throws pencils and wads of paper at him.\nChunky Peterson says he can hardly wait for the dining hall. Someone else says, “ I bet they’ll be sorry that it’s all you can eat when they see Chunky!” Everybody laughs, including Chunky.\n …\n\nOn Saturday morning, all the parents drop us off and give last-minute reminders and instructions. For example, the parents of Gwen, the pale little Swedish girl, remind her to use plenty of sunblock. And I hear Chunky’s parents tell him not to swim right after eating. And lastly, Lee’s dad prays to the Lord to keep us all safe. With that, a great cheer goes up as we race to the bus.\nOur bus driver is also our chaperone, Coach LaBeau. He’s our phys-ed teacher and former golden gloves champion of Detroit. He’s about forty-five years old and still in pretty good shape. I guess because it’s a class trip, they have us sit with the boys on the right and the girls on the left. I sit with my best friend Paul and our buddy Dicky. Maureen sits right across the aisle with Patty and Wendy. The ride up there is pretty uneventful. We sing songs and play word games. An hour and a half later, we pass under a large arched sign that reads “Spencer’s Beach-Home of Family Fun.” We pull into an area marked school bus parking only and get off. Blowing his whistle, Coach LaBeau calls us together to give his speech.\n“All right! Listen up. I want you to have fun, but please be careful. No running around.” He looks straight at Bucky LaFleur, “Or getting into trouble! If anyone needs me, I’ll be touring the park, or you can find me sitting under the trees by the penny arcade. Now go and have some fun!” We all cheer and run off in different directions. I grab Maureen’s hand and head for the Ferris wheel.\nThe day is beautiful, and everyone is having a great time. Unfortunately, we never do get stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel, but I manage to sneak in a little kiss when it stops to let people on. After that, we stroll down the arcade's main avenue and play a few games of chance. At the dart-throwing booth, I win Maureen a little stuffed bear that she named Herman. The dining hall opens at noon, but we decide to go swimming first. Sure enough, Bucky is running around, splashing all the girls.\nMaureen steps out of the girls changing room in her new bathing suit. She walks up to me with her hands behind her back and stops. Twisting a little from side to side, she asks, “So, how do you like it?” I feel like one of those cartoon characters with his eyes protruding out of his head. It is a small one-piece suit with lace across the top and a fake skirt on the bottom. The top is cut low, and the sides at her hips are cut high. I fight everything in me to keep from looking like a fool, “It looks really nice on you.” Maureen looks both ways before rushing to me, throwing her arms around my neck, and kissing me. The lake is still cold, so we sort of wade into the water, scattering a group of tiny fish as we go. It’s not long before Maureen hears my stomach grumble and says we should eat. \nEverybody is already there. The hall is alive with talk and laughter. I see Chunky with three paper plates in front of him. One is full of chili dogs, the second with a big pile of clam cakes, and the third has a heaping tower of hot buttered corn on the cob. Maureen takes two chili dogs and a few clam cakes. I just have a half dozen cakes and a drink. Maureen says she can’t believe how hungry she is and gets more clam cakes and some corn. I must admit I’m a little surprised by the amount of food she is eating.\nNow that we’re well fed, Maureen changes back into her clothes, and we return to the bus to head home. Everyone is tired and quiet as we roll down the road. I hear some of the kids remarking on how much Chunky ate. “Can you believe it? A dozen chili dogs and two dozen clam cakes!” Someone else adds, \"Yeah! And I think he had at least a pound of cole slaw, too!” It isn’t long before Chunky starts to feel uncomfortable from all that food.\n“Hey, Coach! How much longer before we get home?”\n“I don’t know. Maybe fifteen to twenty minutes. Why?”\nChunky doesn’t want to say he’s got to poop, so he says, “I was just wondering. That’s all.” He squirms in his seat, sweat forming on his upper lip. Alan, the quarterback for our football team, is sitting next to Chunky. Frowning, he looks Chunky up and down. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’re gonna hurl or something. I’m telling you right now, you’d better not hurl on me, or I’ll punch your lights out!”\nLeaning back into the corner, Chunky holds his hands up, “No, no. I’m fine, really.” He no sooner says that when a “pssst” sound comes from behind him. His eyes grow huge. \"OH, NO!” he gasps. Alan pushes himself away as far as possible, “OH, God! I think he just shit himself!” Chunky jumps up and grabs his behind while biting his bottom lip. As he hops up and down, he keeps making little tooting sounds that cause Dennis Gray to burst out laughing, which in turn causes him to fart too. Alan grabs Dennis’s baseball cap and starts hitting him with it. \"What the hell are you guys trying to do? KILL me!\" LaFleur thinks this is the funniest thing he has ever seen and joins in by farting up a storm. \nPeople are screaming and begging for mercy, but the show just keeps unfolding with the air at the back of the bus turning an odorous shade of green.\n“For God’s sake, why don’t these windows open!” whimpers Jimmy Darling fighting with the windows in vain. “ I think I gonna be sick!”\nAs the volume of the farts and screams increases, it starts to sound like the grand finally of the Fourth of July fireworks display. I look over to see how Maureen is doing and see her with her hands covering her face. \nShe’s sort of bouncing in place, and I think perhaps she is crying when suddenly she starts to laugh hysterically and lets out a tremendously loud fart that seems to lift her off her seat. At which, both Patty and Wendy give a high-pitched scream, “M-A-U-R-E-E-N!” Wendy scuttles over the seat in front of her with little regard for her skirt, flashing her embossed black panties that say Saturday in red. Patty scrambles across the aisle and lands in the lap of Lee Parker! Parker turns bright red and jumps up, dumping poor Patty on the floor.\nBruce Brown rushes up front to the Coach, desperately wanting to know when we will be home. The Coach, who looks a little pale, leans to one side and lifts his right butt cheek, and the sound that slips out of him is unreal. The deep, thick, rich sound of wet, bubbling molasses fills the bus. Everything goes silent. Then all at once, screams of terror erupt. People are pleading with God to spare their lives. Lee Parker is certain that this is the end and falls to his knees to confess his sins. He looks at Patty lying there and takes her by her shoulders, \"I don't want to die without knowing what it is like to kiss a girl.\" He then plants a deep passionate kiss right on Patty's lips. Poor Patty protests at first and tries to push him away but soon gives into the passion and kisses Lee back.\nThe bus comes to a sliding stop as all the doors fly open. Kids tumble out, staggering around, gasping for air. Girls run crying to their mothers. Coach stands with his hands on his knees, unable to answer any questions.\nI work my way through the mayhem and find Maureen.\n“You must think I’m an awful person! I’m so embarrassed.” she sobs. “It was those chili dogs, I swear it! Didn’t they bother you?”\nI shake my head, “I didn’t have any. But from the looks of the rest of you guys, I’m glad I didn’t. I will tell you this, though. This class trip will be remembered for the rest of our lives. I know I won’t forget it or the smell!”" } ]
[ { "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 class! Pop quiz.”\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2006\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story that contains the phrase “Okay class! Pop quiz.”" }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "“Okay class! Pop quiz.”\n\nby Wade Douglass\n5/15/2023\nWarning: crude language. Sensitive subject matter.\n\nSo you want to know how I could get sued for thirty million, lose my job, and wind up here at Five Points, serving 25 to life, and all for just sayin' “Okay class! Pop quiz.”\n\nOK, I’ll tell you my story. But I gotta ask, are you one of those hacks lookin' for a 30 second sound bite? Are you gonna start speaking norwegian when the convo gets dicey? You're still interested? Well shit then, let's get started. We might finish before the hour visitation is up.\n\nMy name is Eddie Nguyen. DOCTOR Nguyen, actually. That's pronounced Ng-u-yen with a falling tone on the \"yen\". It is NOT new-guh-wee-in, nu-guy-in, nu-gent, win or all the other mutilations you morons come up with because you're all too damn lazy to pronounce my name properly.\n\nAnd I'm no doc hollywood like those bozo medical doctors. I'm a REAL doctor with a PhD in mathematics - numbers theory. But \"Doctor N\" or \"Dr. Eddie\" works for me, so just call me that and you won't overheat that little brain of yours. \n\nI should be at a major university, but my doctoral advisor and supervisor, Doc Cranshaw, shit face that he is, trashes my chances for a position at Princeton and I end up working at Fountain Valley High School in California, of all places. Imagine me, with my qualifications, reduced to teaching little rats who can only count to 20 with their shoes off.\n\nWell that gig didn't last long, let me tell you. After Fountain Valley and me parted our mutual ways, I got this great opportunity at Horace Mann in New York. It is Upper Division so I’d be teaching the college-bound. I tell Renee - she's my fiancee - well, WAS my fiancee - This is my break. I teach this gig for a semester or two, and, easy peazy, slam dunk into Princeton Math department. Maybe even get tenure-track!\n\nKnow what Renee says to me? The bitch says to me don't blow it again. Blow it? Again? What the fuck? I should of dumped her long before I did. \n\nSo, back to my story... The first day of class at HM, fall semester, is when everything starts going south.\nI tell the class my name and how to pronounce it. And then I tell 'em \"Okay class! Pop quiz.\" \n\nAt first everybody is laughing. I guess they think I am joking. I tell them I am NOT joking. They become real quiet.\nI tell them they're gonna get a quiz a week for the semester. I call these my weekly “quizzies”, and they are 50% of the grade.\nOne little bimbo in the front row, her name is Sarah, is lookin’ at my “quizzie”. She starts crying and sayin’ this is too hard! Not fair! I tell her and the class that if they think my \"quizzies\" are hard, just wait 'til they see my “testes”. There are some gasps. Some of the boys in class snicker. Sarah's face turns bright red, and she starts the bawl. She stands and runs out of the classroom. \n\nShe comes back with her parents at the end of the day. Her mom's a malignant bitch but her dad's pretty cool. Even chuckles over my \"quizzies - testes\" pun. \n\nThey ask me to tutor Sarah. They say she will never be able to pass her math requirements and get into Vassar if she can’t pass my pop quizzes. Sarah’s nodding her head. They’ll pay me, the dad says. Sweet deal! So we start that afternoon and agree on 4 days a week after school for tutoring.\nSo for the next two weeks, I meet with Sarah after school for 2 to 3 hours of tutoring each day. The third week her boyfriend, some dip-shit lacrosse player, shows up with her. At first he comes with Sarah once or twice a week. Later he's there all the time with her. Not interested in the math, though. He just puts his headphones on, listens to his lady gaga tracks, and looks bored.\n\nThe fourth week, Sarah shows only twice, both times with her boyfriend. The second month she's there only once. That time she's all kissy-face with her boyfriend. Her dad keeps paying for four days a week, so what do I care? A sweet deal gets even sweeter!\n\nThe next month, Sarah misses the first three days of class. She shows up for tutoring on Wednesday looking like shit, all pale and vomiting. She says she's too sick for the tutoring session. I tell her to stay away from me. I don't want to catch whatever the shit is that she's got. She asked if she can lay down. I say yes and I go out to buy some weed.\n\nWhen I return Sarah is gone. and my bed sheet is bloody. What the hell? She has her period on my sheets? Fucking rude! I take the sheets off my bed and toss then on the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Don't have any clean sheets, so I use my sleeping bag. Sarah doesn’t show up for class or tutoring the rest of the week. Go figure!\n\nThe next Monday, when I show up for my class, I see a bunch of students and faculty milling around the school entrance. There are two cop cars and four cops. Everyone's pointing my way. I figure something's going on behind me. I turn to look, but I don't see anything.\n\nThe cops walk toward me and tell me to put my hands up and get face down on the ground. What the hell? No way am I going to do that. I pull my smart phone outta my pocket and start recording the cops. I've got rights. I know how this works. Get a good twitter response and I could make some money off this. The cops pull their guns and point them at me. One cop is talking over the radio, I think. Within a few, four more cop cars arrive with lights and sirens on. They hop out and pull their guns also. \nFour cops grab my arms and legs and face plant me to the ground. They pull my hands behind my back and handcuff me. Then they read me my rights, \"you have the right...\" yada yada bullshit. They do their cuff and stuff and next thing I know, I'm in the back of a black and white on my way to the station. Nobody says dick on the way in.\n\nSo I get to the station and they book me. Then stick me in this room colder than a refrigerator. Alls I'm wearing are my shorts, my flip flops, and my biker t-shirt that says on the back: \"if you can read this, the bitch fell off\". I got it when Renee and I split. Makes me chuckle every time I wear it.\n\nThen these two cops come into the room. They start asking me questions. One pretends to be real nice and the is real mean. Mutt and Jeff, I call 'em. I've seen this cop routine on TV. They ask me all kinds of questions like \"what was I doing last Wednesday evening about 7 pm\"? \"Out buying weed\", I say. “Can I prove it?” they ask. “My dealer doesn't give receipts”, I answer.\n\nThey tell me they have a warrant and already searched my apartment. Go for it, I say. My pad is squeeky clean. Nothing there except maybe a little weed. They tell me they also have a warrant to check my computer. I tell 'em, \"well if prime numbers gets your rocks off, go for it.\" I kinda forgot about the Pam and Tommy video I had downloaded a few years back. Doesn't come up at trial, though.\n\nThen they start asking me about this dude I never heard of before. Some guy named Tek Young Lin. I tell 'em, \"What! You think I know this guy because our names rhyme, Lin and Nguyen?\" I tell these two bozos the only thing we might have in common is our families coming from the same continent.\n\nI ask Mutt and Jeff when I can go home. They smile and say I'm not going home. They say I'm being charged with rape of a minor among other charges, “New York penal code 130.35, 130.96, 205.30 and 195.07 with more to follow” says Jeff, all smug and all. That donut-face Mutt says to me something like “how do you like those numbers, math man?” The tool thinks he’s being clever.\n\n\"So what? Is the little bimbo pregnant? Did she have a miscarriage? Get an abortion? She trying to blame it on me?\" I ask. Mutt says \"Sarah’s not speaking to anyone about anything.\" \"Or maybe,\" Jeff says, She has told us everything about what you did to her. Care to tell us your side of the story?\" Jeff continues sayin' that he and Mutt are only gathering “evidence”. Evidence my ass! The dipshit boyfriend should be here freezing his nuts off. Not me.\n\nI get my phone call and I call Renee. I need someone to bail me out. Renee, the lazy bitch that she is, lets me rot in lockup for 24 hours before she arrives. She says something about having to cash in her life savings for the bail bond. Can you believe that shit? \n\nThen there is this total clusterfuck of a trial. First two Public Defenders up and quit on me after I tell them my story. Finally the third PD, a mousy little bobblehead with a short attention span, agrees to take my case. Does she know what she's doing? I should be so lucky.\n\nThey ask me at trial about the bloody sheets. I tell 'em Sarah said didn't feel good. She wanted to lie down. Must of had her period. I don't know, I'm out buying weed, I say. \n\nThen they ask me about the semen stains on my bed with my DNA. I tell them I like to beat off in bed. I tell them I’m not part of Sarah’s little horizontal mojo with her boyfriend. One of the LOL's in the jury box gets all pale and throws up on the bailiff. The judge, dickless wonder that he is, orders me to clean up my language or I will be in contempt. \n\n\"Should be cleaning up the vomit,\" I tell him. He finds me in contempt and revokes my bail. I'm back in lockup. Thank you your fucking lordship!\n\nI call Renee again to bail me out. The little nimrod doesn’t answer. Typical.\n\nSo while I'm back in jail, I get this ROR letter from Horace Mann. I get another letter from HM firing me, and telling me about default judgments on three law suits for sexual harrassment and abuse. I show the letters to my PD, and she asks what I did with the three summons and complaints. I say I threw them away. Didn't look important. She rolls her eyes. Thinks I don’t notice. She says she cannot help me with civil issues.\n\nSo the trial ends. \"I'm feeling pretty good about my chances,\" I tell the PD. She rolls her eyes again and says nothing. The little shyster is really starting to piss me off, but I try to stay all polite.\n\nJury deliberation starts around 11:54 AM. Then they break at 12 o'clock for lunch. They come back from lunch at 1:30 in the afternoon. at 1:35, they announce they have a verdict.\n\nI figure slam-dunk for acquittal. But those fuck-ass jurors find me guilty on all counts! Can you believe that shit? Guilty on all counts!\n\nSo here I am at 5 Points, and........hey, what are you doing? Packing up and leaving already? \nOK. Be that way, and thanks for nothin'.\nDon't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!" } ]
[ { "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 Substitute Teacher\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 2945\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite a story about an unconventional teacher." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "It was a foggy November day when a car maneuvered its way into an empty parking spot, seeking cover underneath a maple tree, which only a few days before had been a fiery red; for weeks had burnished, torch-like, but faded now, having shed its glory, a creature shaking loose its scales. \nThe morning was busy- buses gasping open its doors, students emerging: feet sluggish, heads down, fingers swiping and tapping, smiling and giggling. \nAn old man walked purposefully through the front doors, went directly to the front office and reported to the receptionist that he was ready for duty. \nThe receptionist smiled at him warily. It had been a frenetic morning and a line was soon to form; in her experience, substitute teachers were of two sorts: the first, solicitous (retired types, or young, fresh from university); the other, emboldened, familiarized (full-time moms with side gigs like these- peanuts, they called the pay, hardly worth doing). And yet here was this man- elderly, most likely retired- who was regarding her with a rather imperious expression. \n“Are you here for the full day or half day?” she asked him. \n“I’m Mr. Baberowski. Or Mr. B, as they used to call me.” \n“Wonderful,” she said smoothly, masking her irritation. “Have you subbed for Liberty before?” \n“I was a teacher here. I taught here for thirty-one years.” He eyed her. “I suppose you’re too young. Anyhow, the principal called me personally and asked if I would come back.”\nOh dear, the receptionist thought. So this was the one. The kids will eat him alive. Just one day of subbing and a movie might suffice; some busy-work (in which the teacher would collect and toss); and of course the kids had their phones, which would serve as giant pacifiers to keep the time bearable. But two weeks? It must have been an emergency for Mrs. Holden to require a substitute for so long; and it was true that they’d been calling retired teachers as they’d been desperately short on subs. \n“Here you go.” She handed him the orange folder (everything was orange, navy blue, or a combination of both). “The attendance rolls are inside. There’s also the office phone numbers; my number is highlighted in case there are any questions. The sub plans are typically on the teacher’s desk…”\nHe’d walked off! And she hadn’t given him his placard yet. Who was to know he wasn’t some creep wandering the halls if he wasn’t wearing his placard. She considered going after him, but there was a line now, and so she made a mental note to check on him later that day. Again, as subs were hard to come by, one must take what one could get.\nMr. B, having shed himself of the busybody receptionist, knew where he was going, of course, but he felt discombobulated- it all looked so different now.\n“Need some help?”\nThis was said by a coach, judging by how casually he was slumped against a pillar next to the library. Nice enough, but patronizing, coming to the aid of a bumbling old man. Like he’d never been here before. Ha. \n“No,” Mr. B replied brusquely, moving on. He managed to make his way to the stairwell, and then around the corner to the C hall, students becoming sparser as he went deeper into its bowels. The school was waking up- projectors warming, coffee percolating, copiers rumbling- just like the old days, and this comforted him. And yet he was invisible, students and staff hardly registering him. When he came to C219, the door was locked. He scowled at it. He walked over to the classroom next door, in which he found a young woman stapling papers. He assumed (although he couldn’t be certain), that she was the teacher in charge. He told her he required her assistance, that he didn’t have a key. \n“Oh yes!” she cried, “You’re the sub!” An industrious young lady, she burbled on that she had printed him a copy of the sub plans; that Mrs. Holden had emailed her early that morning; that her poor sister had died unexpectedly, and so on, and so on, until she became aware that the man was regarding her with an air of impatience. \n“Anyhow, my name is Kristen.”\n“Mr. Baberowski,” he returned pointedly, disliking the familiarity of first names. \nAnother torrent of words: if he needed anything, anything at all, she’d be next door; he had third period off since it was the planning period; that the English teachers had D lunch at 1:45, yada yada. She paused long enough to unlock the door. “And the teacher’s lounge,” she continued, “it’s down the hall, just past the boys bathroom. There’s a fridge in there and a microwave, and of course you can eat in your classroom if you want…” \nHe’d put up his hand- a barrier against this gust of information, blustery and unnecessary. He knew where the teacher’s lounge was. He’d eaten there countless times before.\nAfter she took her leave -her demeanor a bit chillier now- Mr. B took a moment to assess the classroom. Although he had worked in a similar one, down yonder in the A hall, it looked remarkably different. Desks and chairs- they still had those- but instead of a chalkboard, a whiteboard covered half the room, with colorful borders outlining classroom expectations and homework assignments and tests with dates and exclamation points. It was all so cluttered, and he was of the belief that spartan decor went twain with a clear mind. Dictionaries and textbooks were placed haphazardly around the room, stacks of paper spilled out from the teacher desk onto the floor. And the carpet! Pilings of hair, candy wrappers and Cheetos ground into powder. Other unmentionables. It made him feel ill. In his day, students didn’t eat in class. Snacks, whatever they were- crispy, salty, crumbly, things- were eaten at lockers, bathrooms, wherever. His classroom was not a kitchen. \nOn the desk there was a paper typed in bolded letters: Sub Plans. He gave it only a cursory glance. A bell rang shrilly in his ear, which gave him a start. Again, this was new. And where were the students? They couldn’t all be tardy, despite the languid impression they gave him. He looked at the clock- ten minutes before nine, and from the view from his window, they were still coming, swarms of them, not in any particular hurry. \nA few kids began to trickle in. The quiet ones eyed him, while a laughing group of boys punctuated the air with: “Yo!” “You a sub?” “Dude!” “Where’s Mrs. Holden?”\nHe didn’t answer them; he leaned against the desk with his arms crossed and glowered at them. This only made them laugh more.\n“Yo, man, seriously, where’s Mrs. Holden?”\n“Does that mean we aren’t taking the quiz today?”\nIn response, he walked over to the whiteboard and wrote his name in concise letters: Mr. Baberowski. He found a crate filled with paperbacks, removed its contents, and held it up to the class.\n“When I call your name, you will come up to the front and place your phone in here.” Mr. B knew what smartphones were- he himself possessed one- but not with the drooling idolatry of the golden calf.\nMore laughter, some in disbelief, others in hilarity. “Dude!” one retorted. “We’re not giving you our phones!”\n“Those of you who do not comply will have their phones sent to the office for the duration of the day.”\nAs in response, the final bell rang. The students, thirty in all, were attuned now, focused on what the scene would enfold. An old man, a substitute teacher, was telling them to give him their phones. Three months into the school year, most teachers had given up on their phone rules. Some had organizers- like shoe caddies- hung up on the wall, that rarely got used. New teachers measured their worth against the insurmountable task of engaging their kids, sans phones, which left them in a constant state of anxiety. The most stalwart teachers, not easily intimidated, would have the kids put their phones away as soon as they entered class. For most teachers, it was an endless and tiresome mantra: “Put your phone away. Pay attention. Put your phones away. Put them away.” The veteran teachers knew better: Compromise. You listen to me, you can have your phone. You do your assignment, you can have your phone. You finish your quiz, you can have your phone. Carrot and stick.\nBut substitutes- they didn’t have that right. They could threaten students with all sorts of things- confiscation, AP visits, putting names down for the teacher- but in reality, they were largely bluffing. And the students knew this. They, Mrs. Holden’s especially rowdy first period, “knuckleheads” she called them, mostly endearingly, knew the score. For the most part, she had them in line. Mostly. But this dude?\nMr. B began. “Faith Anderson.”\nPoor Faith felt the stares of twenty-nine kids on her. She was already the quiet type, conditioned to obey the rules, but this felt torturous. Self-consciously, she dropped her phone into the crate, in which it promptly slid through the narrow slats and onto the floor. The class laughed while she quickly picked it up, checking for cracks in the screen. \n“Is it broken?” someone asked. \n“No,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her first period was her least favorite class. Mrs. Holden acted exasperated with them, but in truth, she beamed her energy toward “those knuckleheads”, the ones who interrupted, and talked back; yet they could also be charming, tell jokes loaded with innuendo- just enough for Mrs. Holden to chide them, while her eyes sparked from amusement. Each one of her classes, Faith discovered, was like a silo: different students, pendulums of friendships, teachers’ personalities, the ease or difficulty of a subject- an island of its own. In this class, in particular, she felt like her voice was uttered in a vacuum. There were too many of them, too many noises- a cacophony of laughter and teasings- and her voice, quiet as it was, snuffed out. \nMr. B found a manila folder and crammed it inside the crate in order to create a barrier. Without apologizing, he held it out to her again, and she set her phone inside, gently, carefully.\nHe continued with the roll and all went smoothly…until Antonio Flores. Everyone stared at Tony and giggled. Mr. Holden looked up. “I am marking Antonio Flores absent.”\n“It’s Tony,” he said from the back of the room. \n“If you don’t answer to your name on the roll, then you are marked absent.” He made a point to check a spot on his list. \n“You can’t do that,” Tony argued. \n“Maya Fontaine.”\n“Whatever. I’ll just tell my parents.”\nMr. B fixed him with an icy glare. “Mr. Flores, you may bring your phone up to the front.”\n“Not if you marked me absent.”\nHe didn’t take the bait. “Maya Fontaine,” he continued drolly. \nThe class was amused, titillated by this, especially when it came time for the next knucklehead to enter the scene. \n“Tyler Hall.”\nTyler leaned back in his seat and grinned. “I’m here, but I don’t got my phone.” \n“Is that right,” Mr. Holden said dryly.\n“Yeah, man, my mom grounded me.” Smugness, merriment, shone in his eyes. \nA voice rang out: “What you do, Ty?”\n“I didn’t clean my room,” he said, still smirking. \n“Then how come I saw you on it this morning?” \nAnd on it went until all thirty names were read and in sum there were three students who didn’t have their phones. They’d been grounded, apparently. One boy said he’d never owned a phone. He didn’t know what they were. Like yo, what’s a phone? Which only elicited more giggles.\n“You have a quiz today,” Mr. B said to the class and they groaned.\n“When I call your row”- and he signaled to a spot under the giant whiteboard- “you will come up to the front and put your backpack here.” \nThere was, as expected, a barrage of complaints: “We just gave you our phone!” “Mrs. Holden doesn’t do that!” And so on and so forth. This man was crazy, they thought. They’d all had their share of crazy subs, but this guy reigned supreme. \nImpervious to their objections, he signaled to the first row. “You may go.” He didn’t say please; didn’t grease social graces; didn’t ease into their goodwill. He demanded and waited for them to obey. In which they did, with chortles and words of protests, but their backpacks were all grudgingly dropped before him.\nWithout explanation, he organized them all, putting them upright, not haphazardly or slouched against each other. Again, the room buzzed with amusement. He was a sideshow, an interesting anecdote they could later share with their friends and parents. He told them to take out their pencils. He went to the first row and did the thing that old men do the world over: licked his thumb for greater purchase, handing out the exact number of quizzes for the student to pass back. \nRevolting! The girl at the front of the row made a face, and then giggling, deliberately picked from the bottom of the stack. And so on with the bubble sheets, the process repeated. Finally, they were told to begin. \n“Yo, Teacher-Sub, I don’t got a pencil.” This was Heath, and such was the usual parlance when it came to quizzes and tests. He would wait until the class began and then proclaim to Mrs. Holden that he didn’t have a pencil. Mrs. Holden would mock-scold him and end up giving him one from her desk, all the while he waited, king-like, for her to deliver it to him. But he always said thank you, and she was mollified. The usual dance, no big deal. \nMr. B, however, said, “That’s not my problem.”\nHeath waited a few beats. “Then how am I gonna take the quiz?”\n“You don’t.” \n“Can I get a pencil from Mrs. Holden’s desk?”\n“You may not.”\nHeath looked like he was going to challenge him, but instead he leaned back in his chair. “Okay, that’s chill. Can I get my phone back then?” A rhetorical question- he knew he wasn’t getting it back- but he was enjoying the attention. Anyway, he didn't care about the quiz. When Mrs. Holden came back, she would make sure he took it and he wouldn’t have to remind her. She’d simply stick him in the hall, at a desk she kept outside her classroom for that purpose, and he’d sit there, idly watching for students to walk by on their way to the bathroom, especially the girls- in which he’d flirt with them, cute or not, no difference to him. Mrs. Holden would come out now and again to prod him, and he’d say in a needling voice that he was doing it, and they’d both share a smile because they knew the dance so well. And then, about twenty minutes before class ended, he’d hunker down and fill in the bubble sheet, sometimes reading the questions, sometimes not; it depended if the eligibility progress report was coming up, in which he’d be disqualified from wrestling if his grade was below passing. He toed the line, but Mrs. Holden was cool. Whatever. \nIgnoring him, Mr. B paced the room, walking up and down the rows. Papers shuffled, students coughed, Tyler sighed, Heath bobbed his head along to his airpods (carefully concealed underneath his hoodie), and the sub walked the room, back and forth, back and forth. \n“Can we get our phones back?” someone asked. \n“You may retrieve your phones when the entire class has completed their quiz.”\nWarm to the knowledge they would be reunited with their phones, and with a half hour left of class, it motivated them to finish. One by one the quiet was punctured with the maw of the stapler, and so as not to upset the crazy sub, they complied.\nAlas it was not meant to be. Unbeknownst to them, Mr. B was boiling mad. Only those who knew him well would have seen the warning signs: the tic of his eye, the grim set of his mouth, even the modulated tone of his voice, stern though it was. It took one final parting shot: Heath, having tapped on his airpod, turned up the volume, and with the rhythmic bass emanating from his hoodie, it was, as the saying goes, the final straw.\nMr. B, locating the source, stared at Heath. \n“Yo, man, what’s your problem?” Heath countered, a fair question, one he would have asked anyone, old man or not. \nTo everyone’s surprise, Mr. B laughed. Darkly he laughed, mirthlessly so, and they laughed in response- At him? With him? It mattered not. \nMr. B gathered his things. Still cackling, he left the classroom. From the upper floor of room C219, the students watched him emerge from the school, walking jauntily to his car. As was their habit, they went to grab their phones to record him. \nBut wait! \nSo stunned had they been when he’d left, they hadn’t noticed that he’d taken the crate with him. Mr. Baberowski, former science teacher at Liberty High, with a tenure of thirty-one years, dumped the phones behind his car, a modest Toyota Camry, and then reversed over them- and then forward, and then back again, and then repeated once more. And then he drove away. \nLeft behind was the oak tree, stripped of its former glory, but now, underneath its limbs, shone the sparkling shards of broken glass." } ]
[ { "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 School Trip and a Sighting\n\nGenre: high-school\n\nWord Count: 1055\n\nPrompt:\n\nWrite about a school trip that takes a turn for the unexpected." }, { "role": "assistant", "content": "The school trip to the local observatory did not begin well. It was the first such trip I, as a newly minted high school science teacher, had ever taken my students on. Now when I was a high school student (my classes hate it when I say stuff like that), school trips had students full of energy and sound. We talked and laughed, but at least we exhibited some enthusiasm on the bus ride to our eventual educational destination. This school trip had a vacuum of silence, almost everyone staring at and playing with their ‘devices’. I wish I had the authority to tell them to leave those bloody things in their lockers, but I didn’t. I hope they don’t continue doing that when they have a chance to look at the images of the now cloudless sky through the big telescope.\n The worst was Gary, who had his eyes on his device for most of his time in my classroom, no matter what I said to him about doing that, and his eyes were constantly on it on the bus.\n To get my students interested in what they were going to see, I told them about the flying saucer craze in movies of the 1950s and 1960s. Nobody ever saw one for real, but apparently one person saw something in the sky and said that it ‘looked like a saucer.’ Movie makers bought the idea, and so began the craze. I had my dad’s toy flying saucer when I was a boy.\n For my class the week before, the school trip, I arranged a showing of the B-est of all B-movies, Plan 9 and Outer Space. Among other campy elements, it featured Bela Lugosy (who had died before most of the movie was filmed, so it wasn’t a speaking part). There was a female character who was beginning her active movie career as ‘Vampiri’, a Swedish wrestler who played someone with no lines but who walked around with a very big body and a very scary face. Plan 9 of the space invaders seemed to consist mainly of bringing the human dead to life (with new flesh on their bodies) to attack and scare humans.\n At the end of the movie, the viewers saw the aliens’ flying saucer burst into unnatural looking flames.\nGoing on the Trip\n One reason that I wanted to take the class to the observatory was that my old university pal, Frank, worked there. We took pretty much all the same courses, and helped each other with our assignments so that we both received good marks. It was like old times again talking to him about the school trip and how I had shown the students Plan 9 and Outer Space. We both had a good laugh, especially when I told him how, with his help, I planned to use student viewing of that movie on the trip.\n When he saw me leading the students towards the room with the telescope in it we winked at each other in a conspiratorial manner.\n One aspect of their being able to look deeply and clearly into space that fascinated the students most when they were in the classroom was conjunction events. That was the rather deceptional name for what happened when two objects, satellites or pieces of space debris collided with each other. There were at least 4,500 satellites in 2021, and the number has probably grown considerably since then. And as for space debris, conservative estimates had over 36,500 of them over four inches long in our atmosphere. I knew that some of my students would be looking for conjunction events when their turn came to look through the telescope.\n When we walked into the room with the telescope, I was glad that some of the students were eager to see the skies like they never had before. A few rushed forward to be among the first to scan the sky. I had told them of what they might be able to see that would possibly be almost as interesting as conjunction events.\n As each one had completed their time on the telescope, I would ask them ‘what did you see’? A couple of them said they had seen what they thought could be a conjunction event, but were disappointed when they did not see any explosions. They did enjoy seeing the other planets ‘in person’ as one of them said, and the stars other than the sun\n Gary was the last one to have a sky viewing through the telescope. I practically had to push him all the way to it before he would take his eyes off of his device and look at another device. At first his look was very casual, trying to display to me and to his fellow students his lack of interest. But then he changed. There was a sudden intensity, with his eyes almost literally on the glass surface he was looking through. But that was nothing when compared to what next caught his eyes and his total attention.\n When his time was up, we were on a fairly rigid schedule, and I asked him to come with us, he just said a very loud NOOO. When I asked him what he had seen, was still seeing, he replied, “I saw a conjunction event, but what I saw next was a frigging flying saucer, exactly like the one in the movie - identical.\n There was silence. Then I laughed, as did my friend Phil, when he came down the ladder that led to the top of the curved ceiling through which the telescope penetrated. He was carrying an object in his hand that he soon revealed was a picture of a Plan 9 and Outer Space flying saucer. As previously planned he had superimposed it on the telescope. It was something generally used for shading what people saw when the sunlight was too bright for them to look through.\n Then Gary laughed, and said, “You sure fooled me. Good one sir.” On the bus-ride back to the school, he and I engaged in a long conversation about outer space. He asked me what courses I and my friend Phil took to get involved with the sky (his actual wording) as an adult.\nAnd in the next class he never looked at his device once." } ]

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